Gospel Story Finder

In stark contrast, I share the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him and their other children in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming as an activity that could instill in his character these qualities. The early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.
Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? To help his team win the championship, would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was peppered with derisive comments, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know, the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy: “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Tim. 3:12). I have observed how over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is respected by his peers for his capacity to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a leader of his peers.

Like some of you, I know what it is to face disappointment and youthful humiliation. As a boy, I played team softball in elementary and junior high school. Two captains were chosen, and then they, in turn, selected the players they desired on their teams. Of course, the best players were chosen first, then second and third. To be selected fourth or fifth was not too bad, but to be chosen last and relegated to a remote position in the outfield was downright awful. I know. I was there.

How I hoped that the ball would never be hit in my direction, for surely I would drop it, runners would score, and teammates would laugh.

As though it were just yesterday, I remember the moment when all that changed in my life. The game started out as I have described: I was chosen last. I made my sorrowful way to the deep pocket of right field and watched as the other team filled the bases with runners. Two batters then went down on strikes. Suddenly, the next batter hit a mighty drive. The ball was coming in my direction. Was it beyond my reach? I raced for the spot where I thought the ball would drop, uttered a silent prayer as I ran, and stretched forth my cupped hands. I surprised myself. I caught the ball! My team won the game.

This one experience bolstered my confidence, inspired my desire to practice, and led me from that last-to-be-chosen place to become a real contributor to the team.

Early one evening I walked into the kitchen where my parents were, and almost instantly I could tell that something was wrong. They had their heads bowed together in conversation.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking it was nothing more than a leaky faucet.
“Kristen, Mrs. Johnson called today,” my mother began, her voice soft and gentle. Mrs. Johnson had been our friend and neighbor in Ohio, before we moved.
“Honey, remember when you used to baby-sit for the Herrera children? After we moved, the doctors discovered that Mrs. Herrera had a brain tumor that was in a place that couldn’t be operated on. By the time they found it she only had three months left to live. She died a little while ago.” I could tell that Mom was trying to break the news gently because she knew how much I had liked their family, especially Mrs. Herrera.
I nodded my head and half ran, half stumbled out of the kitchen. Once I was safely hidden in my room, I flopped down on my bed and the tears came. I thought of her children and how they were too young to be without a mother. I could remember nights that I baby-sat for them, when they would pretend to be asleep, but the moment their mom walked through the door they would jump out of bed and run to her.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared angrily up at the ceiling. It seemed so unfair that Heavenly Father would allow a mother to be taken away, especially from four small children who needed her so much.
Finally, in search of some comfort, I picked up my scriptures and flipped through the pages until three verses in the Doctrine and Covenants caught my eye. “And all they who have mourned shall be comforted. And all they who have given their lives for my name shall be crowned. Therefore, let your hearts be comforted concerning Zion; for all flesh is in mine hands; be still and know that I am God” (D&C 101:14–16).
It was exactly what I needed to read, and it had been there all along in my scriptures. I’d always heard that the scriptures would help me in my life, but I never really understood how until that day. Throughout my life I know that I will have many challenges and obstacles that I must overcome, but now I will remember where to look when I am in need of comfort.

