Gospel Story Finder

Lately I have become good friends with my Grandmother Brocklebank. It all started a little over a year ago, when she completed my four-generation program. Then after she was baptized, I would go over to her house and we’d talk about different things. Her favorite thing to talk about is Church history. Sometimes when I listen to her, I’m awfully glad that Brigham Young never lived long enough to meet my grandmother. He would have found his match in Mrs. Brocklebank.
Mom and I were standing inside the front doors of the Alberta Temple, and a man in white clothes was checking our recommends. It was peaceful and quiet in the temple, and the man said that he was happy that we had come. I had just finished telling him that it was our very first time and that we were getting sealed, when Dad came in from parking the car.
“Mother won’t come in,” Dad said.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked as the man gave our recommends back to us.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. He had a pained look on his face, the kind of look that he gets every time Grandma Brocklebank does something that doesn’t make any sense.
“She’s just nervous about coming into the temple,” Mom said. “She needs to be reassured.”
“Maybe you should go out and reassure her, then.”
“If you can’t do it, I doubt if I can,” Mom told him.
“I’ll go talk with her,” I offered.
Mom looked pleased. “That’s a good idea,” she said.
I went out to the car. Mrs. Brocklebank was sitting in the back seat. I climbed in beside her.
With Mrs. Brocklebank you have to watch what you say. I’ve learned that the most successful way to talk to her is to let her do most of the talking. I sat for a while, looking out the car window at the big white temple rising up into the sky. Finally she said, “Forever is a long time to spend with someone, don’t you think?”
“Not if it’s your family,” I answered.
“Your Grandfather Brocklebank might not agree.”
I looked over at Mrs. Brocklebank. I had never heard her talk like this before. Maybe she didn’t really like Grandfather Brocklebank. Maybe she didn’t want to be with him forever. “Did you have a fight with Grandfather Brocklebank before he died?” I asked.
Mrs. Brocklebank was looking at the temple too. I could tell by her eyes that she liked it just as much as I did.
“We had one or two while he was alive,” she said in a sad voice. “I guess that maybe sometimes I’m not a very easy person to get along with.”
I didn’t want to agree with Mrs. Brocklebank, but I didn’t want to disagree with her either, so I didn’t say anything.
“I suppose that they’re all ready to begin in there,” she said after a moment.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, open the car door, then,” she snapped. “What are you waiting for!”
I got dressed in white clothes, then waited for two hours while the grownups went through the temple. They told me that I wasn’t allowed to do everything with them until I was older. I waited in a room where there were a lot of Church books and some Church videos. After a while I got tired of watching the videos, so I found some paper and made a paper airplane. I didn’t fly it, though. I didn’t think that Heavenly Father would want me to fly a paper airplane inside the temple. Finally a lady came and took me to a room upstairs. Dad and Mom were there, and so was Mrs. Brocklebank. I looked into the mirror on one wall and saw a mirror just like it on the opposite wall. I could see a whole bunch of me going off into the distance. I tried to look past myself to see how far I went, but every time I moved my head, the row of me in the mirrors moved their heads too.
A man dressed in a white suit came in and shook my hand and told me that he was President Spackman, the president of the Alberta Temple. He had a kind face and eyes that sparkled. He stood in front of us and talked about marriage, and I decided right then that when I grow up, I’m going to get married in the temple. Then he told Mom and Dad to kneel at the altar, and he sealed them so that they would never be apart. Then they all turned and looked at me.
“Come here, please, Kenneth,” President Spackman said.
I knelt beside Mom and Dad, and we joined hands on top of the altar. Their hands felt warm and strong. I don’t remember everything that was said, because I was too nervous, but I remember the part about me belonging to Mom and Dad from now on. After it was over, we all stood up; then it was Mrs. Brocklebank’s turn.
Things were a bit confusing because Grandfather Brocklebank was already dead, which meant that my dad had to take his place. Dad was pleased about it, though. I watched as Mrs. Brocklebank knelt at the altar and took his hand. Suddenly I realized that there was something that I wanted to say to my grandmother. I wanted to tell her that I knew now that everything was going to be all right. I knew that Grandfather Brocklebank wanted to be with her. He wanted to be with her because that was the way it was meant to be. Sometimes people in families get mad at each other, but that isn’t important. What’s important is that families are together. I held up my arm and waved to get her attention. She looked up into my eyes and smiled at me. All the Mrs. Brocklebanks in the mirrors smiled too. I realized that I didn’t have to tell her anything at all. She already knew.

