Gospel Story Finder

On 100-year-old Polk Street, teenagers are more often seen cruising than cleaning, but the youth in the Amarillo Texas Stake changed all that with a special service project.
In conjunction with the city’s “Help Beautify Amarillo” project, the teenagers decided to restore some pride to this historic section of town. They came armed with tools and soap to get rid of graffiti, broken bottles, and other litter. About 50 youth participated in the activity that was planned as part of the Stake Standards Night.
This was such an unusual activity for teenagers in this area that it attracted the attention of the local media and was reported on the front page of the paper. Many community leaders commented on the willingness of the youth to work for their community and expressed gratitude to them.
After the project was finished, they headed for the stake center for dinner and a program on individual self-worth, followed by a dance.

May I tell you of the hour of my true conversion to the Lord Jesus Christ and his restored gospel. Perhaps my experience will strengthen those who desire a closer relationship with our Father in Heaven and a more profound testimony of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Some years ago while traveling to a mission in Germany, I found myself, in stormy November, aboard a ship sailing from New York to Bremerhaven. The ocean boiled with turmoil. We were all seasick. All we could eat were soda crackers and Zwieback. I was almost afraid I was not going to die!
As the days passed it dawned on me: “I’m really going on a mission.” Do I truly have a testimony? Am I prepared to bear it “at all times and … in all places”? (Mosiah 18:9).
I thought I had a testimony, but now the real trial of my faith was coming. I was going to a foreign land where the only words I could speak in German were Volkswagen and auf Wiedersehen.
During the voyage I realized my testimony was not a spiritual fire of conviction, particularly of the Book of Mormon. And so I knelt down on the cold steel floor of that rocking ship and begged the Lord with my tears. I prayed, “Dear Father, I have got to know that the Book of Mormon is true. I have read it, I think I understand it, but I desire the fire which helps a man know that the Book of Mormon is thy word. Please, Father, help me.”
Somewhere out on the lonely Atlantic, during those turbulent days, a sweet spirit and peace came to me—“the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philip. 4:7). I received a witness that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and that supernal event became my hour of conversion.
If you question whether you have a testimony of the restored gospel, I encourage you to read, ponder, and study the Book of Mormon. Why the Book of Mormon? Because this holy scripture is the great testifier and converter. This ancient record is a spiritual compass for us to follow. Joseph Smith said, “The Book of Mormon was … the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (History of the Church, 4:461). When you come to know that this testament of Christ is true, you will know that Joseph Smith is the prophet of the Restoration and that Ezra Taft Benson is the Lord’s prophet today. The Book of Mormon was written for our day to convince us “that Jesus is the Christ” (Book of Mormon title page). If your soul is searching for a more profound testimony of Jesus Christ and his restored kingdom, I suggest, in conjunction with studying the Book of Mormon, there are four steps you can take which will lead you to your hour of conversion.
These four steps are (1) Desire, (2) Works, (3) Prayer, and (4) Trust in the Lord. Let me briefly explain.
First, Desire: Oliver Cowdery desired a more firm witness of the plates which contained the Book of Mormon record. The Lord said to Oliver: “If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things. Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?” (D&C 6:22–23). The Lord told Oliver that, first of all, a person needs to have desire.
Alma said, “Even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you” (Alma 32:27).
Second, Works: Oliver Cowdery took a positive action. He moved himself from thinking to doing. In my case, while on board that ship, I had more intimately studied and pondered the Book of Mormon. Young Joseph reflected on the Bible, then went into the woods to pray. Moses climbed Mount Sinai. My Great-grandmother Nelson boarded a ship in Denmark, with a flock of little children, to join the Mormons in Utah. Righteous works yield a divine harvest. The Lord said, “He who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come” (D&C 59:23).
Third, Prayer: “Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed” (Hymns, 1985, no. 145).
As we sincerely pray to the Lord and rely upon his divine whisperings, that still, small voice will come to us (see Hel. 5:30). We will receive a peace, knowing that God has answered our prayers. Remember the peace that Oliver received. These spiritual embers can grow into a flame of testimony (see Hel. 5:45).
Alma, upon meeting the four sons of Mosiah, who had been on a fourteen-year mission, rejoiced at their knowledge of the truth. He said, “They had searched the scriptures diligently, [and] they had given themselves to much prayer, and fasting; [and] they taught with power and authority of God” (Alma 17:2–3).
“Ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ,” counseled Moroni, “if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, … he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moro. 10:4).
Surely the Lord would not ask us to pray if he did not intend to answer our prayers. “He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him” (Heb. 11:6).
Fourth, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Prov. 3:5). We can trust the Lord. He is our truest Friend. He always keeps his word. “Dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith,” admonished Ether (Ether 12:6).
May I ask you to extend your trust in the Lord. Take the Book of Mormon into your hands. As you read it, ask yourself, Could any man write this? Then ask the Lord, Is this thy word?
A word of caution: Satan wants to stop you. He will try to distract, deceive, and weaken your desire, your righteous works, your sincere prayers, and your trust in the Lord. Do not be afraid. We have already overcome the evil one at another time and place. We are told that in the great premortal war, “[we] overcame [Lucifer] by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of [our] testimony” (Rev. 12:11). We had a valiant testimony in our premortal state, and we can resist Satan and awaken that testimony again today.
The Book of Mormon is our testimonial Liahona (see Alma 37:45). This voice from the dust guides us to know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that his Church has been restored.
If you have even a small desire for a greater witness, please do the works of righteousness, trust in the Lord, pray and anxiously explore the Book of Mormon. I testify that it is the word of God. This iron rod marks the path that will guide your soul to your hour of conversion. I rejoice with you in that glorious event. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