I thought about the summer we took Annabelle on vacation with us because we couldn’t find anyone to take care of her. It was the time we went to California to visit my Aunt Lee and Uncle Virgil. We drove through Utah on the way. It was night when we went through Salt Lake City, so we got a motel room to stay in. Mom and Jessica stayed there while Dad and I went to get us all something to eat. The man at the motel said we could let Annabelle stay in our room with us, but I wanted to take her with us in the car. She loved seeing the city lights, and I had fun watching her eyes get big and round when she got excited.
It was hot that night, so we rolled our car windows partway down. We were looking at all the lit-up places and stuff, when Dad had to jam on his brakes because the car right in front of us had stopped suddenly. Our car kind of jumped, and it scared Annabelle so much that she leaped out the window. We could see her run across the sidewalk and through the entrance to Temple Square. Dad pulled over near the curb so that I could get out and run after her. He said he’d hurry to find a parking place, then come help me find her.
The temple grounds were really pretty. Even the shadows were pretty because they were stuffed with flowers. I had to keep thinking about finding Annabelle, because my eyes kept wanting to look at other things, like the temple walls, which seemed as tall as the night. Then I glimpsed something that I just couldn’t keep from staring at. It was a big statue of the Savior, all lighted up in the night like a happy end to a sad story. I could see it through a huge window in the Visitors’ Center. I knew a little about Jesus from the Bible stories Mom and Dad read me. And there was something about that statue that made me want to know more. A feeling. A feeling about the whole place that felt as warm as the night.
I looked up through the trees at the statue as I walked closer and closer, and when I got as close as I could get, I heard a cat meow. I looked down. Annabelle was sitting right by my feet. Then Dad appeared, out of breath from running. “All’s well that ends well, huh, Caleb?” he said. I guess I didn’t say anything, because he knelt down in front of me and asked, “Is everything all right?” When I pointed up at the big statue, he gazed at it for a long time. “It’s … beautiful … , isn’t it, son?” he said in a way I hadn’t heard since the day he told me how much he loves Mom.
“Can we come back tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Caleb. Aunt Lee is expecting us to—”
“I like the feeling here, Dad. I’d like Mom and Jessica to feel it too. Maybe we could look around in some of these buildings. And maybe we could look at the statue close up. It’s like Annabelle ran in here so that we’d come in here and … , well, …”
Dad petted Annabelle, whose eyes were big and bright in the temple ground light. Then he smiled. “I guess we are on vacation, aren’t we?”
The next morning we left Annabelle in our motel room and went to visit Temple Square. We stayed almost the whole day. Mom and Dad asked a lot of questions and told a man in the Visitors’ Center that they’d like to know more. Then, a little while after our vacation was over, two missionaries came to our home in Springfield. And a little while after that, we were all baptized into the Church.

On June 10, 1953, my wife and I had the privilege of being married in the Salt Lake Temple. After President Harold B. Lee, then an apostle, concluded the beautiful ceremony, he had us stand in the center of the sealing room. Looking to the left into the mirrors that reflect off one another to show hundreds of images, he said, “On the left are the eternities you came from, and on the right the eternities to which you are going.” We looked and could see our images. Then he brought our thoughts back to the sealing room where we were and said, “This is like the world. It is but one step to all the eternities.” We were lovingly advised to stay true to the commitments of chastity, to obey the law of sacrifice and the law of consecration whereby we give all of our time, talents, and everything with which we are blessed to the service of the Lord. Then he said, “Make sure you understand that an argument never solves problems. As you stand here today, commit yourselves to having and expressing love and appreciation for each other.” It was a great teaching moment in our lives that we have never forgotten.

