Gospel Story Finder

Many students fail to excel because they deprive themselves of academic challenges by enrolling in easy classes. I’m ashamed to admit that for two years I fell into that trap. During my freshman and sophomore years at BYU I was more concerned with finding easy classes than with learning anything. Prior to registration each semester I checked out my prospective professors with the “academic grapevine” to find out who was the easiest. I cheated myself out of many worthwhile experiences by dodging academic challenges.

Don’t you be lulled into the same trap. When everyone else is seeking the easy path, be brave enough to take on the challenging one. You’ll be glad you did.

One of the subjects we talked about frequently was her dream of her wedding reception. Randa described the flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music. She had indomitable optimism. I would quietly listen to her and think, “Randa, why do you do this? There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
A short time after returning from my mission, I received an invitation to what I considered an amazing social function. It was Randa’s wedding reception! I stepped into the cultural hall of her ward and looked around with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music were exactly as she had described them all those years before. In the reception line I met Randa’s husband, who was tall, dark, and handsome. He knew who he was and what is important in life. I was very impressed.

Lucy Fergeson from Utah, USA, shares how ministering helped her through the worst week of her life—but in an unexpected way. It was final-exam week at school, a busy work week, and her boyfriend had just broken up with her. And then, she says, “I’d forgotten, but my ministering companion and I had planned to make muffins for the sisters we were assigned to minister to.”

As they baked together, Lucy’s ministering companion listened, empathized, and offered advice. “Making and delivering muffins wasn’t something that would be very important or make much of a difference,” Lucy reflects. “But after my companion dropped me off at home, I realized that it was exactly what I needed to feel better and that sometimes God sends other people to be His hands. What was neat to me was that the help came from my ministering companion instead of the sisters assigned to me. I’m so grateful she helped me feel like I wasn’t alone and that I was loved.”

There came a time, early in my mission, when I knew that I had to know whether the Church was true and Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I felt what President Thomas S. Monson expressed so clearly in our last general conference: “If you do not have a firm testimony of these things, do that which is necessary to obtain one. It is essential for you to have your own testimony in these difficult times, for the testimonies of others will carry you only so far.” I knew what was necessary. I needed to read the Book of Mormon with a sincere heart, with real intent, and ask God whether it is true.
Listen to our Heavenly Father’s remarkable promise given through the prophet Moroni: “When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
In order to receive what was in the Book of Mormon, I needed to read it. I started at the beginning of the book and read every day. Some receive a witness very quickly. For others, it will take more time and more prayer and may include reading the book several times. I needed to read the entire book before I received the promised witness. However, God did manifest the truth of it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
In my missionary journal, I described my joy in knowing the truth as well as my personal expression of commitment and real intent to act on the truth I had received. I wrote: “I have pledged with my Father in Heaven and with myself to do my very best, to give it 100 percent for the rest of my life, whatever I am asked, I’ll do, but for now I have the rest of my mission and I am going to make it a great mission, one that I won’t feel bad about, but not for me, for the Lord. I love the Lord, and I love the work, and I just pray that that feeling will never leave me.”

