Gospel Story Finder

The Gándolas feel blessed to live near places where important events in Church history happened. They especially love the Hill Cumorah Pageant. “We almost didn’t go this year,” Shawn’s mom says, “because we were leaving on vacation the next morning and we had so much to do.” But the children couldn’t stand to miss the pageant! They pitched in, hurrying with their chores, and when the pageant started that night, they were there.

Shawn has a testimony that Jesus Christ lives, because he has felt the Spirit calming his fears. When he was much younger and taking swimming lessons, he knew that soon he’d have to jump off the diving board. It scared him, so the day before swimming lessons he prayed about it. After jumping off the diving board, he told his mom, “Prayer works!”

Shawn’s testimony of prayer has continued to grow. When he was in the hospital, ready to have surgery to remove his appendix, he was nervous. He wanted a priesthood blessing, but his dad was out of town. Members from the ward came to give him a blessing, and afterward he felt peace.

Shawn has what it takes to feel peace all the time: a strong testimony. Whether he’s making his own toys, building a fort out of leaves, or creating happiness in a disappointing situation, he’s bound to share what he has with everyone around him.

Elder David L. Buckner was born on September 27, 1963, in Ogden, Utah, USA, but “grew up” while he lived for three years in Sacramento, California, USA.
The youngest of Melba and E. LaMar Buckner’s five children, 11-year-old David moved to California with his family when his father was called to preside over the Church’s mission in Sacramento. Away from well-established friends in Utah, he learned how to make new friends and found “300 older brothers and sisters” among the full-time missionaries.
Most important, his testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ took root. “That mission experience changed everything for me,” he said.

Lindsay raced downstairs when she heard Dad call her name.
Lately they had been doing a lot of family history work together. Dad would help her log on to the FamilySearch website, and together they’d look for family pictures and stories. Just the other day she’d found a really old document about Grandpa on his mission!
Lindsay reached the bottom of the stairs where Dad was waiting. “Are we doing family history tonight?” she asked.
“Yup, and I have a surprise for you,” Dad said with a smile. He handed her a long, rolled-up paper he’d held behind his back. Lindsay carefully unrolled it. She stared at the large fan shape on the page. There was her name at the bottom! Lots and lots of other names spread out in neat rows around hers.
“That’s you and Mom,” Lindsay said, pointing to the names closest to hers. “And there’s Grandma and Grandpa!”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “This fan chart shows the names of your ancestors for nine generations.”
There were so many names. But some of the spots were empty. Lindsay wondered about the missing names. “It looks like the puzzles I used to do with Grandpa,” she said. Grandpa had died a few years ago, and Lindsay really missed him.
Dad nodded. “It is like a puzzle. A very important puzzle. And every family member is like a puzzle piece.”
Lindsay almost laughed when she imagined Grandma shaped like a puzzle piece.
“When we find a person’s name and do their temple work, we link them to the rest of the family—like joining puzzle pieces together. You’re helping build this puzzle.”
“Wow.” Lindsay brushed her fingers over the names. She knew family history was important, but now she was even more excited to help. All of her family could be linked together forever!
Lindsay taped her new chart to the ceiling right above her bunk bed. She loved to stare at the chart and study all the names. She imagined everyone holding each other’s hands, linked together like puzzle pieces. She felt happy. This was the biggest puzzle she had ever seen!
One night Lindsay couldn’t sleep. Her bedroom was really dark. The tiny night-light made scary-looking shadows on the walls. She pulled her blanket up over her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
After a little while she peeked out above the blanket and saw the chart. She read her name. Then she read Mom and Dad’s names. When she got to Grandpa’s name, she felt warm and peaceful.
She remembered how Grandpa smiled at her when they did puzzles together. When I help Dad do family history, I’m linking our family together! she thought. She imagined Grandpa smiling even bigger about that. She didn’t feel scared at all anymore. She smiled and snuggled into her blanket and fell asleep dreaming of people and puzzles and connecting her family together.