The tardy bell rang just as I ran through the front door of the seminary building. Quickly, I slid into my seat, the third desk back on the first row, expecting another ordinary day in fifth period and not the memorable experience I was about to have.
“I’d like to welcome you all here today,” our teacher began. He said that every day, but we all knew he meant what he said. He was affectionately known as Brother C., and it was his genuine concern for each of his students that made this class of impatient ninth graders put aside their important conversations and daydreams to listen to him.
“Today we’re going to do something a little different,” he said. “I’ve prepared a special lesson centered around a concept President Kimball taught, and it starts with a very important question.
This should be a good change, I thought. I wonder what this important question is.
“Okay. Here is the question. What is the most important word?”
I sat up with a start. I knew someone was going to say boys, girls or something else ninth graders think about. I heard Brother C. call on someone.
“Kathy, what do you think is the most important word?” he asked.
“Um … um … boys!” she said, as the entire class became swallowed in laughter. Someone had to say that.
“All right, quiet down,” Brother C. said. “Let’s be serious.” Slowly, Tony raised his hand and said he thought families was an important word.
“That’s a good answer. Any other ideas?” questioned Brother C., as he sat down on the corner of his desk. “Let’s hear some response.”
David said, “I think love is the most important word because if we all love each other, then we’re happy.”
I liked his answer, and I was fascinated by the question. The class hour sped by as people were called on to tell what they thought the most important word was. Each time an answer was given, Brother C.’s kind voice said, “That’s a good answer, but it’s not the word I’m looking for.”
We went through what seemed like a thousand words: love, family, scriptures, prayer, faith, Christ, priesthood, prophet, resurrection, temple, and eternity. I began to wonder if there was really an answer. Finally, Brother C. looked at the clock.
“You’ve all given wonderful answers,” he said. “But the word I was looking for encompasses all of the beautiful words you’ve mentioned. The most important word is remember.”
“If you remember,” he said, “you won’t forget to pray. You won’t forget to serve or love. You will remember to read the scriptures. You will not forget your family and friends. You will remember to obey the prophet. You’ll keep in your heart the knowledge that Jesus Christ sacrificed his life for us, and you will love him as he loves you. You will remember why you came to this earth. And you will remember you are sons and daughters of God. You can return home to him if you remember to keep his commandments and live your lives the way he has asked.”
Then he bore his testimony and told us how much he loved us. We knew he did. I felt his love for me when I saw the twinkling smile in his eyes as he came over and shook my hand. I knew he loved me when he asked, “Will you remember?”
I almost told him yes, but just then the bell rang—but I remembered.
Most of the things I learned in seminary haven’t remained as vivid in my mind and heart as that lesson. But that lesson, and that day, I did not forget.
When temptations came, I remembered to get on my knees and pray. When I was discouraged and felt alone, I remembered that families can be forever. And no matter what crisis came, I remembered. I knew my Father in Heaven was near, and I knew he loved me.
But more important than anything else, I remembered who I was and why I was on earth. It kept me trying when I wanted to give up, and it helped me remember things like giving, learning, scriptures, and love.
Now, when I think of those important gospel truths which have become so precious to me, I also remember that day I ran in late to seminary. I am grateful for a caring, loving seminary teacher, and in my mind I see the twinkling smile in his eye as he shakes my hand. I hear him ask me if I remember, and I do. Will you?

I went into a hospital one day in New Zealand to bless a woman who didn’t belong to the Church. She was dying. We all knew she was dying. The doctor even said so. She was having her farewell party. Ah, that’s one thing I like about the natives. When you go they give you a farewell party. They all gather around. They send messages over to the other side. “When you get over there tell my mother I’m trying to do my best; I’m not so good, but I’m trying.” “Tell her to have a good room fixed for me when I get over there and plenty of fish, good meals.” My, it’s wonderful how they send you off. There they were, all gathered around this poor sister. She was about to be confined, and the doctor told her it would kill her. She was tubercular from head to foot.

I had with me an old native, almost ninety. She was his niece. He stood up at the head of the bed and he said, “Vera, you’re dead. You’re dead because the doctor says you’re dead. You’re on your way out. I’ve been to you, your home and your people—my relatives. I’m the only one that joined the Church. None of you has ever listened to me. You’re dead now; you’re going to live.” He turned to me and said, “Is it all right if we kneel down and pray?” I said, “Yes.” So we knelt down. Everybody around there knelt down, and after the prayer we blessed her. The last time I was in New Zealand she was physically well from head to foot and had had her fifth child. She has not joined the Church yet. That’s the next miracle I’m waiting for.

How would you like to read a book called The Boy Who Cried Eggplant? Or how about Grandma Whiskers and Lady Chicken Squeezer? Or Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Tweedledumber?

These are three of the many homemade books written and illustrated by Dexter and Quinlan Mann (10 and 8) of Winnipeg, Manitoba. All the books are funny, wise, and wildly creative—like the boys who wrote them.

Although Dexter and Quinlan share a whimsical sense of humor, they have different personalities. “Dexter jumps into things and is very outspoken,” Dad explains. “Quinlan is very thoughtful and philosophical.”

Dexter likes helping his mom bake—especially cookies. He also collects rocks, runs cross-country, and plays soccer at recess—even when the playground snow is deep. Quinlan, on the other hand, spent many recesses creating a play for his third-grade classmates to perform. Still, the brothers prefer doing things together. One snowy winter they built a huge snow fort in the front yard. It had several rooms and snow benches for resting.

These funny boys are serious about choosing the right and serving others. When their grandpa had cancer, they not only prayed for his recovery but also rolled up their sleeves and took care of his garden. They grew corn, cucumbers, broccoli, chili peppers, onions, peas, tomatoes, beets, some odd-looking carrots, and three pumpkins destined to become jack-o’-lanterns. The eggplants died, but nobody minded much, because Grandpa lived.