When I was 11, my family had to leave East Germany. We moved to Frankfurt, West Germany. Until my father could find a job like he had before, he and my mother operated a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard to see the other children play, especially during the winter months. But everybody in our family had to work hard, and I knew I was an important part of the family business. I felt needed and valued.

One night our family went out for pizza and games. When I finished eating my pizza slices, I was still hungry. I wanted to take a slice from my sister Eden, but my parents said not to. A minute later she decided to give me her last slice. That made us all smile.
Two nights later, Eden finished eating her dinner first. It was one of her favorite meals, and she wanted another helping. When I heard my mom tell her it was all gone, I decided to share mine. Eden was happy, and I felt good sharing something with her that she really likes. I remembered the good example Eden was to me when she shared her pizza.

The samurai were the military nobility of medieval and early-modern Japan. The Japanese still talk about one of them, Ryoma Sakamoto, who died in 1867. One of the reasons he is still so popular is because he always kept a positive attitude. He did not fear anyone or anything. He went anywhere he was needed. Inspired by the ideal that all men are created equal, he made every effort to establish a new government. But he was assassinated, and even as he was stabbed many times by another samurai’s sword, he didn’t give up. He tried to stand up and walk forward. This is a very famous story in Japan.

Nina Lyn Oliver is a young woman who cares a lot about her country and her community.
The 17-year-old from West Jordan, Utah, knew that when war broke out in the Persian Gulf, there would be a lot of turmoil and concern. She wanted to do something to comfort families that were torn apart, as well as to support those serving overseas.
“Nina Lyn is a get-things-done kind of person,” comments her mother, Pat Oliver. “She got this idea and away she went!”
First of all, Nina Lyn and her sisters canvassed the entire ward community (approximately 200 homes) in the West Jordan 66th Ward, West Jordan Stake, and asked each neighbor, both LDS and non-LDS, if they’d like a yellow ribbon decoration for their mailbox or door in support of the troops. “The response was remarkable. Only one family did not wish to participate,” comments Nina Lyn.
Next, Nina Lyn and her mom blitzed several fabric stores and bought up 500 yards of yellow ribbon. “We cleaned them out!” she laughs. The neighbors shared in the costs. “They were very generous,” Nina Lyn comments.
Along with more help from her mom and her three sisters, Heidi, 15, Julie, 13, and Mandi, 11, and her two brothers, Brant, 9, and Mark, 6, Nina Lyn plunged into her ambitious project. Everyone worked all day on Saturday, and on Sunday evening, six of the Beehives and four of the Laurels in her ward’s Young Women program pitched in and helped, too.
Early Monday morning, on Human Rights Day, Nina Lyn and her family members set out in freezing snow flurries and high winds to tie the yellow ribbons on mailboxes and doors throughout their neighborhood. “It was a challenge,” comments Nina Lyn, “but on occasion the weather was kind of nice to us.” Several hours later, they returned home chilled to the bone and with fingers sore from tying on the bows with wire fasteners. The entire project from start to finish took over 100 hours of work.