Without appearing to be self-serving, I would like to tell you young men of the Aaronic Priesthood a little about my call to a full-time mission. The year was 1962, and a call was received from President David O. McKay to serve in the Mexican Mission. Shortly after receiving the call, I learned that I had bone cancer in my right arm and that the probability of my living many weeks was extremely low. A blessing was received from a wonderful father, wherein he blessed me with my life and that the mission call would be fulfilled and that I would have a family and be able to serve the Lord all my days.
The doctor congratulated me on being one who had great faith in the Savior but assured me that I didn’t realize the seriousness of what I had. As some of you have noticed, I only have one arm as a result of that problem; but ten months after having my arm amputated, I entered the Mexican Mission, full of excitement and ready to work. You see, young men, I had several years earlier committed to the Lord that I would serve a full-time mission and that I would not let anything stop me from fulfilling that call. Well, brethren, the doctor passed away twenty years ago, always amazed to see me still breathing, and he actually became quite interested in the Church.
Brethren, I want you to know that having one arm for nearly thirty years has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. It hasn’t been my greatest challenge, but it has been a great teacher to me, teaching me to be more patient and tolerant with others as I have had to learn to be more patient with myself. It has helped me to understand the necessity of our having challenges in life to help develop our character and stamina, helping us to become what the Lord ultimately wants us to become.

When I was in my final year of elementary school, all of the students went camping in Negros Occidental, Philippines, before our graduation. We pitched our tents at the campsite and had a good time exploring among the guava and mango trees. When night came, my parents came to check on me. They told me to be very careful, and then they left.
One of my classmates invited my friends and me to take a ride with him and his older cousin. His cousin drove us around, and we had fun until—to my surprise—my classmates brought out beer and cigarettes. We parked the car near the campsite, and they began to drink the beers and smoke in the car. They invited me to join them, but I refused.
I said I wouldn’t join in because smoking would shorten my lifespan. I also said that it is against my beliefs, because I have been taught the Word of Wisdom. I told them that the Word of Wisdom is a law that teaches that we should keep our bodies clean, because they are temples of God. I told them we must avoid smoking; drinking alcohol, tea, and coffee; and taking drugs. My best friend and I left the group and slept in our tent.
When I went home, I was happy to tell my dad that I had not joined my classmates but instead had taught them about the Word of Wisdom. I was happy the Holy Ghost was there to guide me and give me the courage to speak to my friends.

A lot of what she learned at church was familiar to Muriel, who’d been taught about God and Jesus Christ her whole life. Other topics were new. “I’d never heard of Joseph Smith or Brigham Young or the Book of Mormon,” she said.
Those weren’t the only new things. There was a whole new culture to learn. Here, Church members made a big difference. They taught the family how to use some of the electronic devices and appliances that were different from back home. They helped with the language. And they helped most of all by simply being friends.
Muriel encourages youth today to do the same thing. “Refugees need friends too. Our family didn’t have any friends when we came to this country, but once we joined the Church, we had so many people visit us! Now we have many friends.”
Over the years, Muriel has been able to help serve those same friends who blessed her life early on.
After she entered Young Women, Muriel served in class presidencies and assisted with all kinds of youth activities. She served and taught and shared her testimony.
But one of the best ways she continues to help her friends is by lending her strength in the gospel and her faith in God.
“Some of my friends are struggling to find hope right now,” she says. “But I always tell them, nothing bad lasts forever. For me, I feel like there’s nothing God can’t get you through.
“Sometimes all I can pray for is courage to hold on longer. To keep pushing on. God has always helped me find that courage. For the most part, the blessing of courage to keep pushing ahead is all you really need.”