What possible effect can a 14-year-old have on home teaching? I’m just a kid. Who am I to be telling an elder to do his home teaching? Not just an elder, but an elder that I have never met or even seen at church. The only thing I knew about him was his name and that he was an ex-athlete.
I had been called to be a junior home teaching companion three months earlier and still had not visited anyone. It didn’t help that my two best friends were already active home teachers. One was assigned with his father and the other to a member of the elders quorum presidency. My own father was in the bishopric and at that time was not assigned as a home teacher. What could a 14-year-old companion do?
My feelings of guilt had to be Brother Jensen’s fault, I decided. He had been my deacons quorum adviser who taught us how important home teaching was. He also explained that as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, it was our duty to be faithful home teachers. He had warned us that we might have to remind and encourage a senior companion to do home teaching.
Well, my options were really very simple. I could continue to wait for my senior companion to call and do my best not to feel guilty, or I could go to his house, introduce myself, and arrange to go home teaching.
On the one hand, he was the senior companion. He was supposed to take charge, not me. Wouldn’t I be assuming too much authority by contacting him? He might even get offended. Better to wait, I thought. Then Brother Jensen’s words would come back to me again.
“If your senior companion doesn’t contact you,” he said, “then you must contact him and let that brother know you are ready to go home teaching.” He explained that if the senior companion still didn’t go home teaching, the responsibility would rest on that senior companion. Until we made the effort to go, we had to share in that failure.
I finally committed to go to my companion and introduce myself.
As I went to church that Sunday, I began to feel more and more nervous. What would my companion think? Would he laugh at me? Maybe he would get mad and run me off. I didn’t feel I could do it, but I had promised to follow through and make the attempt. If he responded negatively, then I would have at least done my part.
I normally walked home from church, passing my companion’s house on the way. As I neared his house, I forced myself up the driveway and said a prayer, very simple, very direct. “Lord, please help me.” My fears left me for the moment, and I quickly climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. I knew someone would answer because I could hear what sounded like a party going on inside. The fear was coming back, but it was too late to run. I had already knocked.
The door opened, and a woman asked me what I wanted. She may have been polite, rude, sensitive, or even abrupt. I don’t know because I was trying hard to remember what it was I was there for.
“Is Brother Johnson here?” I finally asked, timidly.
“Just a minute, please.” I thought I could hear laughter but wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to breathe before a very tall man stepped to the door. He seemed none too friendly.
“Yeah?” he asked.
My eyes must have been big enough to cover my face. I’m sure he noticed I was scared because he started to smile a little. I calmed down just enough to utter my little prayer in my mind one last, desperate time.
“My name is John,” I began in a voice that didn’t sound scared to me, “and I’m your home teaching companion. I was wondering when we could go home teaching?”
I don’t know if he was amused or surprised, but he didn’t throw me off the porch. Good start, I thought.
He just smiled and said, “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you back.”
I went home feeling pretty good. I felt that I had made a good effort, and if he didn’t call back, I could say I had tried. When I arrived home, I told my parents what had happened. I don’t think they expected me to get a call.
Later that night, I received a call from Brother Johnson, my companion.
“Can you go home teaching Tuesday at seven?” he asked.
“Uh, sure,” I stammered.
“I’ll pick you up then. Bye.” He hung up.
Tuesday night we went home teaching. I found out later he had called the elders quorum president after I had left his house that Sunday to get the names and phone numbers of the families we were assigned. He then called the families and made appointments.
That became our routine. On the third Sunday I would stop by his house, and then he would set up appointments. We rarely, if ever, missed anyone in the two years we were companions. We also became pretty good friends. Brother Johnson even came to church a couple of times. He said he just wanted to see the quorum president faint.
I learned two very important lessons. First, an Aaronic Priesthood holder can have a positive influence on home teaching. Second, a less-active brother can be the most active home teacher.
As a home teacher, Brother Johnson taught me a lot.

The Phelps presented an evening concert in a new chapel in Holland, where it was requested that there be no applause. Melissa remembered: “After the concert, everyone just rose, almost as a body. We could feel the whole room vibrating, and then the presiding officer told us, ‘This is a silent standing ovation.’ Afterwards every person in the audience came through the receiving line and spoke one or two words in English to us, even if it was just good or enjoy. I’ll never forget that.”