Where did Nina Lyn get her idea? “My dad, Klare Oliver, is in the army reserves, and although he doesn’t have to go to war because he is diabetic, it’s important to me to support the troops—to be patriotic. They are carrying out their responsibilities to our country and helping others to have their freedom. I believe it’s important that we all support them. And the yellow ribbons are a way of showing this.”
Nina Lyn is a senior at West Jordan High School. “She is highly motivated and a bundle of energy,” comments her mom. Nina Lyn’s alarm clock goes off every morning at five o’clock so she can attend early-morning seminary. She sings with the concert choir and madrigals, and plays viola in the orchestra. She also teaches 15 piano students through the week. Nina Lyn is a member of the Peer-Leadership team, which is teens against drug and alcohol abuse. “I keep busy to make life fun,” she says with a smile.
Nearly every hour of every week in Nina Lyn’s life is accounted for, and yet during a crisis she took time out of her hectic schedule to involve herself, her family, and her neighbors in a show of patriotic support.

My brother-in-law, Taylor, works in Washington, D.C., for the United States Department of Agriculture. As part of his job, he is expected to attend a number of social functions. These functions almost always have alcohol served to the guests. The people who work with Taylor know of his religious beliefs and commitment to abstain from all alcoholic beverages, and they will often thoughtfully provide something else to drink in their place.
At one particular function, someone had brought a few beverages that claimed to be alcohol free. Taylor was offered one of these drinks, but since the brand and type of drink were unfamiliar to him, he said in a friendly manner, “I’ll have to check that label first.”
Taylor read the fine print on the bottle, and sure enough, the drink contained a small amount of alcohol. “Look,” Taylor said, “it has alcohol in it.”
The person who had offered the drink said, “Let me see that!” After looking for a minute, he turned to Taylor and pointed at the label. “Taylor, it has only 1% alcohol. Can’t you even drink that?”
Not wanting to offend his friend, yet not willing to compromise his standards, Taylor replied, “Well, when you’re 100% committed, 99% just isn’t good enough.” He thanked them for trying to accommodate him but turned down the drink.

In order to have Jason, the little brother who died, sealed to them, Brother Baum’s Uncle Bud from Arizona acted as proxy, or substitute, for him. The children said that when they were being sealed, it felt as if Jason was there instead of their uncle. Before they went to the temple, the children always asked why Jason had to die. Sister Baum said that they don’t ask anymore, because they know that someday they can be with him again.

Often this is the way faith works. I was assigned, for example, to escort Elder and Sister Bateman and Elder and Sister Steadman to their missionary assignments as English teachers in Hanoi, Vietnam. We planned and organized, but we had more questions than answers. After completing our planned agenda, we still had one full day unplanned. More remained to be done, but what and where?
That morning we decided to act by faith by walking out our doors. Events swept us through an amazing day of welcoming ceremonies at the Hanoi Children’s Palace, dinner in our honor with Operation Smile Vietnam, and other activities planned by our hosts. Our hosts had been too busy to communicate their plans to us, but the Lord knew them and moved us into place like pawns on a chessboard.