Dear Elder Brown,
You will certainly not mind if I still call you elder, will you? This is the name under which I started to know you, and it will be associated that way in my mind forever. Do you remember? It was that hot summer afternoon. You and your companion were pushing your bicycles towards the hill where we lived. We admired how you could put up with the heat with your white shirts and your ties. For two or three days we had noticed how you literally flew down the hill, and when you rang the bell of our home, all of us, the four children, rushed to the door to know who those young foreigners were and what they were doing in the neighborhood. You came in, and when we offered you some ice-cold tea, you refused politely by saying that you were not thirsty. What a pious excuse for missionaries, as I learned later who you were and the purpose of your visit. It took us some time to realize what you were talking about. First the strong American accent and then what you showed us to start with: pictures of Indians, pictures of ruins in South America, and even some handmade copper plates bound with three rings. We felt quite like Christopher Columbus when he discovered the New World, a strange but exciting discovery.
We rapidly became good friends as your visits became more frequent. You were preaching the message of the restoration of the gospel, and we were learning English in school. We both had our personal motivations to see each other! It was not difficult to also teach us some English and especially how to say “I love you.” You were a living example with your companion. We loved you.
One day we learned that you were leaving the city. This you called a transfer. It was the right word; we had to transfer our love to a new companion. Soon we followed his teachings and example, but you were the first, and you remained so in our minds. We also learned that your mission was for two years, and of course, you promised when you left that you would send us news. Indeed, we received one short letter two months later. There was also a picture with it. All was well, but it took us a little time to recognize you. Oh, not because of the horse that you were riding instead of your bicycle in the mission fields, not because of the clothes, but rather because of the sideburns and the length of your hair. We smiled about this as we thought that perhaps you were trying to re-create the legend of Buffalo Bill. We did not know that leaving the mission field also meant that you abandoned some of the characteristics that made you so special to us and were some of the reasons why we invited you into our home. You were so different from the world. Why was it so difficult to remain different?
We were anxious to receive the next letter. We grew in the Church, were baptized one after the other, and learned very soon of the importance of temple marriage. Some wedding cards arrived in the meantime from some of your companions. We rejoiced every time just looking at their pictures, and we could feel their happiness. Yours never came. We did not dare ask you why.
Some time passed; I had my first opportunity to come to Salt Lake. I was finally going to see all the things you had been talking about, or should I say, bragging about. That’s another word of vocabulary that I learned from you. Would you believe me if I told you that I was not surprised when I saw the city? You revealed so much and with such an enthusiasm about the valley, the Tabernacle, the temple, and the members that I already had a vision in my mind of what to expect. I had envisaged even Brigham Young entering the valley and saying, “This is the place.” Now the vision became reality in the same way that you explained the first vision of Joseph Smith and what it meant for the world and for myself.
Of course, we wanted to visit with you. We still had a vision of you, Elder, smiling and testifying with tears in your eyes: “I know what I say is true because I asked my Heavenly Father and I received a personal answer. There are no doubts any more. I have peace in my mind. I know that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith is a Prophet, and that this Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is the only true and living church upon the face of the whole earth.”
I could not resist or deny your testimony because of the Book of Mormon. You spoke to my heart by the power of the Holy Ghost. I did not tell you how I felt that day. These are things we sometimes do not like to talk about because of the sacredness of our feelings, but it was the beginning of a new life for me, with new objectives, and a sure knowledge of the Church and of the truth.
Yes, that day we arrived in Salt Lake we wanted to tell you, the same way you told us, that we also knew. We wanted to say: “Thank you, Elder. Thank you for what has happened in our lives because of your testimony. You prepared the way of the Lord. You made his paths straight. Now, listen, the gospel rolls forth into the cities of your old mission. Zions are established in Europe. Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Let us share this joy together.”
We first met one of your former companions; we asked after you. There was a kind of hesitation in his voice, and he seemed embarrassed but finally he admitted that you were working in a gas station and that you would probably not be coming to general conference or even listening to it. You were not, as we say in the Church, “very active,” meaning that you were no longer living the principles that you preached to us some years ago. We decided immediately to see you. We drove in front of the gas station and stopped.
We were looking for you, and as you saw us and realized who we were, there was a kind of hesitation. I could detect panic on your face, and I smiled as you were trying desperately to hide a cigarette that started to burn your fingers. We shook hands, asked about your wife, your children, your life, your future. Something was missing. You knew it and we knew it. We left. A last look through the window, a last wave of the hand.
Today I am in Salt Lake again, and I am writing this letter with the hope of reaching you. I do not know where you are. I drove in front of the gas station, but you were not there anymore. Where are you, my brother?
I hope that you will not mind if I have recalled some of the souvenirs of what you always referred to as the best time of your life. Why can’t it be the same way today? Why should the “best time” always refer to yesterday instead of tomorrow? The gospel of Jesus Christ is not a gospel made of souvenirs. It is a gospel presented to us so that we may live it today in order to know where we will be tomorrow. Alma bore his testimony of it in these words:
“For behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors.
“And now, as I said unto you before, as ye have had so many witnesses, therefore, I beseech of you that ye do not procrastinate the day of your repentance until the end; for after this day of life, which is given us to prepare for eternity, behold, if we do not improve our time while in this life, then cometh the night of darkness wherein there can be no labor performed.” (Alma 34:32–33.)
Dear Elder, you said one day in a conference that mothers can give birth to children, but missionaries can give eternal life to people. I recorded this as well as your testimony that day. The words of our Savior Jesus Christ are also recorded that we may not forget, that because of his sacrifice, we may repent of our errors. Didn’t he declare to the Nephites: “Behold, I am the law, and the light. Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live; for unto him that endureth to the end will I give eternal life.
“Behold, I have given unto you the commandments; therefore keep my commandments. And this is the law and the prophets, for they truly testified of me.” (3 Ne. 15:9–10.)
You have opened the gate to many. Why, why do you close it for yourself? May I put my foot in the door, as you once did in mine? Reach out your hand while there is still time, and let us tell you that we love you. Your bishop is waiting for you; your home teachers are caring for you; your missionary companions do not forget you; but more than that, we, we need you. Come as you are—our arms are open. We’re waiting for you.
Now the time has come to leave, but you should know that what you once were you can be again. May my testimony help you as yours did me some years ago. I know by the power of the Holy Ghost, the spirit of revelation. I know in my mind and in my heart that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, our Redeemer, and that we have a living prophet today, Spencer W. Kimball, and that by following his directions and advice we can come closer to our Heavenly Father and repent of our sins. My prayer is that you may realize this again in your own life and make a new decision to be one of His disciples, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Not only does this service bless the homes from which missionaries come, it blesses lives where missionaries go. One young lady who worked among the Indian people wrote: “The Navajo are a great people. Words can’t express my love for them. …
“The Navajo people accepted me, a white girl, as one of their own. They called me their white daughter. I had a hard time with the language, but I could teach by reading the lessons. I was very fortunate to have Navajo companions who could explain in detail. We could communicate with love. I learned that love is the greatest language to know. This people loved me and I loved them. We spoke with smiles, laughter, and sometimes tears. They were patient with my broken Navajo and helped me when I couldn’t think of a word. I left with a testimony in my heart and a feeling that cannot be described in words. …”
She concludes with, “In December I met a returned missionary. We fell in love and have been married in the temple.”

“Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.” I had seen this little sign a million times and never thought anything of it. It was only one of many strategically placed thoughts and quotes that dotted the walls of our home. This one happened to be in the best location of all—right above the kitchen table.
When friends came over, we naturally congregated in the kitchen. Dates, late night movies, and quick lunches almost all involved the kitchen. Mom knew this and planned her attack accordingly. Years later I realized what a direct hit Mom had scored.
I was blessed with a lot of friends who are also members of the Church. We went to church and school together, and most of us went on missions at about the same time. However, there was one who was not exactly like the rest of us. His parents were divorced, and he was shuffled between their homes and the homes of friends. As a result, I think he always felt a little isolated and alone. He wore his hair long and always had at least one earring. Regardless, we loved him, and he was one of us.
During high school we witnessed him change; it was great. A short time after his 19th birthday he submitted his mission papers and received a call. A couple of months later we really understood the significance of this event.
The realization came on a cold, crisp Sunday in January. My friends and I had gathered to hear this young man speak in sacrament meeting. I had been invited to perform a musical number, so I sat on the stand. As I gazed over the crowd, I saw all of our friends, as well as my family; it was a wonderful sight. As my friend ventured to the pulpit, his eyes were a little red.
His talk opened with a question: “Do any of you know why I am here? Well, it is really very simple. I am here because of the many meals eaten at a friend’s table, a table with a sign above it that reads, ‘Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.’ I want my friends to know that without their influence and love I wouldn’t be here today.”
As I looked down into the crowd, I saw my mother with teary eyes and a smile.
From that day on, I have also thought about the effects my friends have had on my life. I don’t know if I would have served a mission without their example. I don’t know what kind of a person I would be today if it hadn’t been for the strength and love I received from such wonderful people. For that, I will be forever grateful, both to them and to my Heavenly Father.
I know that no one has forgotten the message shared from that pulpit. I also know that that sign, to this day, still hangs above our kitchen table.