Erin had it all figured out. Alexa could be the monster! “She’s kind of big and slow compared to us,” Erin thought. “We can outrun her, and Alexa can still be part of the game.” It was perfect!
At recess, Erin told her friends Samantha and Natalie that Alexa had asked to play Monster and Princess with them. At first, Samantha seemed annoyed. “I thought we didn’t want her to play with us,” she said.
“I said she could be the monster,” Erin quickly explained. “We’ll have a real monster instead of a pretend one.”
Samantha slowly smiled at the news.
Erin told Alexa the rules of the game. “The monster lives in the castle behind the baseball diamond,” she said. “He tries to capture the princesses while they’re picking magic flowers in the castle garden.”
“What happens if I catch someone?” Alexa asked.
“You lock her up in the tower,” Samantha said. “She has to stay there until the prince rescues her.”
“But who’s the prince?”
“He’s pretend,” said Natalie. “Let’s play!”
Alexa made a great monster. She stomped and growled and swung her arms in giant circles, trying to catch the princesses. The other girls squealed and dodged and ran away.
When recess ended, Erin patted Alexa on the back. They were both panting from running so much. “You were great!” she said.
“But I never caught anybody,” Alexa complained.
Erin thought about that. “Maybe we should get caught sometimes, or we’ll never get to meet the prince.”
For several days, the girls played Monster and Princess at every recess. Alexa got better at capturing the other girls. She’d grab their arms in her big hands and haul them, screaming, to the tower. It was more fun than ever!
One day at recess, Erin noticed that Alexa wasn’t running to the ball field as usual. “Come on,” Erin called. But Alexa didn’t move. Erin ran over to Alexa. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t want to be the monster all the time,” Alexa said. “Can’t I be a princess too?”
Erin was stunned. It had never occurred to her that Alexa might not want to be the monster. After all, it was a great game, and she was getting to play. But fair was fair. “OK,” Erin said. “I’ll be the monster today. You can be a princess.”
Alexa smiled. The two girls ran to the field where Samantha and Natalie were waiting.
By the end of recess, Erin was nearly in tears. It was awful being the monster! She couldn’t catch anybody! And every time she got close, the girls would run off screaming! Erin felt frustrated and strange, like she really was ugly or creepy. It wasn’t fun at all!
During silent reading time, Erin thought about the game. How had Alexa stood being the monster for so long? Suddenly, Erin realized that kids had always sort of treated Alexa like a “monster.” They often treated her like she was ugly or different. The game had just been another way to do the same thing! Erin realized she hadn’t been kind at all! She felt ashamed, and she said a prayer in her heart. “I’m sorry! Help me to fix it.”
At the next recess, Erin called her friends over. “Let’s go back to having a pretend monster,” she said.
“Why?” Samantha asked.
“It’s not fun being the monster. Nobody should have to do it.”
Samantha looked at Erin for a long moment. Then she shrugged. “Whatever,” she said.
Erin and Alexa smiled at each other. Then they ran out to the field together.

One night at the very peak of her anxiety, this young mother rose from her bed, went into the other room, and talked to her Father in Heaven. She had remembered an incident in her own childhood. A great and noble woman had prayed in behalf of her afflicted husband and requested that, if the Lord were willing, she be allowed to carry her husband’s infirmities so that his service to the Lord would not be restricted. This sister, almost immediately, became stone deaf and remained so throughout her life, while her husband, miraculously healed, became a spiritual giant, a man of God, and a powerful leader in building the kingdom of God in that area. With the memory of this incident in her heart, this faithful mother supplicated the Father in her son’s behalf, asking if she might take her son’s infirmities upon herself. Of this incident she concluded, “I returned to my bed and went to sleep.”

Many years ago dear friends of mine, Craig Sudbury and his mother, Pearl, came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred Sudbury, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for the Church and, indeed, was not a member.

Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents and his hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be fulfilled. The inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents, and on occasion, write to Dad personally, and let him know how much you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.” He thanked me and, with his mother, departed the office.

I was not to see Craig’s mother for some 18 months, when she came to my office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig left for his mission. He has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently, my husband, Fred, stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and surprised me and shocked everyone who was there by announcing that he had made the decision to become a member of the Church. He indicated that he and I would go to Australia to meet Craig at the conclusion of his mission so that Fred could be Craig’s final baptism as a full-time missionary.”