Growing up along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania, USA, young Emma Hale learned to navigate river waters and ride horses from her older brothers.1 Her mother, a Methodist, taught her from the Bible. According to family tradition, as a young girl Emma went to the nearby woods to pray out loud as she had been instructed in Sunday School. She called upon God to touch the heart of her father, who was not a believer. He happened to hear her words and experienced his own conversion.2

When I told my biological father that I had become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I could not understand why he was so calm.
“Let me tell you a bit of my history,” he said.
My father, who had never talked to me about religion, told me that as a young man, he had attended the Church’s Cumorah Ward in Cape Town. He had played on the ward basketball team. He had made several close friends who were Latter-day Saints. One of his best friends was a missionary who, after his mission, was killed in Vietnam.
Had my dad not lost that friend, I think he would have joined the Church. His life would have been a whole different story. Years later, he still had great respect for Latter-day Saints. He didn’t practice any religion himself, but he absolutely supported my decision to join the Church.

Only a week had passed since Heather’s baptism, and she felt miserable. She could still remember the fresh, clean feeling that had warmed her as her father helped her back up the steps of the baptismal font. I want to feel this good forever, she had thought at the time. Now she wondered if that happiness would ever return.
Earlier today, with her best friend, Susan, running after her, Heather had raced up the three front steps, into the house, and straight to the family room. Even snacks couldn’t have pulled them away from their plans for the afternoon. Dad had brought home a new space video game the night before, and Heather had been anxious to show Susan how she’d mastered it already. As they had burst into the family room, Heather’s redheaded brother, Sean, was sprawled sideways in a chair, watching TV. He’d just finished gluing together a model airplane, which now rested on the small table in front of him.
“Susan and I want to play the video game now,” Heather had announced. “Will you please turn the TV off?”
“Just let me finish watching this program,” Sean had answered.
“But we can’t,” Heather had wailed. “Susan has to be home in just a few minutes.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I was here first,” Sean had said testily, “and I want to see the end of this show.”
Stiffening, Heather had said, “You always get here first; it’s not fair!” She had headed for the TV to turn it off. But before she’d gotten there, she had seen the newly completed model airplane. And before she’d thought twice about it, Heather had snatched the plane and thrown it to the floor. Bits of broken wood had flown in every direction. She hadn’t waited for Sean’s response but had grabbed Susan’s hand and said, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Now shame clutched at Heather. She longed to tell Sean that she was sorry that she had destroyed his model airplane. Apologizing wouldn’t restore it, though.
Heather couldn’t even manage her welcome smile and hug for Dad when he strolled in the front door from the office. The most she could muster was a quiet “Hi.”
Dad gave her a squeeze anyway and asked, “What’s wrong with my girl?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
Before any words could struggle out, tears spilled from Heather’s eyes. Her sobs changed to sniffles as she told the whole story. It surprised her that telling Dad helped ease some of the misery.
Dad listened until she finished. “Well,” he said calmly, “you must feel ashamed.”
Heather looked down at her knees and nodded.
“I’m disappointed in the way you’ve acted,” Dad went on, “but your feelings of shame are an important part of repentance. We can never really repent until we are sorry for what we’ve done. I can see that you really are sorry about the way that you acted. Now, what do you think you should do next?”
“I guess first I should tell Sean that I’m sorry,” Heather answered.
“I think that that is good idea. There is someone else whom you need to apologize to as well, Heather. Do you know who He is?”
“Heavenly Father. And I’ve already done that, Dad. I prayed just a little while ago and asked Him to forgive me.”
“That’s good,” Dad said. “I can see that you know a lot about repentance already. Now there’s one more important thing that you need to do.” He explained to her that she needed to make restitution by replacing Sean’s model airplane.
After apologizing to Sean, Heather went to check the contents of her bank. Three one-dollar bills were rolled and stuffed into the plastic money jar. Dad had said that it would probably cost at least five dollars to buy a new model kit, and just to make sure that she would have enough, Heather planned to earn at least three more dollars.
The next week was a busy one for Heather. She tended her younger brother whenever Mom needed her to. Mom also paid her to clean out some kitchen drawers and cupboards and to sweep the garage. Her neighbor, Mrs. Briggs, was glad to have Heather walk her dog during the week, which added to her earnings. She helped Dad, too, by raking the lawn and weeding the flower bed.
After supper on Friday she eagerly counted her money, “One, two, three, four, five, six.” She fingered the wrinkled bills carefully before returning them to the plastic jar. “… twenty, thirty, thirty-five—six dollars and thirty-five cents!” she cried triumphantly, pushing the last nickel back into the bank. With the bank held tightly in her hand, Heather ran to find her dad. He had promised to take her to buy the new airplane kit as soon as she was ready.
When they returned from the store, Heather could hardly wait to find Sean. She pulled a sack from behind her back and held it out to him. Slowly he took it from her and asked, “What’s this?”
“Just open it. You’ll see,” Heather replied.
Sean pulled the new model kit from the sack. As he reached in and pulled out a candy bar, too, Heather glowed with almost the same sensation she’d had when she’d been baptized. She felt almost like a balloon ready to pop as she watched the smile on Sean’s face widen into a grin.
“Thanks,” he said. “Want to help me make it?”