Once when our children were young, I decided to test the Lord’s promise by paying our tithe, even though I didn’t know where we would get money to buy food. I didn’t mention our plight to anyone.
To my surprise, my parents soon came to visit, bringing with them enough meat, potatoes, and bread to last us a very long time. But this wasn’t all. Our oldest daughter had a work-study assignment at school. Her assigned workplace was a sandwich shop, and at the end of the week, she received permission to bring home sandwiches for the whole family!
“Now we just lack some fruit,” I thought to myself. And that afternoon, returning from biking, I saw a lady putting apples into a bag. “Would you like to have these?” she asked. Surprised, I said that I would like them very much indeed.
Just then our neighbor’s young son came by. When he saw the delicious apples, he asked, “Could I have just one?” I held the bag out to him, and he chose one. Thanking me, he hurried away, his eyes shining with happiness.
I thought afterward that the Lord must have wanted to test me too. When He had given so much to me and mine, would I also share with others? I did—and have tried to do so ever since.
Jytte Christiansen, Fredericia Ward, Aarhus Denmark Stake

In November 1999, my brother David and I were practicing our volleyball serves on a hill in our front yard. My six-year-old brother, Luc (Luke), was leaning on the screen in the window above the garage. He fell through it 13? (4 m) to the driveway. I ran in and told my mom and dad, and they came out and picked him up. No one knew he had landed on his head.
My mom took him to the hospital and called my dad half an hour later, saying that Luc’s skull was practically shattered. He was life-flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was in a coma for three days. The doctors said that he had a huge blood clot behind his right eye. He couldn’t see for a couple of days. The doctors also said that he’d be in the hospital for two months.
While Luc was in the coma, our ward fasted and prayed for him. We fasted after sacrament meeting on Sunday until Monday night. People we knew in India and France did, too, even though most of them weren’t members of the Church. Luc woke up from his coma and got better and so did some other kids in the hospital. Luc was known as the “Miracle Boy.” He was in the hospital for only a week!
He’s OK now but has to go for a couple of checkups. I’m so glad that he survived his accident, and I know that fasting and prayer really work.

In line with the Africa West Area vision for 2024, the Port Harcourt/Uyo communication council jointly organized a training program on 25 February 2024 in the just completed Port Harcourt Choba Stake center. The purpose of the meeting was to train members to keep the facility clean and conducive for worship and for the positive portrayal of the Church.
In his opening remark, Chukwu Sacho Nwobuisi, stake president, expressed gratitude for the meetinghouse and implored all to do their best to maintain the facility. He reminded all that cleanliness is next to godliness and that God does not dwell in an unclean place and that keeping the meetinghouse clean should be the responsibility of all.
In his training, the facility manager, Brother Enyiesor Otikor, thanked the stake members for being found worthy to have a Church building and requested their steadfastness in doing all that is required of them to keep and maintain it for the purpose for which it is built. He warned that members shouldn’t litter, touch the walls, leave the lights on when leaving the facility, and should always stack the chairs after use, clean the floor, and maintain the grounds.
A video training presentation was shown highlighting the care and maintenance of a meetinghouse. In her remarks, Sister Winifred Pratt Wonodi, the Port Harcourt/Uyo communication council director, pointed out that it is part of the Africa West Area vision for 2024 that “leaders and members, including youth, have a responsibility to help keep each building clean and in good condition.”
She said, “therefore let’s heed the call to serve the Lord by serving ourselves.”
Members were happy to have the building and promised to do their best to keep the building and environment clean. To make the occasion memorable, a baptismal service was held and the first baptism in the meetinghouse was recorded. The first Primary activity was also held.