He has promised the boys that as each of them receives his mission call, he will buy them a 10-foot submarine sandwich to share. Now they can’t see a pickle or a slice of bologna without thinking of missionary work. They are already earning money for their missions by delivering flyers. By the time Dexter and Quinlan leave, their younger brothers, Heath (1) and Bailey (3 months) will be old enough to take over the flyer deliveries.

Looking ahead, Dexter announced one day that by the time Heath was old enough to be baptized, he, Dexter, would be a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood and could baptize his little brother. At this point, Quinlan jumped in and said, “Wait a minute. That means that when Bailey is eight, I’ll be old enough to baptize him!”

Mom laughs. “So Daddy has been bumped from the baptismal schedule.” But then she adds seriously, “I love the fact that at the ages of ten and eight they are already planning to be worthy priesthood holders.”

Quinlan and Dexter are the only Latter-day Saints in their school, but that doesn’t keep them from making good friends there. “They both know how to be loyal friends,” their mom says. Both boys are enthusiastic Scouts too. Dexter is a six-star Cub, and Quinlan has already earned four of his six stars. They have both earned their Religion in Life badges.

The Manns live disciplined lives. Quinlan and Dexter do most of their playing and book writing on Friday night and Saturday because weekdays are carefully scheduled. Homework starts right after dinner and is followed by chores. These include emptying the garbage, helping to tend Heath and Bailey, helping Mom with the laundry, and cleaning their rooms.

The boys attend a French-immersion school in which 75 percent of their class work is in French. French and English are the official languages of Canada, and speaking both will help them get good jobs someday.

Although the Mann family are serious about education and the gospel, they are not overly solemn. They are a laughing, game-playing, camping-out family. North of Winnipeg there are huge lakes and vast forests where they often set up their tent. They celebrate major holidays and family milestones at big dinners with their extended families and others who have been generously “adopted.” On Canada Day (July 1), the children bash away at a piñata filled with candy.

What are the boys most thankful for? They give the same answer: their family. “I feel 100 percent good about them all,” Dexter says. He stops and reconsiders. “Sometimes 99 percent,” he admits. He is an honest boy.

In Canada people often take off their shoes when they enter a home because there is so much wet weather outside. But it could also be a reminder that the home is a sacred place where love and laughter make a refuge from the world, a place where a child might feel equally comfortable reading scriptures or writing funny stories. The Mann home is that kind of place.

One day, I was playing a trivia game with two of my neighbors. In the game you draw a card and answer the question on it. If you answer correctly, you get to advance on the game board. I drew a card that asked this question: “One of the world’s major religions was established by a man named Joseph Smith. What is the common name for the members of this religion?” My two neighbors are not members of the Church, so they looked confused, but I had a big smile on my face. I knew the answer! I quickly said, “Mormons!” I was so surprised to read a card about my religion. I was very happy that I knew the right answer.

Now it was my turn to say if I was a full-tithe payer. I was about to say yes, but then I remembered that I had done some yard work last summer and hadn’t tithed the money I got for it. I had to tell the bishop no, I wasn’t a full-tithe payer.
The bishop asked me if I wanted to be a full-tithe payer. I said yes, I guess so. Then he asked if I had the money now. I pulled out my wallet and gave him what I had. It still wasn’t enough. Then I felt some pressed into my hand. It was my dad giving me the money needed to pay a full tithing. I looked at my dad and he said I could pay him back later. I gave the bishop the rest of my tithing, and he wrote down that I was a full-tithe payer. It was a pretty good feeling.

A few years ago, President Uchtdorf told a story of a large passenger jet with 257 people on board that left my homeland of New Zealand for a sightseeing flight over the Antarctica. Unknown to the pilots, someone had modified the flight coordinates by a mere two degrees. This error placed the aircraft 28 miles to the east of where the pilots assumed they were.