Parents and church leaders play an important part in molding our children and youth to become valiant missionaries. The things they learn will help them as they serve because
a mission is not a bed of roses. Challenges and trials are part of the missionary experience, as experienced by Brother Gym Vergel Ramos from Binmaley, Pangasinan.

Gym was 8 years old when he joined the Church in 2010 together with his entire family. He was called to the Philippines Butuan Mission and was supposed to enter the Missionary Training Center in June 2020, but it was postponed due to the lockdown. He underwent virtual MTC and was reassigned to his home mission, the Philippines Urdaneta Mission. On September 21, 2020, two days before he was supposed to report to the Urdaneta Mission home, his paternal grandfather, Fernando Ramos, passed away. His nonmember relatives could not understand why he wouldn’t postpone his mission any further to stay and grieve with the rest of their clan.

After 11 months of service in the field, he learned that his father Virgilio passed away due to Covid19. His area was a few towns away from their home, but his mother counselled him against going home, telling him to stay focused on his work as a missionary. His mission president gave the same advice, and he stayed put and continued to serve. Two months later, Elder Ramos learned that his maternal grandparents Efren and Julieta Manalo passed away one day apart. Despite all the loss, he soldiered on and gave his best as a missionary.

“Death is inevitable and the gospel is true,” says Gym Vergel, who honorably finished his mission last June 2022. “I don’t have any regrets. Heartaches are a part of life and learning. Because of the trials I experienced during my mission, I grew closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. The atonement became more meaningful and gave me strength whenever I felt sad.”

Gym also said he learned to rejoice in the promise of the resurrection. It gave him hope, not just in coping with the loss of family members but also in becoming a better person so he can be strong for his mother and siblings. The tragedy they experienced made them closer and stronger as a family.

Looking back at his mission, Gym is grateful for who he has become. He is blessed not just by the things he learned but also by the people he met. Friends who are now like family continue to help and support him as he works hard to gain an education and at the same time stay on the covenant path.

Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.

But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

One of the most positive changes people see is the love and respect members of the Church have for one another. In New Caledonia’s sometimes uneasy mix of cultures, Church members’ example of unity shines. Brother Gaya tells of a time in 1984 and 1985 when the political climate in New Caledonia became tense: “New Caledonia’s native population, the Kanaks, or at least the political party representing them, were pressing for independence. The French wanted to remain citizens of France. So we had two political parties fighting each other.” The fighting sometimes became violent.
“In 1986 some people from the French government visited us and asked what was the Church’s position—‘Does the Church want the country to have its independence, or does it want the country to remain a territory of France?’ I said, ‘We leave political discussion out of our meetings. What we want is to be near the Lord. We want to keep His commandments—to love Him and to love our neighbor. We are not just French or Polynesian or Melanesian. We are first and foremost members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“I think there was only one church in the whole country in which all the communities could worship together at the same time and not have problems, and that was the LDS Church. When a European became the leader, the Polynesians and Melanesians followed him. When a Melanesian became the leader, everyone followed him.”

The story is told that in ancient Rome a group of women were, with vanity, showing their jewels one to another. Among them was Cornelia, the mother of two boys. One of the women said to her, “And where are your jewels?” to which Cornelia responded, pointing to her sons, “These are my jewels.” Under her tutelage, and walking after the virtues of her life, they grew to become [great men] Gaius and Tiberius Gracchus … two of the most persuasive and effective reformers in Roman history. … Said Isaiah of old, “All thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children” (Isa. 54:13).
I humbly pray for that peace in behalf of all children.
When you learn about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, it brings peace to your heart. It helps you to know that you can keep the commandments and do what is right. Remember to think of Them often, and remember that They love you.