Thomas (that is not his real name) was one who had lost his way. We became acquainted at a special fireside attended by members one doesn’t normally see on Sunday. He was then 35 years old and had not been active in the Church for some 20 years. The day before, Thomas’s father had invited him to attend the fireside. Thomas said, “I’ll think about it.” I quote now from a letter written by his father:
“Thirty minutes before the fireside, [Thomas] called and asked me to pick him up. I can’t explain the anticipation I felt as we walked into the room [to join] you and about 40 others. There was a special feeling and spirit there that touched [Tom’s] heart and he went home determined to read again the passages in the Book of Mormon that you had outlined.
“This led to a reading of the whole book and the beginning of his payment of tithing. He began to see his life in a different light. … He stopped using drugs and caffeine. He continued to read, not only the Book of Mormon, but also the Doctrine and Covenants. He started to attend sacrament meetings and … literally began to be a different person. In fact, we jokingly asked him, ‘What have you done with our son?’
“The great blessing to us was when he was interviewed by the bishop … to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. This has truly been an answer to prayers which have been offered in his behalf for almost 20 years” (personal letter, 1 Aug. 1997).

On Sunday, November 26, 1990, I was on the bus, on my way home from our Asian branch in Lynnfield, Massachusetts. I sat by an 11-year-old girl and her 6-year-old brother. I had seen them at our branch, but I didn’t know their names. I did know they were not members yet.
In her hands, the girl was holding a children’s book of Bible stories. She was flipping through the pages, looking at the wonderful pictures. “Look!” she said with surprise, pointing to a picture of Jesus kneeling by a rock, praying, with blood coming out of every pore.
Turning to me she asked, “Why does Jesus look like that?”
“Because he is suffering for the sins of the people. He’s full of pain.”
Again she asked, “Why?”
So I said, “Here, do you want me to read to you?”
I started from where Jesus was kneeling and praying, and every story that I came across I explained. The words just came out, and I knew the children were getting into the story because when they saw Jesus nailed to the cross, they were scared for him. And when they saw he was resurrected, they were happy.
I think I explained the entire story to them from the book and with my own words. And when I asked them questions, they both kept raising their hands as fast as they could.
Finally, the little girl looked up at me and asked, “Is it true?”
I looked down at her and said, “Yes, yes, it’s true.”
And as I nodded my head, I knew myself that it was solid truth. I realized right then and there that I did have a strong testimony of Christ. I bore my testimony of the things that I knew in my heart were true. I know the Spirit was with me. I felt it. I felt the sensation of it—the warmth, the peace, the love.
From then on, I wanted to tell the whole world about Jesus Christ. I wanted everyone to feel that happiness too.