No missionary stood so tall as did Craig Sudbury when, in far-off Australia, he helped his father into water waist-deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Frederick Charles Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Love had won its victory. Serve the Lord with love.

In my first general conference message, I briefly shared how the transformative power of the Savior’s Atonement changed my father.
Today I would like to tell you a little more about how that change began. My father hit a very low point in his life when two ministering brothers began to visit him. One of them invited my father to come with him and his wife to the temple. He accepted the invitation. Each week they picked him up and drove to the next city to worship and serve in the house of the Lord. This continued for three years. Then my dad decided to become a temple worker.
I remember seeing changes in my father during that time. He became aware and attentive to the needs of others. He took better care of his health. He began to care about His relationship with God and subsequently all the relationships in his life. The change was real. He now had the Spirit with him, and I felt it.
Bless this ministering couple for helping my dad. They didn’t judge him for where he was in his life. They walked with him and helped him to develop his relationship with God. They are still my father’s closest and dearest friends.
Because these humble and devoted disciples of the Savior quietly ministered to a seemingly lost and dejected man, my family and I have been eternally blessed.

When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”
As I personally met with this great man, I asked him to tell me what he remembered about his boyhood. Some of the childhood experiences he related were humorous.
“My brother Bud and I had a lot of fun as children. He liked to tease and play jokes on me. One day we chased a weasel down a hole. We used a shovel and tried to dig him out, but with no luck. Bud told me that if I put my hand down the hole, maybe I could grab the animal and pull it out. I believed him, and thrust my hand as far down the hole as I could. But the weasel bit my finger so hard that it almost took the end of it off. After that I decided to be a little more careful whenever Bud told me to do something.
“My brother pestered me with jokes all through our childhood. I did get back at him once, though. I remember we were sleeping in the basement of a barn at the time. Bud had been reading a book about ghosts and ghost stories. One day I got the idea to ask my cousin to put an old sheet over himself and hide down in the basement of the barn until Bud came home. I then hid outside and watched and waited. Sure enough, Bud came along and went in through the barn door and started down the basement. When he saw my cousin, he came screaming out of the barn, running as fast as he could. It was a long time after that before Bud would sleep down there again.”