My poor bones! I had the bone marrow test yesterday. Pain! First they deadened my hip, and then they went in and deadened the membrane around the bone. After that they drilled into the bone by twisting a needle until it penetrated the inner membrane. That’s what hurt. I have to do it again Friday.
Something else happened yesterday, something nearly as bad as the bone marrow test. One of the interns came into my room while I was reading my Book of Mormon and asked me if I was a Mormon. When I told him I was, he tried to tell me how foolish I was. He was a little bitter toward the Church and told me something about a brother who had joined. I told him I knew the Church was true.
“Why don’t you call your missionaries then and have them come and give you a blessing?” he asked.
I told him the missionaries were on their way right then.
“And you really think that will help?”
I told him I knew that if my Father in Heaven wanted me to get well, I would.
“You don’t know what you have!” he shouted. He was angry. “You’ll be dead in six months no matter what you do!” When he realized what he had said, a shocked look came on his face. I asked him to leave.
When the missionaries came, they gave me a comfort blessing, but no promise. It helped, and I was able to sleep for a while, but when it came time for the operation, I was petrified. When they took me to the operating room, I walked down the hall like a zombie.

As you trust in the Lord and His goodness, the Almighty God will bless His children through you.16 Elder Hollings from Nevada learned that early in his mission. The day after he arrived in India, he traveled with Sister Funk and me to Rajahmundry, his first area. That afternoon Elder Hollings and Elder Ganaparam went to visit a Church member and her mother. The mother wanted to learn about the Church because she had seen how the gospel blessed the life of her daughter. Sister Funk joined them to provide fellowship. Because the lesson would be taught in English and the mother spoke only Telugu, a brother in the branch was there to interpret what was taught.

Elder Hollings’s assignment in his very first teaching appointment was to teach the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet Joseph. At that point in the lesson, he turned to Sister Funk and asked, “Should I say it word for word?” knowing it would be interpreted.

She replied, “Say it word for word so the Spirit can testify of what you say.”

When this new missionary sincerely taught the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet, the countenance of that dear sister changed. Tears appeared. As Elder Hollings finished that glorious message and before what he said could be interpreted, she asked through her tears in her native language, “May I be baptized? And will you teach my son?”

My young fellow servants, doors and hearts open daily to the gospel message—a message that brings hope and peace and joy to the children of God throughout the world. If you are humble and obedient and hearken to the voice of the Spirit, you will find great happiness in your service as a missionary.17 What a wonderful season it is to be a missionary—a time when the Lord is hastening His work!