As they approached Antarctica, the pilots descended to a lower altitude to give the passengers a better look at the landscape. Although both were experienced pilots, neither had made this particular flight before, and they had no way of knowing that the incorrect coordinates had placed them directly in the path of Mount Erebus, an active volcano that rises from the frozen landscape to a height of more than 12,000 feet. As the pilots flew onward, the white snow and ice covering the volcano blended with the white clouds above, making it appear as though they were flying over flat ground. By the time the instruments sounded the warning that the ground was rising fast toward them, it was too late. The airplane crashed into the side of the volcano, killing everyone on board. It was a terrible tragedy brought on by a minor error-a matter of only a few degrees.

President Uchtdorf went onto explain how he taught this principle to young pilots by posing this question, “if you were to take off from an airport on the equator, intending to circumnavigate the globe, but your course was off by just one degree. By the time you returned to the same longitude, how far off course would you be? A few miles? A hundred miles? The answer is an error of only one degree would put you almost 500 miles off course.

President Uchtdorf concludes this analogy by stating, “Small errors and minor drifts away from the doctrine of the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring sorrowful consequences into our lives. It is therefore of critical importance that we become self-disciplined enough to make early and decisive corrections to get back on the right track and not wait or hope that errors will somehow correct themselves.”

Now here’s the key point President Uchtdorf makes that I would like you to try and remember, “The longer we delay corrective action, the larger the needed changes become, and the longer it takes to get back on the correct course-even to the point where disaster might be looming,”(Dieter F. Uchtdorf, A Matter Of A Few Degrees, April 2008 General Conference).

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon or in the White House, but somehow I knew those things were not within the realms of probability. At least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I don’t really remember standing out in anything, except maybe the rain. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought. She said getting through the school year without getting any C’s on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind. I thought of rewriting the school constitution or taking a petition around for people to sign, but I couldn’t think of what to change in the constitution or what to petition for.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know people’s names—everyone that I came in contact with on a regular basis—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or clique boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name that I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name, but I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.” Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.” I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.