When my older brother Andy passed away from bone cancer at age 15, I felt like a part of me also died. The week after Andy’s death, I felt sick. I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Andy and I never got along. I was the one Andy always picked on. In response to his endless teasing, I did my best to be the most annoying little brother around. So why did I feel so horrible when Andy wasn’t here anymore?
At night I spent hours tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling. Thoughts of Andy kept going through my mind. My 12th birthday would be in a few days. I wasn’t a baby anymore, but after a short prayer, I felt Mom would know what to do.
Mom didn’t know what to say. She had lost a son a few days before. I could tell by her bloodshot eyes and sad face that she wasn’t too excited about my new problem. “We’ll visit the doctor tomorrow morning. Okay, Steve?”
Morning came. My brothers and sister went to school while Mom and I left to see Dr. Freestone. I had visited the doctor’s office several times; the visits were not good memories. I looked around the room uneasily. Finally the doctor came.
“Hi, Steven, what seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I have headaches, and sometimes I can’t breathe at night,” I mumbled.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asked.
“It’s been about a week,” I answered slowly.
He conducted his examination and asked many questions. After several tests, the doctor sat down. He studied his notes and then looked at me for a few seconds before he spoke. “Steven, I can’t find anything wrong with you,” he said. “You say you’ve had headaches though?”
I nodded.
“What have you been thinking about when you get these headaches?” he asked.
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Well, I am usually thinking about Andy.”
“Do you miss Andy?”
I had to nod. I couldn’t speak, and my eyes had turned into waterfalls. Mom also started to cry. Dr. Freestone, getting a little teary himself, said something I’ll never forget.
“You know, Steven, Andy loves you. And just because you can’t see him anymore doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Andy is happy where he is right now, and I know he wants you to be happy too.”
Everything he said made perfect sense to me. I needed to remember that I didn’t really lose my brother. He would still be with me in spirit. Mom put her arm around me as we said thank you to Dr. Freestone, wiped our tears, and went on our way.
I had always believed in the plan of salvation, but at that moment it became real to me. I would see Andy again.
I had never even thought I liked Andy, but as soon as he was gone, I missed him more than anything.
I slept that night knowing that Andy loved me and wanted me to be happy—just as he was.

Mom! Dad! On Saturday can we …
… go to the rocks and minerals show?
… go to the horse show?
I really want to find a cool new rock for my collection.
I could take my sketchpad to draw the horses.
Remember, we decided we’d spend this Saturday together. But after our chores, we’ll only have time for one activity.
Why don’t you two work out a solution?
We could flip a coin, but if I lose, I’m gonna be really bored at the horse show.
Yeah, I feel the same about the rock show. … Hey! Let’s find something we both like to do!
I don’t think Mom would let us eat cupcakes all afternoon.
I’ve got an idea! That movie we’ve been wanting to see is at the dollar theater now.
Brilliant!