When thirteen-year-old Thad is called to be the rope maker of the United Order in Orderville, he is thrilled to finally have a job. Rope making is not easy, but after a number of failures, he masters the craft. The tithing house clerk records his first batch of rope as “quality excellent.”
That Sunday, as usual, my Uncle Claude rode his horse over from Kanab to go to church with us. He was the envy of all the young men in town in his store-bought pants and shirt, bright bandanna, real felt hat, and fancy cowboy boots. I knew that he came over so often because he was courting a girl who lived down the street.
At dinner, Mother said, “Thad, tell Uncle Claude about your new job.”
He listened carefully as I explained about the rope machine. Then he said, “How about showing me what you’ve done.”
After dinner we rode over to the harness shop on his pinto horse. I opened the shop door and unshuttered the windows so he could see the machine.
Then I got out samples of all the different kinds of rope I had been making. I could see that he was impressed.
“Thad, do you think you could make me a horsehair rope on that machine? I’ve seen two or three, and they’re the best rope for lassoing cattle. I’ll be glad to furnish the hair. What do you say?”
I thought about it for a few moments, I had only worked with cotton and flax, and they were twine when I got them. Turning the horsehair into twine would be the hard part. It was much too heavy and stiff to use on a regular spinning wheel, so the job would have to be done by hand. “Uncle, I’d like to try,” I replied.
I soon made all the cotton and flax twine that had been delivered to me into rope. Brother Lamb came over one afternoon and showed me how to backsplice the ends of the rope to make them neat. As he left, he said, “I’m going to put in an order for some of your two-strand rope for a clothesline. Wait until my wife sees how uniform and clean your rope is!”
In just a day or two, all the rope I had delivered to the tithing office was gone and people started asking me when I was going to make more. All I could reply was, “When they bring me more cotton or flax. Put your order in at the tithing house, and I’ll fill it as soon as I can.”
It was two weeks before Uncle Claude rode up with a big sack full of horsehair from the manes and tails of many horses. He arrived on Saturday afternoon, and we went down to the harness shop and worked until dark, trying to make some of the hair into twine. Having watched wool being carded to be spun, we tried the same thing with the hair, using a currycomb to make it into uniform rows. We weren’t doing very well until a brief thunder shower drove us inside. Returning to the hair, we found that it twisted up very nicely when wet, just like our own wet hair combs better.
The next week, I worked until dark each day on the horsehair and soon had enough twine to try making a three-strand rope. The first two or three attempts didn’t produce a very good rope. The hair was stiffer and less pliable than flax or cotton, but I kept adjusting the tension on the machine and experimenting with how fast and hard to turn the handle to get the right twist. Soon I was turning out a nice-looking, uniform rope. Each night I took home the rope I had made that day and studied it, trying to work out how to make it even better.
I took that rope apart several times. Each time I put it back together it got better looking, and by the next Saturday I had a nice three-strand horsehair rope almost forty feet long for Uncle Claude.
I took the rope to show Brother Lamb, and he spliced a running noose in the end so that it could be used as a lariat. “Thad,” he said, “you will make your uncle the envy of every cowboy in Kanab. Now you need to make another rope to show at the town fair. You’ll probably win a first prize. Think about it.”
I did. Uncle Claude’s praise for the rope when I gave it to him on Sunday decided the issue. I would make a bigger, longer rope just for the fair, and I would do it without anyone knowing about it until it was done. But how would I get enough horsehair? When Theo mentioned the big dance the next Saturday, I had my answer.
Saturday night I carefully counted the horses around the hall. Most of them were teams still hooked to wagons and buggies. I waited till the dance was in full swing and the full moon came up before slipping out. After looking carefully up and down the street to make sure that no latecomers were about I got the pair of sheep shears I had hidden in the shrubs. Standing there, shears in hand, I almost changed my mind. A strong feeling came over me that it was wrong to take the hair without asking. But I wanted that first-place ribbon, so I ignored the feeling and went to work.
I started on the manes of the bishop’s team of good-looking young roans. In moments their hair was on the ground. I tied it into a bundle and went to work on their tails. I didn’t take all the hair, because they would need some left in their tails to keep the flies off.
Next came a team of matched black horses. Their manes were already clipped, so I only got hair from their tails, As I finished, I noticed that one had less tail left than the other—they were no longer a matched pair. The next horses were gray with long, unkempt manes that were hard to cut. Their tails were even worse—all tangled and full of burrs. As I started on the second horse, it kicked at me twice. I added their bundles of hair to my growing pile and moved on.
Occasionally someone would come outside for a breath of fresh air, but I just hid behind a horse, and no one noticed the extra legs. Working steadily, I soon finished the horses on one side of the street and crossed to the other. As I went past a wagon, a dog sleeping underneath started barking, defending his territory. I almost panicked, fearing that someone would come out to investigate. But I held out my hand in friendship, and the dog wagged his tail, stopped barking, and just watched as I clipped the team he was guarding.
The shears were getting quite dull and I wished I could stop to hone them back to a sharp edge. A half hour later my hands were red, and my arms and shoulders ached from the effort, but all the horses were clipped. I gathered the bundles of hair and made two trips to hide them in Brother Cox’s corn crib. I finished, washed my hands in his livestock watering trough, and went back to the dance.
Lounging against a wall as if I had never left. I glanced down at my pants. They were covered with horsehair of every color! Trying to look inconspicuous, I quickly rolled the hair into little balls and put them into my pocket. As the closing prayer was being said, I said my own little prayer that people wouldn’t be too angry.
After the amen, most people moved quickly outside into the cool evening air. I lingered behind, a little afraid. Suddenly the laughter and talk outside was interrupted by a loud, angry cry: “Someone’s clipped the mane off my horse!”
Everyone still inside the hall rushed out to see what had happened. I went out with the last of them and stayed at the edge of the group. Some were amused at the sight of horses with their clipped manes and tails. Others were not. Some said it needed to be done. Others replied that it was a poor job and would look bad for a long time until the hair grew back.
Everybody was asking, “Who did it?”
Someone suggested, “I bet it was those boys from Glendale or Kanab. They’re always trying to pull some trick on us. We’ll have to find a way to get even with them!” That made me feel as if the balls of horsehair were in my stomach instead of my pocket.
Before going home, I moved the hair to the harness shop, hiding it under the cotton and flax. During the next week, I worked on the horsehair rope when no one was watching. And in the evenings, when Brother Spencer had gone home, I worked on it until it got too dark to see.
First I soaked the hair overnight in the irrigation ditch. This not only made it clean but took the curl out of it and made it easier to twist together into twine-sized strings. When it dried it stayed in place just like my sisters’ hair did when they rolled it up at night.
Using three spools of twine each time, I made four ropes, each over 150 feet long. With all four spools full of three-strand rope, I twisted the whole thing together into one big rope of four big strands. It was hard work turning this much rope into its final size. It came out about the same diameter as a half-dollar coin and was the biggest and longest rope I had made.
With the rope finished, I back-braided the ends as Brother Lamb had taught me, soaked it again, and then stretched it tight between two trees to dry. While it was drying, I went over its entire length, tucking every loose hair back inside the rope. This made it even tighter and very neat looking. The drier it got, the tighter the twist became and the stronger the rope looked.
I stood there admiring my work, wondering how strong it was. I looked forward to the town fair. Perhaps they would test my rope in one of the pulling contests with teams of horses. Someone had told me that one strand of horsehair would easily hold ten pounds. There were hundreds of strands of hair in my beautiful rope. I wanted to feel excited and proud, but I couldn’t. I had no right to the hair, and I had no right to the rope. If only I had asked!
I tried to forget how I had gotten the horsehair, but people kept talking about it. One day at the harness shop, while I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could work on the horsehair rope, a man said, “We’ll have to watch our young men. They’re talking about going to Glendale or Kanab and pulling some stunt to get even for the horses’ tails and manes getting clipped.”
I spliced twine furiously and tried to think about the town fair.
At the fair, I entered the rope in the contest and won first prize. But I was not happy about it. The next day I went to the bishop and told him what I had done. I said I was sorry and asked him to forgive me. He did forgive me, and I felt better.
I also learned that it is better to do things the right way, even if it means losing the prize. I never forgot how uneasy I had felt while making that rope, and I never again took anything that did not belong to me.