Beth ran to the window. The car was pulling into the driveway.
“Mom!” called Beth. “Dad and Mark are here. I can’t wait to see Mark!”
Mom stood by Beth. “Remember, Beth. Your brother’s accident was very serious. He may seem different to you at first.”
The door opened. Dad pushed Mark in his wheelchair into the room. Beth’s smile faded. She hardly recognized Mark. His face was gaunt and pale, and a pink rash extended down to his neck. His shaven head was covered by a white bandage, and there was a black patch over one eye.
Beth choked back her tears. She forced herself to smile. “Welcome home, Mark,” she said.
Mark smiled slightly. He mumbled something, but Beth wasn’t sure of what he had said. Mom had warned her that Mark’s speech was difficult to understand now. Beth kept a smile plastered on her face, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t know what to say.
During the next few weeks, Beth saw little of Mom and Dad. When they weren’t tending to Mark at home, they were driving him back and forth to the hospital or clinic. There was physical therapy to help his muscles grow stronger, speech therapy to teach him to talk again, and occupational therapy to teach him to dress and feed himself. Mark also spent part of each day in a special education classroom.
One Thursday evening at dinner, Mark was especially clumsy. Beth watched as he lost his grip on his spoon, spilling soup all over his shirt. She looked away as he threw his spoon down and muttered angrily.
Mom calmly cleaned up the mess. She helped Mark into his wheelchair and wheeled him into his room.
Beth cleaned up the dishes. “I got an A on my English paper, Dad,” she said. “Miss James read it to the class today. She said it was the best story in the class.”
“I’m glad, honey,” said Dad. “I know you worked hard on it.”
“Do you want to read my story now?” asked Beth.
“Maybe later,” said Dad. “I think I’ll spend some time with Mark, now. Mom’s tired. She needs a break.”
“It’s always later!” Beth blurted out. “All you and Mom care about is Mark!”
“You know that isn’t true. We care about you very much. I’m sorry we haven’t been spending much time with you since Mark’s accident, but right now your brother needs us more.”
Beth didn’t say anything.
“It would be nice if you would spend a little more time with Mark, too,” Dad added quietly. “You’ve hardly even spoken to him this week.”
“I don’t know what to say to him. It scares me when he gets so mad. He just doesn’t seem like the same Mark.”
“He isn’t the same Mark right now,” Dad said. “And he may never be the same, but he’s still your brother.”
Just then the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Beth.
It was Beth’s best friend, Cindy. “Guess what! We’re going to the lake tomorrow night and Saturday, and Mom says I can invite you and Sally to go with us!”
“I’d love to go!” Beth squealed. “I’ll call you back after I talk to Mom and Dad.”
Mom was in the kitchen, getting a glass of water. She looked tired and had deep circles under her eyes. “Yes, you can go,” she replied to Beth’s request. “It’ll be nice for you to get away.”
Cindy and her parents picked up Beth Friday afternoon. Beth was surprised when they pulled up in front of a large building. CONVALESCENT AND REHABILITATION CENTER the sign said.
“We’re going to stop and see Granny before we pick up Sally,” Cindy said. “We visit Granny every Saturday morning, but since we won’t get back until tomorrow night, we wanted to see her before we left.”
Beth followed Cindy into a large room at the center. The room looked cozy with its soft chairs and big couches, but somehow it still had the feeling of a hospital.
“You can wait here,” Cindy told her. “We won’t be long.”
Beth looked around the room. There were some men playing checkers in the back, and a gray-haired woman sat methodically knitting an afghan.
But what caught Beth’s attention was a teenage girl sitting in a wheelchair. She was a pretty girl with long blond curly hair.
She stared straight out a window. She didn’t say anything, but tears rolled down her cheeks.
An attendant gently wiped the girl’s tears. “I guess your mom called again to say she couldn’t come.” The girl just nodded. “I’m sure she’ll visit soon,” the attendant tried to console her.
Cindy and her parents came into the room as the girl was wheeled out. “That girl is always waiting, but nobody ever comes to see her,” Cindy commented to Beth. “She always looks so sad.”
“It almost seems as if she’s given up,” Beth mumbled.
“I’d give up, too,” Cindy replied, “if nobody cared about me.”
Beth was quiet as they got into the car. She turned to her friend. “Cindy, would you be mad if I ask your dad to take me home? I’m really sorry, but I think I need to spend this weekend with my brother.”
“I’ll miss you, but it’s OK. Maybe you can come the next time we go to the lake.”
At home, Mom and Dad were talking in the kitchen.
Beth smiled at their look of surprise. “Everything’s OK. I just decided I’d rather stay home.” She paused. “And I thought maybe you two would like to go out tonight while I stay with Mark. If it’s all right with you, we’ll order a pizza and rent a movie.”
Mom smiled. “Thanks, honey. It would be nice to get out. And I know that Mark will enjoy some time with you.”
“Mom and I read your story,” said Dad. “It was great. I can see why it was chosen as the best in the class.”
“I especially liked the ending,” said Mom. “You have quite a knack for surprise endings.”
Beth smiled. “Thanks—I guess I am best at surprise endings.”

Elder Michael A. Dunn’s parents divorced when he was a small child, but as his mother raised him, she instilled in him strong faith and values. After attending a private Episcopal school in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, he transferred to a public high school, where he met members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As his new friends and their parents welcomed him with open arms, Michael desired to learn about the Church. Eventually he decided to meet with the missionaries. Their teachings about the Godhead and Joseph Smith’s First Vision “landed in me with real power,” he said.
Through prayer he knew the gospel was true and was baptized during his senior year of high school. Since then, Elder Dunn has been “nurtured by a string of incredible leaders.”