It was almost Christmas, and my apartment was the only one with lights on.
My friends were scattered all over Europe, and my immediate family was celebrating together in Finland. And here I was, alone in a little apartment in England, tears rolling down my cheeks, a letter in hand.
But I wasn’t crying because I was lonely—these were happy tears. The letter was from one of my closest friends, and it got me thinking about all the good times we had when we were younger. I had no idea that all those moments would mean so much to me in the future.
There have been times in my life when I’ve felt like the loneliest person in the world because of depression, wondering if I would ever find friends who would love me.
When I was a teenager in Finland, I had the coolest group of Church friends that I sometimes took for granted. But then we grew up, slowly drifting apart without really noticing, until we barely spoke at all.
After this, I fell into a deep depression. Losing closeness with these friends made me feel like a burden. I wanted to reach out to them, but I told myself it would be selfish to drag them into my misery. So I lived in isolation and only dug myself out of my self-made hole of sadness (my bed) when I had to keep up my façade that everything was fine.
Despite getting professional help and taking antidepressant medications, I was still miserable and lonely when summer came. I was desperately seeking for ways to talk to people, and I became even more anxious because I felt like I was so bad at it. But when I heard about a summer school program at my university, I applied simply to force myself out of my apartment.
On the first day, I participated in one group activity and then quickly slipped away to cry at home.
But I had been trying to get better for too long to give up that easily. So I went back.
I didn’t know how to make conversation, and I was stressed about getting to know these strangers. But I knew I had to try. I refused to be alone any longer.
When I felt self-conscious and afraid, I reminded myself that we are all children of heavenly parents. We may all seem very different because of our varying backgrounds and lifestyles, but we all come from the same place. And that can bring us together.
Slowly and steadily, my teammates and I got to know each other. We would hang out in our free time, and then one day we ended up sitting on my apartment floor playing cards and eating cake that we had baked together.
I wanted to open my window in that moment and scream, “I did it!” These friendships were miracles in my life.
When I connected with these friends, combatting my depression became a lot easier. I even opened up about my mental health to them. And it turned out that most of them had similar struggles to mine. Many of them were going through difficult things and confided in me because I opened up first. Being vulnerable brought me closer to others and gave me the strength, hope, and support I needed to heal.
In the fall, I ended up moving to England as an exchange student, and I had to start all over again with making new friends. But this time I was confident that I could do it.
When I was in the colorless depths of depression, I struggled to feel God’s love and His Spirit. But by showing love and service and making deep friendships, I was able to accept the Savior’s healing power and bring His light back into my life.
Depression can make life difficult at times, but it also teaches me how to realign myself with God’s plan and gives me great purpose in loving and connecting with others and myself.
Spending Christmas so far away from home would have once sounded unimaginably lonely. But knowing and trusting that God provides all that I need to make connections and find peace—no matter where I find myself on this planet—I know I don’t have to feel that old loneliness again.

We answered that a quorum is a group of priesthood holders who rely on each other and stick together. The instructor explained that quorum members have a responsibility to help and lift each other. He then showed us a video about a ward in Florida that started with just one young man who invited his friend, who then invited a friend, who then invited a cousin, etc., until there were 26 active young men in the ward.

World War II had just ended, and most people in Germany had very little food or money. My birthday was coming up just a few weeks before Christmas. I did not expect to receive any Christmas or birthday presents, knowing quite well—even as a young girl—that our parents were struggling to meet our basic needs. In our big city, hunger was always present. It was a sad and dark time.
On the day of my birthday, to my surprise and delight, a wonderful present—just for me—was placed on the kitchen table. It was the most beautiful present I could have imagined: a tiny little Weihnachtsbaum, a Christmas tree, just one foot (30 cm) tall, covered with delicate handmade ornaments of tinfoil. The tinfoil reflected the light of our living room in an enchanting way. As I inspected the tinfoil ornaments, I realized with amazement that they were filled with small pieces of caramelized sugar. It was like a miracle. Where did my mother get the tiny evergreen tree, the tinfoil, and the rarity of sugar?
To this day, I do not know how she made this miracle happen at a time when none of those precious things was available. It remains in my heart as a symbol of my parents’ deep love for me, as a symbol of hope, love, and the true meaning of Christmas.
During the Christmas season, we still have in our home a Christmas tree, now decorated with electrical lights and ornaments of every variety. When we are together with our children and grandchildren, the beauty of the tree and the sparkling of the lights warm my heart and bring back sweet memories of a happy family moment that came from a tiny tree with shiny tinfoil ornaments.

For Nepali families, drinking tea with milk first thing in the morning is an ingrained tradition. In every home and every tiny shop along every narrow street, small stoves brew tea. To begin to follow the Word of Wisdom has been difficult for many of these young converts.
When Deepak Shrestha’s older brother, who was the first missionary to serve from Nepal, told him the Church was the greatest thing in the world, Deepak was interested. Then his brother challenged him to live the Word of Wisdom. Deepak quickly felt the wisdom of this advice because “it affects the future.” The result of that decision has been the start of Deepak’s strong and continually growing testimony of the gospel.