Ryan liked to sprinkle his garden and watch the water spray from the hose onto the thirsty plants below. He enjoyed seeing the big squash leaves covered with the tiny droplets and the feathery carrot leaves bend under the gentle spray of water. He especially liked the pleasant yet pungent smell of wet tomato plants and damp earth.
Ryan was proud of his garden. He had done all the work himself. He had put the seeds in the warm earth, watered and thinned the plants, and pulled every tiny weed that poked its head up through the ground. Feeling that the garden was his very own was one of the best things that had ever happened to Ryan. He could hardly wait to share his carrots, tomatoes, and squash with the family.
One afternoon as he was watering, Ryan noticed his younger sister, Kris, watching him from the sidewalk. She looked rather wistful and lonesome, and Ryan felt a little sorry for her. Breaking an arm is no fun, he thought, especially in the middle of the summer, when all her friends are taking swimming lessons and having lots of fun.
“Hi, Kris,” he called.
“Hi. Is it okay if I watch?”
Ryan knew what the next question would be. He had heard it at least a hundred times already this summer.
“Do you need any help?” she asked hopefully.
“No, not right n—” Ryan stopped himself in the middle of his usual answer. Something in the way she was standing, her eyes wide and hopeful, her arm so uncomfortable looking, made him think again. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let her hold the hose a minute, he decided.
“Do you think you could hold the hose with one hand?” he asked.
“Sure I can!” she declared.
Ryan handed her the hose and showed her how to hold it so the water would spray just above the plants instead of directly on them. Kris carefully watered the tomato plants while Ryan pulled some weeds that had sprung up among the carrots.
“I’m done!” Kris announced proudly in a few minutes. Then without thinking she stepped between two tomato plants and landed right on the carrot row, completely flattening one feathery plant with her foot.
Oh no! Ryan thought disgustedly. But he said, “I guess the rows are pretty close together. It’s hard to find a safe place to stand, isn’t it?”
Kris nodded solemnly and added, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’ll try to be more careful.”
She looked so sad that Ryan found himself saying, “Don’t worry about it, Kris, you’ll do better next time!”
Instantly her face lighted up. “Will you let me help you again?” she asked eagerly.
Ryan was silent for a moment. Until today, this garden has been mine, he thought, even all the hard work. It had given him a good feeling to know that he had done everything by himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have a partner now.
“We’ll see,” he said finally. “I’m not sure there’s enough work to keep us both busy.”
The next day after breakfast, Ryan announced, “Today is weeding day, Mom. I hope you fix lots of lunch!”
Weeding the garden was a big job. Ryan wanted to start early while the soil was still damp from yesterday’s watering. He was in the garage looking for a small hand spade when he looked up and saw Kris. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to—her questioning eyes spoke for her. Ryan fumbled around looking for the spade. As he picked up the small tool, he thought, It’s my garden and it’s not my fault she broke her arm and can’t play with her friends.
Then he turned to face her.
“Hi,” Kris said, looking excited and hopeful.
Ryan couldn’t resist that look. “Come on, partner,” he said. “Let’s weed the garden.”
When they reached the garden, Ryan dropped to his knees beside the tomato plants. Kris stood a moment, then knelt beside him and timidly asked, “Which ones are the weeds?”
I thought everyone could tell a tomato plant from a weed, Ryan thought. He had to smile, though, when he saw how eager Kris was to learn. Patiently he explained which ones were the weeds and told her to be careful to pull them up by the roots so they wouldn’t come up again. Then he showed her how to use the hand spade to dig out the tougher roots. The two worked silently side by side and Ryan was surprised to see how fast the work went. Within an hour they had finished weeding the whole garden.
“After a while I didn’t even have to ask you which ones were the weeds!” Kris said excitedly when they were through. She looked tired and her forehead was smudged with dirt, but she was smiling and seemed happier than she had been since she broke her arm.
The next morning Ryan checked the soil in his garden. As he had expected, the hot sun had baked it dry again.
“Want to help water our garden?” he asked Kris. As usual, she was eager. As they set the hose and sprinkler in between the tomato row and the squash row, Ryan thought to himself, Sharing my garden with Kris isn’t so bad after all.
“When will the tomatoes be red?” Kris asked. “Will they always be that small?”
“No,” he explained. “They will get much bigger and turn red next month, I hope.”
“When will the carrots start to grow and get ripe?” Kris asked. “I can’t even see them.”
“The packet said the carrots would ripen by mid-July and that’s about right now,” Ryan answered. “Maybe some of them are already ripe. They grow underground so we’ll have to pull one up to see.”
Ryan knelt and gently pulled the leaves of one of the carrot plants. They both watched as a carrot slowly emerged from under the ground.
“Oh, boy!” Kris exclaimed. “A real carrot! May I show Mom?”
Ryan had wanted to take the first carrot to show Mother, but Kris was already halfway to the house. She was so excited that Ryan didn’t have the heart to stop her.
Kris didn’t come out to the garden again so Ryan finished the watering by himself.
“It’s lunchtime,” Mother called from the back porch a few minutes later.
“Hurry up, Ryan,” Kris urged, smiling mysteriously when he went into the kitchen. “Wash your hands and then come and eat lunch.”
He sat down at his usual place. It looked like an ordinary lunch to him—tuna sandwiches, potato chips, milk, a plate with four carrot sticks. …
“Carrot sticks!” Ryan cried. “Is that our carrot, Kris?”
Kris laughed and nodded. She looked down shyly and added, “Look under your plate, Ryan. I made a surprise for you.”
Ryan lifted the plate and saw a card with a large orange-colored carrot on it. Inside the card Kris had printed, “Thank you for sharing your garden with me.”
Ryan looked up at his sister and smiled. Then after taking a bite of a carrot stick, he said with a grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such a delicious carrot. But then I had a pretty good partner to help me take care of it!”