It was the summer of my sixth year. I loved to sleep in but was awakened early that Saturday morning by my mother. She reminded my sisters, brother, and me that we were going to drive out to the Barkley Ranch so that my older sister could play with her friend.
We quickly dressed while Mother filled a gallon jug with water to take with us on the trip. Mother and we four children climbed into our little gold car.
I can remember the excitement as we headed out toward the desert. None of us had ever been to the Barkley Ranch. Although I wasn’t the lucky one who would get to stay and play, at least I got to go for a ride.
Mother drove while trying to follow a few directions she had been given. It seemed forever before she finally turned off the main highway. I was sure we were almost there. We had traveled down a dirt road for several miles, when we came to and crossed a wash (the dry bed of a stream). As we continued on, the road became more treacherous. Finally, Mother decided that she had taken the wrong road. She turned the car around, and we headed back to the highway.
We soon came to the wash again and attempted to cross it. This time, the wheels of our little gold car sank deep into the sand. When the wheels just spun and spun in the sand, Mother told us that our car was stuck. I thought she was teasing us. We couldn’t get stuck out in the middle of the desert—it just wasn’t possible!
She tried again and again, but the tires just made bigger ruts in the sand. Finally she told my eight-year-old brother to steer while she got out of the car, walked around to the rear, and tried with all her might to push the car out. The car did not move.
The smell of the burning rubber made my empty stomach ache as I came to the sickening reality that we truly were stuck in the middle of the desert.
We all got out of the car and took refuge under the scanty shade of a paloverde tree. Mother took the little collapsible shovel out of the trunk and tried to dig the mounds of sand out of the way so that the wheel could roll forward.
I felt bad for her as we sat in the shade, watching her work in the heat of the morning sun. Her face was bright red, and the sweat poured off her brow as she dug and dug and dug.
We were all hopeful as she started the car, but instead of moving forward, the car’s wheels dug deeper into the sand.
Mother came over to us and told us that we needed to pray for help. We all knelt while she asked Heavenly Father to help us get our car out of the wash.
Then she sat down, and we each took a swallow of water from the gallon jug. My two-year-old sister spilled some water on her clothes. She was so thirsty, that she chewed a hole in them, trying to suck all the water out.
The sun’s scorching rays came relentlessly down on us. There was no breeze to bring relief to our sweaty faces.
Mother did not give up. She took a quilt out of the back of the car and laid it in front of the rear tires, trying to tuck the edge of it under the wheels as best she could. She was hoping the quilt would provide enough traction for the wheels to drive out of the ruts.
She again turned on the engine and pressed the gas pedal. The quilt was ripped to shreds by the spinning of the tires. It would take something much more substantial than a quilt to unwedge the wheels.
I was scared. No one knew where we were, not even our father. He had gone to the university for the summer to work on his master’s degree. I was sure that we were going to die.
Mother took the hatchet out of the car and began to chop a huge limb off a nearby mesquite tree. It was her intention to use the limb as a wedge to free the wheels. For hours, she and my big brother took turns chopping at that tree. It was hard work, and their progress was slow.
With one final chop of the hatchet, the limb fell to the ground. The limb was so big and so heavy, that they couldn’t move it. All their hard work had been in vain.
My brother was angry. He said, “Heavenly Father can’t hear us! He’s not going to answer our prayer.”
But Mother kept her faith. Again we knelt in prayer, this time much more humbly than before. Mother was exhausted and couldn’t think of any other way to get our car out. She said we had to leave it up to Heavenly Father to save us.
I watched as a centipede crawled down the bank of the wash, leaving lines in the sand behind him. I wondered why anyone or anything would choose to live in the desert with the cactus and lizards. I knew that I did not want to stay here forever. This was not a good place to die.
Our ration of water was getting low. We always had only clear water in the container for windshield wiper fluid—instead of the bought stuff, which is poisonous—so Mother poured it out of the container and into our water jug.
We were all very hungry as well as thirsty, for by then it was late afternoon. My little sister kept begging, “Baby cereal. Baby cereal.”
Suddenly Mother stood up and announced that we were going to start walking. She lifted the baby up onto her shoulders and, with our precious water in hand, headed out. The road seemed to be endless, and my legs soon felt wobbly. We took a rest alongside the road. We each drank a swallow, then got up and continued on our way.
I wondered how many miles it was to the main highway. Was it five? Was it ten? I didn’t know if I could walk that far—I didn’t know if I would make it. I tried to think of happy thoughts to take my mind off my misery, but they just wouldn’t come.
Then, far in the distance, we saw something: a truck coming down the road! I felt my heart pounding as we waved our arms in the air trying to attract the driver’s attention.
It seemed to take a lifetime for the truck to finally reach us. It belonged to a cattle rancher and was filled with his ranch hands. The rancher told us he thought at first we were cattle. Since he knew there should not be cattle where we were, he had driven down the road to investigate.
We all climbed into his truck, and they gave us cold water from their water cooler. I can still remember how good it tasted! Then he drove us back to the wash, a place where I was hoping to never go again. He had his men hook a tow chain to the front of our car and then push from the back. As the rancher drove his truck forward, our car, almost effortlessly, followed behind.
With smiles of relief, we thanked the men and headed for home. We had spent ten long hours out in the desert sun. We were weak from exhaustion.
When home at last, I guzzled glass after glass of delicious, wonderful water. I drank until I felt I was going to float away on a sea of happiness.
After we had rested and regained our strength, my mother asked us if we thought Heavenly Father had answered our prayers. Yes, I knew He had. I would never doubt Him again.