Here are pictures for another true story that shows how Jacob Hamblin could be trusted. Cut out the characters and mount them on flannel. Place them on a flannel board as you read what each one says. You could give the story as a play for family home evening and have family members read assigned parts. The characters could be attached to tongue depressors or Popsicle sticks and held by each person.
Jacob, Jr.: I am the son of Jacob Hamblin. My name is also Jacob. One day my father sent me to trade a horse for some blankets with an old Navajo Indian chief.
Jacob Hamblin: I am Jacob Hamblin. I told my young son to be sure to make a good trade.
Jacob, Jr.: I rode on horseback, leading the horse that was to be traded.
Navajo Chief: I am the Navajo Indian chief. Young Jacob told me that his father wanted to trade a horse for some blankets. I brought out a number of handsome blankets.
Jacob, Jr.: I shook my head and said that I would have to have more.
Navajo Chief: I brought out two buffalo robes and quite a few more blankets.
Jacob, Jr.: Thinking that I had done quite well, I bundled all the blankets and robes into a roll behind my saddle, mounted my horse, and started for home.
Jacob Hamblin: When my son arrived home, I undid the roll of blankets and robes. I looked at them and began to separate them. I put blanket after blanket into a pile and then rolled them up. I told young Jacob to take them back and tell the chief that he had sent too many.
Jacob, Jr.: I rode again to the Indian chief, returned the blankets to him, and told him that my father thought that he had sent too many. The old chief smiled and said:
Navajo Chief: I knew that you would come back; I knew that Jacob would not cheat me. (Adapted from Valiant B Manual, page 139.)