Before their move to Broken Hill, the Kowalski family lived in Ipswich, Queensland, on Australia’s east coast. It’s a nearly tropical area, green and lush and close to some of the finest beaches in the world.
Then Jared’s dad took a job as a dentist for one of the mining companies, and the Kowalskis moved to Broken Hill. In the middle of nowhere. Or at least on the edge of nowhere. And Jared couldn’t be happier.
To some, the red, sandy soil of the outback may be a poor trade for the golden beaches near Ipswich. But to Jared, the snakes and odd lizards and other creatures of the outback are fascinating. In addition to the dogs and fish and other pets that any family might have, Jared has a small backyard menagerie with a bearded dragon lizard, a shingle-back lizard, turtles, finches, and quails—oh, and his carpet python, Monty.
Jared’s interest in animals goes even further. On some Saturdays, he helps the local veterinarian in his surgery, handing him instruments. “I thought it would be interesting,” he says, “so I asked if I could help.”
And if Jared could travel, where would he go? He doesn’t have to think that one over for long. “The Amazon rain forest,” he says. “There’s all those interesting plants and animals. That’s where I’d like to serve my mission, too. I think the people there would be interesting as well.” As much as Jared likes animals, you find when you talk to him that his greatest appreciation is for people.
A good prospector must look beyond the surface of the rocks to see the treasures they might hide. Jared’s that way with people. When you ask him if he feels isolated here in Broken Hill, he says, “I like it. There are some good members here. The best ones are old. They’ve got a lot to tell you. Most of them are really spiritual.”
The branch in Broken Hill is small, and Jared is the oldest Aaronic Priesthood bearer. He’s conscious of the example he has to set for the younger boys, to show his brothers and the other boys “the right things to do.” And the priesthood itself? “It just feels good. You feel special—a lot more confident when you have to do hard things, like tests at school.”
One of those right things to do is home teaching. “I like to home teach,” Jared says. With his senior companion, Lee Robertson, Jared visits five families, offering the prayer when asked. Jared likes people, and home teaching helps him get to know these families better. (It doesn’t hurt that Brother Robertson is also an outdoorsman. He and Jared sometimes talk about hunting wild pigs in the bush, and Jared is looking forward to getting his own compound bow, maybe doing some hunting himself.)
Jared has struck it rich in Broken Hill, all right, but he would also be the first to admit that he brought his greatest treasure with him. The Kowalski home on Cobalt Street is modest, but it’s filled with family and love. As Jared puts it, “We have heaps of fun. We have family home evening, go to the movies. I go camping with my dad.”
The family also reads the Book of Mormon together. Sometimes it makes Jared feel inspired; sometimes it’s hard to understand. But it does help contribute to his growing testimony. “I’ve already got a big testimony of prayer,” he says.
When Jared’s mission call comes a few years from now, it may not be to the jungles of the Amazon. But you know that wherever he goes, he’s going to be happy and successful.
Some people look at a place and think of it as nowhere. Then a guy like Jared comes along and turns it into his own personal somewhere. Like those first prospectors, Jared has found a vein of treasure. He’s rich in the best possible way.

Cut down on television time. We found that even though watching television is relaxing, it doesn’t give us quality time as a family. We decided not to watch television between the time Dad comes home from work and when the children go to bed. After we got used to having the television off, we were surprised at how much interaction we had as a family. We began communicating and feel closer to each other than we used to.

I was baptized in May 2016. My first year of seminary started later that year. I was skeptical at first, and I wasn’t ready to get up early, but I was prompted to go. I was still a little unsure about recognizing the voice of the Spirit, but being in seminary has helped me recognize that voice. Through the Spirit, I’m able to know the scriptures are true. I know that the Spirit prompts me to highlight scriptures with meaning and that there’s always a reason. The scriptures guide me when I’m lost, and they teach me. Whenever I’m having a bad day, I can open them up and make my day better.
Shelby L., age 16, Montana, USA