Susan wandered into the kitchen, where Mother was busy fixing dinner.
“Would you go get the baby for me, please?” asked Mother. “He just woke up, and this afternoon’s fun has put me way behind in everything.”
Susan’s younger brother Mark had spent a lot of time during the week sanding and painting his car for his first Pinewood Derby race. The derby had lasted longer than expected, so the baby had been taking a late nap while Mother tried to get supper ready.
Susan brought little Jonathan into the kitchen, pulled out a chair from the table, and held the baby on her lap. She sat there so quietly that her mother looked over at her and asked, “Why so sad?”
Susan was staring at Mark’s trophy on the kitchen counter. Mark hadn’t had a very fast car, but it had won the prize for “best looking car.”
“I’ll never get a trophy,” Susan said, sounding very discouraged. “When I went to Lynn’s birthday party last week, I saw her trophies for baton twirling. Claudia has a trophy from her dancing class, and when we visited Grandma last summer, I saw all of Uncle Robert’s racquetball trophies. The only thing that I’m in is the stamp club, and nobody gives trophies for that!”
“You know what?” Mother asked slowly. “I think that you already have some trophies.”
“I do?” Susan thought for a minute. “No, I don’t. Not even one.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about that kind of trophy.” Mother flicked her hand at the trophy sitting on the counter as if that kind of trophy wasn’t special at all. “The kind of trophy that I’m talking about is an invisible one.”
Susan looked puzzled. “An invisible trophy?”
“Well, right now you’re tending your baby brother, and he’s learning to love you, just the way Mark and your little sister do. Remember how you played house with Beth yesterday after school, even though you had other things that you wanted to do? Love is a wonderful kind of trophy, but it’s not the kind that you can see on a shelf.”
Susan looked doubtful as she gave baby Jonathan a squeeze.
Mother smiled and said, “I know of another trophy that you’ve earned. You practice the piano before school every morning, and I never have to remind you. Nobody hands out trophies for practicing without being nagged, but learning to do things on your own is an invisible trophy that will last forever.”
“What good is a trophy,” Susan wanted to know, “if nobody can see it?”
“Remember last fall,” her mother answered, “when a new girl came into your class and some of the kids weren’t very nice to her? You were the first one to be her friend and make her feel wanted. You certainly deserve a trophy for that, but friendship is its own reward, and a plaque on the wall announcing the fact would only spoil it.”
Susan was quiet as Mother put the meat loaf into the oven, but as she looked one more time at the Pinewood Derby trophy on the counter, she said wistfully, “I still think it would be fun to have a trophy to put on my bedroom shelf.”
“Oh, you still have plenty of life ahead of you to collect some of those,” Mother told her. “Just remember that you will probably never get one for the things that really count.”
“Why doesn’t anybody give out trophies like that?” Susan asked.
“I guess that the things that matter most are hard to measure. But when you do good things, you feel good, and that’s better than a whole roomful of this kind of trophy.” Mother kissed Susan on the forehead as she picked up the baby from her lap. “Besides,” she continued, “Heavenly Father can see the real you inside, and He knows that you’re worth a lot! Now, want to help me change a wet baby?”
“Sure thing.” Susan jumped up and followed her mother out of the kitchen without a backward glance at the brown and gold trophy on the counter.