Hello. My name is Corbett Carrel. I am eleven years old and in the fifth grade. I enjoy school very much and love academic challenges. When my teacher, Mr. Scullin, explained to our class that we would each have the opportunity to compete in a geography bee, I became very excited. I was hopeful that I would perform well and have the opportunity to advance to the second level.
On the first day of the competition, I did very well, answering four out of six questions correctly. I was very encouraged about the competition. On the second day, I was given the final question of the round. Needless to say, I was nervous. At this point I was in second place and needed to answer the final question correctly in order to advance to the next level.
The time had arrived. It was my turn. When I was able to answer the question given to me correctly, I was very excited. I was in a strong position to move to the next level. But I knew that I had had an unfair advantage. I had accidently seen the answer to that question earlier in the day on my teacher’s answer sheet. I had a difficult decision to make. I knew deep inside that I had to choose the right, just like my CTR ring reminds me to do every day.
At the end of the school day, I went to my teacher and explained the situation to him. He was very impressed with my honesty. He was so impressed that he gave me two additional questions to answer. Unfortunately I did not know the answers and did not advance to the second level. I was disappointed but felt good inside about my decision to choose the right.
That night I told my mom about the geography bee. She said that she was very proud of my choice and so was Jesus. Advancing to the next level would not have been worth it. I know my choice was right and that I was really a winner.

“Do I have to ride the bus today?” I knew what the answer would be, but I had to ask, just in case.
Riding the bus every morning was the worst. The older kids teased me. It was hard to find a seat. And I was always lonely.
“Yes, Jason,” Mom said. “Dad already left in the car.”
I dragged my feet to the bus stop. I’d do anything to not ride the bus. Then I had an idea. I jumped behind a big tree.
I heard the bus slow down and stop. Then I heard it pull away.
I did it! I didn’t have to ride the bus. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
I walked back home and told Mom that the bus had left without me. I promised to be more careful next time. She called Dad, and he came home to drive me to school.
Later that day I saw Ryan, a boy who rode on my bus.
“What happened to you this morning?” he asked.
“I missed the bus,” I said.
“I know, but why were you hiding behind a tree?”
Oh no! “You saw me?”
“Yup. Everyone did.”
I groaned. Now they would tease me more than ever!
All day long I worried. How could I possibly ride the bus now?
The next day I trudged back to the bus stop. Why did I hide? This was going to be the worst ride to school ever!
I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed. Heavenly Father, Please help me be OK on the bus.
Just then the bus turned the corner and slowly rumbled to my stop. The doors opened, and I climbed up the stairs.
Ryan waved and patted the seat next to him. “You can sit here,” he said.
My eyes widened in surprise. Ryan was funny and had lots of friends. And he wanted to sit by me?
“You didn’t hide today,” he said.
I shook my head, hoping he wasn’t going to tease me.
“I don’t like riding the bus, either,” Ryan said. “But it’s a lot better when you sit by a friend.”
I was even more surprised. Did Ryan feel lonely sometimes too?
We talked the whole way to school. Some of the older kids still teased me, but it was easy to ignore them when I had a friend. It was the best ride to school ever!
But the next morning I was worried again. Would Ryan save me a seat? As I climbed up the stairs, I saw Ryan. He smiled and waved me over. It felt so good to have a friend to sit and laugh with. Ryan was my school-bus hero!
The next day Ryan wasn’t on the bus. But before I could panic, I remembered what Ryan had said: I don’t like riding the bus, either, but it’s a lot better when you sit by a friend.
Maybe there was someone else who needed a friend too. I spotted an empty seat next to a quiet boy I had seen at recess. I sat down next to him and asked what his name was.
“Blake,” he said.
Soon we were talking and laughing. I made another new friend!
It doesn’t take much to be somebody’s hero. Just look around for someone who needs a friend!
For the rest of the year I was never afraid to ride the bus again. I knew what it felt like to be alone, so whenever I saw a kid looking around for a place to sit, I patted the seat next to me. I could be a school-bus hero too.