“Ethan,” Dad called, “stay here on the path next to me.”
Five-year-old Ethan frowned. He loved hiking with Dad, but he didn’t want to stay on the boring old trail. There was much more to see alongside the stream.
“Come here,” Dad called again. “You might stumble and fall in those tall weeds.”
Obediently, Ethan bounded toward Dad. But as he walked, his eyes kept wandering off the trail. It wasn’t long before he saw a fallen tree and scampered toward it. Climbing on top of it he cried, “Look at me, Dad!”
Dad shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay on the trail?” Ethan groaned and shuffled back toward Dad.
As they hiked, they soon came to a section of the stream lined by large boulders. Each rock looked as if it had been carefully stacked in place to hold back the soil. Ethan pointed. “Look, Dad!”
Dad nodded. “Interesting rock formation, isn’t it? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.”
Grinning, Ethan bolted toward the stream and leaped onto a boulder. Dad followed. Ethan hopped from boulder to boulder, as if playing hopscotch, until he was standing on the highest one. He watched the stream swirl and cascade over rocks below, enjoying the sight—until he heard a terrible sound.
Hiss, rattle, rattle, rattle.
There, wedged between two rocks near Ethan’s feet, was a rattlesnake.
“Daddy!” Ethan cried.
Dad was on the other side of the rattlesnake and couldn’t reach Ethan to help him. “Don’t move!” he yelled.
Ethan trembled. The only way back to the trail was to hop down the rocks the way he had come, and he was afraid that the snake could move much faster than he could. What if he startled the snake and it struck him? The snake glared at him, flicking its tongue.
“Jump in the stream,” a voice spoke to his mind. Still watching the snake, he thought about the cold, muddy water and the jagged rocks below. “Jump in the stream!” the voice said again. So Ethan took a flying leap off the boulder and landed with a splash. Dad jumped in right after him, scooped him up, and helped him to shore. Ethan hugged Dad tight, his heart pounding.
“I wanted to tell you to jump, but I didn’t dare because I thought you might get hurt,” Dad said. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
“The Holy Ghost told me to jump,” Ethan said. “At first I didn’t listen, but then He told me again.”
“Obeying those promptings saved your life, son.” Dad looked at Ethan thoughtfully. “If I had listened to the Holy Ghost in the first place, we wouldn’t have been in danger.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“As we walked away from the trail, I saw something move in the grass,” Dad said. “I thought it was a mouse or a chipmunk. Suddenly, I remembered a story I read in the newspaper a few days ago about a man who recently died from a rattlesnake bite. The thought didn’t make sense to me, so I ignored it. If I had been listening, I would have recognized that the Spirit was trying to warn me.”
Ethan hugged Dad tighter, shivering to think what could have happened. “We should have stayed on the trail,” he murmured. “It’s safer.”
Dad nodded. “That’s true in life too. Even when we can’t see danger, Heavenly Father knows where the devil is lying in wait to corner us. The only safe way is to stay on the marked path.”
Ethan silently vowed to always obey. As he followed his parents, the prophets, and the Holy Ghost, he’d be safe from the worst serpent of all.

To the west of our home was our garden plot. Part of the garden was in potatoes. One day my father said to my sister and me, “There are more potatoes than we can use. If you would like to sell some, you may do so.” My sister Alice and I dug some up and hauled them down to a hotel and sold them. When we showed the money to our father, he asked what we were going to do with it. We said we would divide it before buying some things we wanted. Then he questioned, “What about your tithing?” He said, “The Lord has been good to us. We planted and cultivated and harvested, but the earth is the Lord’s. He sent the moisture and the sunshine. One-tenth we always give back to the Lord for his part.” My father made no requirement; he merely explained it so convincingly that we felt it an honor and privilege to pay tithing.

Whenever we seek for true testimony we come, finally, to ordinary men and women and children.
Let me quote from the diary of Joseph Millett, a little-known missionary of an earlier time. Called on a mission to Canada, he went alone and on foot. In Canada, during the wintertime, he said:
“I felt my weakness. A poor, ill-clothed, ignorant boy in my teens, thousands of miles from home among strangers.
“The promise in my blessing and the encouraging words of President Young to me, with the faith I had in the gospel, kept me up.
“Many times I would turn into the woods … in some desolate place with a heart full, wet eyes, to call on my master for strength or aid.
“I believed the Gospel of Christ. I had never preached it. I knew not where to find it in the scriptures.”
That didn’t matter so much, for, “I had to give my Bible to the boatman at Digby for passage across the sound.”
Years later, Joseph Millett, with his large family, was suffering through very, very difficult times. He wrote in his journal:
“One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal:
“You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett” (Diary of Joseph Millett, holograph, Archives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City).