My life hasn’t always been easy. I started experiencing symptoms of social anxiety and depression as a teen and was diagnosed with ADHD in high school. When I was about 15 months into serving my full-time mission, I started experiencing suicidal thoughts. Soon after, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder.
I found myself facing a difficult decision. My mission president and I talked about me going home where I could get the help I needed. But I couldn’t help but feel frustrated with the Lord. I felt like my desire to stay and continue serving the people I had come to love was a righteous desire.
Eventually, I learned that there were people the Lord needed me to meet at home and that there were opportunities for my broken heart to be healed. And I’ve come to know that my missionary service was accepted by Him.

Brian felt very proud. He had built a birdhouse with a feeder tray that was just right for sparrows. Brian poured birdseed on the tray before he hung the birdhouse up in a tree where he could see it from the kitchen window. Then he waited.
About a week later a mother and father bird moved into the house. They carried small twigs and pieces of grass and string into the house to build a nest. Then the mother bird laid some eggs. Brian watched them every day. He always checked to make sure there was birdseed in the feeder.
One day Brian heard chirping. The baby birds had hatched! All day long the mother and father birds flew out of the house, then came back with a worm or a bug. They landed on the perch in front of the door and poked their heads in. When they pulled their heads out, their beaks were empty, and they flew away again.
A few days after the baby birds hatched, Brian saw some bees near the birdhouse. After the mother and father birds left to find food, the bees flew into the birdhouse. The bees buzzed and buzzed, and the baby birds chirped like they were scared. The mother and father birds came back, but they could only sit on a tree branch and watch.
Brian was scared. The bees buzzed like they were getting angry, and the babies were chirping frantically. He didn’t know what to do. “Those bees are going to sting the babies and kill them!” he cried.
He ran into the house to tell his mom. After she saw the bees, she called a teacher at the university. Brian sat in the kitchen, listening to his mom on the phone and watching the birdhouse out the window.
“Are you sure?” Brian’s mother said into the phone. “Well, all right, then. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and said, “He said there’s nothing we can do.”
Brian started to cry. He reached up and hugged his mom. Then he said a prayer in his heart. He asked Heavenly Father to help his mom save those little birds.
In about a minute, Brian’s mom ran over to the fridge. She quickly pulled a great big white onion out of a drawer and chopped it in half. Juices started oozing out of the onion and tears started rolling out of her eyes.
“Here,” she said, handing half to Brian. “Go put this on the bird feeder. Maybe it will scare the bees away.”
Brian took the onion and ran out the door. His eyes had started to water and his nose had started to run by the time he got the onion on the feeder. The bees suddenly swarmed out of the birdhouse and were gone. Brian was relieved, but the mother and father birds still wouldn’t come feed their babies. They stayed on their branch, staring at Brian. One had a worm in its beak; the other had a bug. Brian took the onion off the feeder and threw it away. Then the birds came back to the nest and fed the babies.
Brian smiled and silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayer.

One morning during a windy snowstorm, we were riding in the car. Two sister missionaries were walking in the storm, and we offered them a ride. One was from Samoa. We asked them if they needed anything. The other missionary said her companion’s gloves weren’t warm enough. We had an extra pair of gloves in the car, and they fit the sister from Samoa. It warmed our hearts that we were able to do something for the missionaries who are serving the Lord.
Garrison and Kempton M., ages 10 and 8, Idaho