As a young missionary, I spent three Christmases in Tonga. Christmas there was the hottest, most humid season of the year, but the spirit of the holiday was the same.
People thought more about others and less about themselves. There was lots of music and singing, and the feeling of peace and good cheer seemed to permeate everything.
There was not a lot of physical gift giving, since there weren’t a lot of things to give. But people gave marvelous gifts of love, service, and kindness.
A few days before Christmas, a nine-year-old granddaughter, who had come to spend the holiday with her grandparents, developed a high fever. They spent all their time caring for her, but the fever seemed to get worse. They called for the missionaries to give her a blessing. We did, and felt prompted to tell her everything would be all right. Then we went on about our other activities.
The day before Christmas, I was visiting various families with a teacher from the local Church school. As we concluded our visits, I asked him where else we should go that Christmas Eve. He said, “I’ve heard ‘Ofa’s granddaughter is still doing poorly, and the grandfather is out of town. I’m sure ‘Ofa is very tired. Why don’t we volunteer to watch her granddaughter tonight and let ‘Ofa get some rest?”
I thought, What a great idea! Why don’t I think of things like that?
It was early evening when we arrived at ‘Ofa’s house. As we explained what we wanted to do, I saw gratitude in her eyes. ‘Ofa looked at us a long time and then said, “She is very ill. I have been up day and night the last three days. I’m not sure I can make it another night. Thank you. Thank you!”
She then explained she’d been using a cloth dipped in water and a woven fan to cool her granddaughter and give her some air. All the girl had done for the last two days was moan.
“I’m not sure if she will get well or not,” ‘Ofa said. “Maybe I should try to stay up and help.”
My companion said, “No, you go on and rest. We’ll fan her and cool her forehead and she’ll be all right. You go get some sleep.” ‘Ofa finally left. I imagine she was asleep the second she got to her room.
We immediately started waving the fan and cooling the girl’s forehead. She seemed in a bad way. Her breathing was strange, her fever high, her eyes closed, and her moans pathetic.
We devised a system where one would hold the wet cloth and the other fan the air through it to get some moist air moving around her mouth and head. It doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety of the situation, the sweltering evening, and the effort to get water, rinse the cloth, and constantly wave the fan, caused us both to soon tire. I appreciated what ‘Ofa had been through the last few days.
There was an old wind-up clock where we were. Around 11:00 P.M. we realized we were going to have to do something different to make it through the night. My companion again came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we take turns?” he said. “You sleep for an hour. Then I’ll wake you and you care for her for an hour while I sleep. Then you wake me, and so on. We’ll get through the night that way.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who should start?”
“I’ll start,” he replied. “You rest first.” At midnight he woke me and I fanned with one hand and sponged her forehead with the other until 1:00 A.M. Then I woke him. He did likewise and woke me at 2:00 A.M. I, again, woke him at 3:00 A.M. I knew I would be awakened for my next turn at 4:00 A.M. I was very tired, but felt we would make it through the night all right.
The next thing I remember is sunlight streaming into my eyes. I suddenly awakened, jumped up, and said, “My goodness! What time is it?”
“It’s six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock! Why didn’t you wake me at four?” I asked.
He smiled broadly, a smile that came from deep within and seemed to encompass his whole being as he said, “Oh, you looked so tired. I decided to let you sleep. That’s my present to you. Merry Christmas!”
I couldn’t say anything. Again I thought, Why don’t I think of things like that? My companion stayed up for me! I thought of the Savior coming to his sleeping disciples and asking, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” (Matt 26:40). The Savior stayed up nearly all night performing one of the greatest works this world will ever know, while those close to him slept.
I felt a little ashamed, yet I also felt happy, as I could see the joy in my companion’s face. He hadn’t been able to give me anything else for Christmas. There was, literally, nothing material for him to give. But what he could give, he had given freely, just by letting me sleep.
I wonder how many of us, in our Christmas giving and our giving all year long, think of not just exchanging material possessions, but of giving of ourselves, fully and freely. True giving comes from the heart, not the wallet.
Sometime during those early morning hours, the girl’s semidelirious moaning ceased, her fever broke, and we could tell the crisis was over. She stirred and opened her eyes.
We waited until midmorning and then knocked on the door to wake up ‘Ofa. She responded quickly, possibly expecting the worst. As she came out on the porch, her granddaughter was there, sitting with us. We were all smiles as we said in unison, “Merry Christmas!”