“My Young Women leaders had challenged me to finish reading the Book of Mormon by November,” says Sierra Hoffman, a Mia Maid from Albany, Oregon. “I was in the middle of it when President Hinckley gave the challenge to all members to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year.”
She could have simply finished from where she was. And she did. Then, after completing her leaders’ challenge, Sierra turned back to 1 Nephi in late November and started reading again—this time to meet President Hinckley’s reading challenge. She read each night, sometimes for several hours.
“The spirit that filled my room and my heart as I read was amazing!” she says. “Passages that I had never noticed before stood out and touched me deeply. Verses that had confused me before made sense. Tears would fill my eyes as I read about the Savior visiting the Americas.”
Sierra also noticed a change in her 10-year-old brother as he, too, began reading from the Book of Mormon daily. He became more loving, kind, and respectful. Just as President Hinckley promised when he made the challenge, there was a greater feeling of the Spirit of the Lord in the Hoffman family’s home.

I pounded on the door as the tears streamed down my face. I tried turning the doorknob again, but it was locked. “Please let me in,” I begged. My sister had been struggling with an eating disorder, and I knew that behind the door she was doing something that was harmful, both physically and spiritually.
I knocked on the door again. She knew I was out here. After waiting in silence, I heard her muffled response. “Please go away,” she said. “I don’t want your help.”
Her words broke my heart. My parents knew about my sister’s problem, and they had been taking the right steps to help her. All she needed now was someone she could talk to, someone who could help her find the strength to fight her addiction. I wanted so much to be that person, but she refused to let me in. Overwhelmed with emotion, I lay on the ground and began to sob.
At that moment, I understood a little bit better how our Heavenly Father feels when He sees His children participating in acts that bring them pain. More than anything, all He wants is for us to let Him in so that He can help. He has said, “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).

For the past few years the Yarmouth Branch has met in the Yarmouth Congregational Church, and the members are making the most of their association with their friends of another faith. Recently they met together for a joint worship service. A combined choir consisting of members from both congregations performed.
“It was pretty cool,” David says about the experience. “You could definitely feel the Spirit. Everyone had such a good time. At the end of the meeting we all mingled and talked, and some people found out they were related.”

I can see only 10 percent of what is around me—mostly objects that are big and that move slowly. But that changed for a few moments one afternoon.
No one seemed to be around as I sat on a shady hill. The grass beneath me covered the earth like a green carpet, and I savored the smell of nearby roses. I knelt to touch each flower, thankful that I could see a small part of God’s lovely world.
Suddenly, I sensed movement close to me. Then I heard a chirp about a foot away. It must be a bird, I thought, wishing I could see it. I had never seen a real bird, just pictures of them in books. But I never would: they were so small, and they flew so swiftly.
My pulse quickened as I caught a glimpse of something brown. I strained my eyes until I could tell that the object was a bird. I stared in awe as the bird spread his wings majestically before me. I held my breath, not wanting to scare him away.
He lingered only briefly. As he disappeared into the blue sky, I wept freely. I had seen something so exquisite that I wanted to see more.
But soon another thought passed through my mind. If I could fully see, I might not value every priceless image as I now did. I might not see inner beauty as easily, nor have the compassion I had learned from my own suffering. It was God’s gentle reminder of his will for me. I could serve him best as I was.
I dried my eyes. “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed, “for letting me see a bird.”