Just as a little child starts to develop a sense of identity as he or she repeatedly hears a name, I believe our names are important to our identity always. As a young mother I returned to take a class from the university I had previously attended and found naturally that things were very much changed from the time when I had begun my studies. I didn’t know anyone. One day one of my past professors came into the room, noticed me, and said, “Janette Callister, how nice to see you.” She turned to my current professor and said she remembered me as a good student. I still remember the good feeling I had that somebody really knew me and remembered me for good.

Paul was helping Dad plant a garden. He wished his brother Eric was here to help. But Eric was far away on a mission.
“I’ll never be big like Eric,” Paul said. “How can I go on a mission like him?”
“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “You’ll grow.”
Dad handed Paul some pumpkin seeds. He helped Paul plant them.
“These little seeds will grow into big pumpkins?” Paul asked.
“If you take good care of them,” Dad said.
Paul came out to look at the garden every day. He watered it, and soon tiny sprouts came up. The leaves got bigger. Paul carefully pulled up weeds.
By fall his pumpkin plants had grown. And there were big orange pumpkins!
Paul grabbed Dad to show him. “You took great care of your pumpkin plants!” Dad said.
“Yup! And I’ll take good care of me, so I can get big too.” Paul grinned. “And when I’m big, I can go on a mission just like Eric!”

Earlier this year I attended the funeral of an extraordinary ordinary man—my husband’s uncle Don. One of Uncle Don’s sons shared an experience he had as a small child, shortly after his parents had purchased their first home. Because there were five small children to feed and clothe, there was not enough money to fence the yard. Taking seriously one of his divine roles as the protector of his family, Uncle Don drove a few small wooden stakes into the ground, took some string, and tied the string from stake to stake all around the yard. He then called his children to him. He showed them the stakes and string and explained to them that if they would stay on the inside of that makeshift fence, they would be safe.

One day the visiting teachers watched in disbelief as they approached the house and saw five little children standing obediently at the edge of the string, looking longingly at a ball that had bounced beyond their boundaries and out into the street. One little child ran to get their daddy, who, in response, ran and retrieved the ball.

Later in the funeral, the oldest son tearfully expressed that all he had ever hoped in this life was to be like his beloved father.

Lucy’s Heart
Lucy and her older sisters entered an art contest at their school about making the world a better place. Lucy knew she wanted to paint a heart. She said, “The world would be a better place if we have love in our hearts.”
A Loving Sister
When Lucy found out that her painting won the contest, she told her sister Ruby, “Yours is so good. I wish you would have won instead of me.” Lucy couldn’t believe it when she found out her painting won the contest for the whole United States too!
A Special Way to Communicate
It’s hard for Lucy to tell others what she is feeling. But she wants to help people feel loved and happy. And her paintings do that!

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
Our small western town had one of the better rodeo grounds in the area, and it was an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the deserted grounds and let our imaginations run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and wrestled the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the honeycomb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and each took a honeycomb from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, hide your honeycombs,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Good evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we were beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out rather late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us uneasy. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.”
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our honeycombs and returned them to the hives.