One beautiful spring day, I heard a knock at my front door—then another and another. It sounded like the knocks came from little hands.
Dropping a basket of clean laundry on the couch, I opened the door. There stood Wade, Savannah, Mace, and Zane. At once they began showering me with questions: “Is it OK if we pull the weeds in your garden?” “May Mom and Dad trim your bushes?” “What color are your favorite flowers?”
For a moment I stood there speechless. Then I asked, “Would you like to come in to visit?”
The children smiled up at me. “Oh, no,” they said. “We’re not here to visit. We’re here to help you!”
The children showed me the tools they had brought. “May we get started?” they asked. “We will be careful of your purple flowers.”
Soon eight little helping hands were busy at work as four happy voices filled the air. All day long they worked, pulling weeds and planting flowers.
What a beautiful example of love and service those children set for me. I will always remember their kindness—and the gorgeous marigolds they planted in my garden with their little helping hands.

During the time I was a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to be president of the quorum. With the urging and assistance of a dedicated and inspired quorum adviser, I worked diligently to ensure that each of the young men attended our meetings regularly. Two of them were a particular challenge, but with our perseverance and love and a little persuasion, they began to attend meetings and participate in quorum activities. However, as time passed and they left the ward to pursue education and employment, each of them drifted back into inactivity.
Over the years I have seen each of these two dear friends at various functions. Whenever I do, I place a hand on their shoulder and remind them, “I’m still your quorum president, and I won’t let go. You mean so much to me, and I want you to enjoy the blessings which come with activity in the Church.” They know I love them and that I’ll never ever give up on them.

In the private sanctuary of one’s own conscience lies that spirit, that determination to cast off the old person and to measure up to the stature of true potential. But the way is rugged, and the course is strenuous. So discovered John Helander from Goteborg, Sweden. John is handicapped, and it is difficult for him to coordinate his motions.
At a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, John took part in a 1,500-meter running race. He had no chance to win. Rather, his was the opportunity to be humiliated, mocked, derided, scorned. Perhaps John remembered another who lived long ago and far away. Wasn’t He mocked? Wasn’t He derided? Wasn’t He scorned? But He prevailed. He won His race. Maybe John could win his.
What a race it was. Struggling, surging, pressing, the runners bolted far beyond John. There was wonderment among the spectators. Who is this runner who lags so far behind? The participants on their second lap of this two-lap race passed John while he was but halfway through the first lap. Tension mounted as the runners pressed toward the tape. Who would win? Who would place second? Then came the final burst of speed; the tape was broken. The crowd cheered; the winner was proclaimed.
The race was over—or was it? Who is this contestant who continues to run when the race is ended? He crosses the finish line on but his first lap. Doesn’t the foolish lad know he has lost? Ever onward he struggles, the only participant now on the track. This is his race. This must be his victory. No one among the vast throng of spectators leaves. Every eye is on this valiant runner. He makes the final turn and moves toward the finish line. There is awe; there is admiration. Every spectator sees himself running his own race of life. As John approaches the finish line, the audience, as one, rises to its feet. There is a loud applause of acclaim. Stumbling, falling, exhausted but victorious, John Helander breaks the newly tightened tape. (Officials are human beings, too.) The cheering echoes for miles. And just maybe, if the ear is carefully attuned, the Lord can be heard to say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” (Matt. 25:21).

My wife and I have tried to teach the values of work and service to our children. All seven sons—one was a foster child who came to live with us when he was a teenager—and our daughter worked at my lumber company as they were growing up. And one of the Christmas traditions that we started many years ago is still carried out each year by the entire family, including grandchildren: On the Monday before each Christmas, we take homebaked gifts and visit old friends and the widows in the neighborhood where I grew up.

At one time, Ben, Jr., and Brad, my two oldest boys, belonged to a Japanese Scout troop because our ward didn’t have a Scout troop. One day the Scoutmaster took the boys on a hike in the Zion Narrows in southern Utah. Their progress was slower than anticipated. Concerned that the park officials whom they had checked in with would be worried about them, the Scoutmaster asked my sons and a couple of other boys to hike ahead by themselves and let the park officials know that everyone was OK. The boys took a wrong turn into a dead-end canyon and didn’t know what to do. The other boys were not Latter-day Saints, but they turned to Ben and said, “Maybe you’re the one who ought to pray for us to help us get out of here.” After he offered a prayer, Ben said, “Let’s go,” and they turned and walked out without any problem. How grateful I was that my children had learned to pray, that they had faith in that prayer, and that our Father in Heaven would help them find their way safely out of the canyon.

My message to children is: Follow the counsel of your parents, and know how much they love you. Know the value of having good friends. Choose good friends with the same high standards and values that you have.

Sarah gulped down the last bite of toast and took a last swallow of milk before she grabbed her books and ran out the door. If the kitchen clock was right, she’d be late for school again, and her good citizenship grade would fly right out the window.

Until recently Mom had always awakened her by shouting, “Sarah, if you don’t get up this minute, you’ll be late for school!” But since Mom had had to start working and had to leave for the office so early, Sarah had only herself to rely on. If she were to grade her own efforts at good citizenship so far, she’d give herself an F.

That’s what Mrs. Buskirk said she was going to give her, too, if she was late one more time. The teacher had already sent a citizenship report home, and Dad had lectured Sarah about her deportment. “Your mother has accepted the additional responsibility of a job,” Dad had told her firmly, “and there’s no excuse for you not to accept the responsibility of getting yourself to school on time.”

Sarah shoved her bike out of the garage and pedaled down the driveway, adjusting her book bag on her shoulders as she went. She tore down Highland Avenue and turned onto Main Street.

As she rode along, she wondered why the biggest grade school and the only junior high school in town were built next to one another right on the city’s busiest street. Even though there was a sidewalk and a wide shoulder on the road, riding a bike in the morning traffic wasn’t easy.

Sarah passed the bank and glanced at the big clock inside. Only seven minutes until the tardy bell rings, she thought. The lights will have to be with me the restof the way if I’m going to make it. If they weren’t, she’d better forget about being captain of the volleyball team for the year, because no one with citizenship grades below a C was eligible. And she knew what would happen at home—no movies and no television.

Volleyball was Sarah’s whole life. Her grades were sort of ho-hum, but she could play volleyball quite well. When she practiced her spikes on the court and knew that the other kids were watching, she wanted to throw her arms around the world and hug it. Oh, if she lost that feeling, she’d just die!

Pedalling harder, Sarah welcomed the cool morning air that stung her cheeks as she approached Washington Avenue. Nearing the intersection, she saw that the cars were backed up, waiting for the light to change. Come on lights. Be on my side, she agonized.

The lights changed, yet nothing happened. The cars weren’t moving. Oh, no! Now what? she wondered. What she didn’t need was an accident on this corner so that the cars would be backed up in every direction.

Sarah pulled to a stop as far into the intersection as she dared. Then she saw the problem: A little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, had wheeled her bike into the center of the crossing. When the lights had changed, she had stopped, probably wondering if she should continue or go back. Now several drivers honked, anxious for her to move out of the way. Sarah watched as the little girl looked uncertainly from the cars on Main Street to the cars on Washington Avenue. Then her lunch box slid from her grasp and fell to the pavement. The lid opened and an orange rolled over to the curb.

Sarah fidgeted. While all the drivers were busy watching the little girl, maybe she could try to make it across the street against the red light.

Cautiously she looked around for a policeman but found only the faces of angry motorists. They were frowning and tapping their steering wheels; some shouted out their windows.

If they’re so anxious to get going, Sarah wondered, why doesn’t somebody do something? Why doesn’t someone act responsible and help the kid across the street?

As Sarah watched, the little girl tried to reach her lunch box while still holding her bicycle upright. But her arms just weren’t long enough.

Why doesn’t somebody do something? Sarah thought again. Then she realized that she was somebody!

Sarah lifted her bike up onto the parkway grass and laid it down. After shrugging off her book bag, she hurried over to the little girl. As Sarah neared her, she could see tears rolling down the child’s cheeks.

Good-bye volleyball, Sarah thought as she picked up the books and lunch box and guided the little girl across the street. Who wants to be captain, anyway? There are other things in life. Maybe next year …

After Sarah put the little girl’s bike up on the sidewalk, she bent over to look at her. The younger child’s face was blotchy and covered with leftover tears. Sarah handed her a tissue. “I’ll get my bike, and we’ll ride the rest of the way together, OK?”

Inside, Sarah felt the same warm rush of emotions that she did when she served or spiked for the volleyball team.