But before the end of the year, Alyce’s brother Pete was killed in an automobile accident. Such news travels fast. The seat next to mine in algebra was empty for a whole week, and my heart went out to Alyce. I wanted to write her a note, but I didn’t know what to say. Anyway, I figured Alyce didn’t want to hear from me. The following Monday when Alyce still wasn’t back in school, however, I decided to send her a card. I stopped in Gilbert’s drugs after school and looked for an appropriate sympathy card. Finally I picked out the one I liked best and took it home. I started putting it in the envelope, but before I sealed it, I took the card back out and wrote a few words on it that I thought might be comforting. I knew Alyce had been close to Pete. She had talked about him a few times. Once she had said, “Pete’s not like me. He doesn’t clown around as much. He has a dry sense of humor like you.” Whenever she talked about Pete, I could sense a pride in her voice, a special lilt.
I decided to mail the card that night before I changed my mind. The least I could do was tell her I was sorry and try to comfort her in some small way. Even if she wasn’t too keen on our friendship anymore, it could possibly still help.
That Friday Alyce was back in her seat next to me in algebra. “How are you doing?” I asked quietly as I touched her arm. She looked drained and thinner.
“Okay, I guess. Thanks for the note.” The next minute some of her friends came in, and she called to them and said something funny. They laughed, relieved to have old Alyce back. She looked down at her desk and then over at me again. “Could I talk to you sometime, like maybe after school?”
“Sure.” I wondered what she wanted to talk about.
“I’ll meet you by the oak.”
“Okay.”
She was there after the bell, and we began silently walking to nowhere in particular. “Do you care if we sit down on the grass a minute?” Alyce asked.
“Of course not.”
She didn’t talk but lowered her head; I couldn’t see her face, but then a tear dripped down to the grass. I handed her my hanky. “Let’s go. I don’t want anyone to see me. I wasn’t going to do this.”
We walked around the school until we found an area that was semi-secluded near the bleachers. She had stopped crying and she took my hand. “You know, you’re one of the few people who has treated me like I’m more than just funny. It’s hard to be funny all the time. There’s a lot of pressure.” She began laughing. “Tha’t it?”
“I think I understand,” I said.
“Like right now. I don’t feel much like being funny, but nobody knows how to react to an unfunny Alyce, so I have to joke around.” Her lips began to tremble.
“Go ahead and cry if you need to, Alyce,” I said.
She cried then, and I put my arm around her shoulders and felt helpless as her back jerked with each heavy sob. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying. “I’m sorry.”
“I feel so foolish,” she said.
“No, it’s okay. Don’t feel that way.”
Finally, she got control of herself and bit her lower lip. “I’m not going to cry anymore now.” She swallowed hard and tried to smile. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called this little meeting,” she joked. Then she was serious again. “It’s about something you said on your card, Bill. I memorized it. You said, ‘I have strong faith that Pete still lives.’” She bit her lip again. “I’ve got to know more about that.” She was whispering in spurts. “My family has never been very religious, and I’ve got to know where he is right now.” She was losing control again, and she paused for a moment. “If you believe it, I can believe it too.” She tried to laugh. “Because you’re the most honest person I’ve ever met!” Again she paused and was serious. “And, and I know I can trust you, Bill.”
“I’m glad,” I said softly but emphatically. “Because what I said is true.” This time I sniffed. “Yes, I’d like to tell you more, Alyce.” Now I felt my eyes beginning to well, and now I was the one who felt foolish. “Could I borrow my hanky back for a minute,” I said as ruggedly as possible. “I think I might need it before this little meeting is over.”

I sank into my seat for geometry just before the bell rang. That was close. I was still learning how to navigate the halls of my new high school. I pulled out my math homework and began rummaging through my backpack for a pencil.
“Psst … Sherilyn,” the guy behind me hissed.
I turned around to face Gary, a guy I had talked to only a few times since the beginning of the school year. We were in the same Spanish class later in the day, but I didn’t know him well.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you have your Spanish book with you?” he inquired.
A sinking realization hit me as I pictured my Spanish book where I had left it on my bedroom floor.
“Sorry, I don’t have it with me,” I replied. “I left it at home.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, I totally forgot to do the homework,” I remarked, frowning.
My Spanish teacher consistently checked to see if everyone had done the homework. “There goes another zero for me,” I thought. “Just what I need at the start of the year.”
“Do you want to copy mine?” he asked.
Copying homework was common at this school, and no one thought anything of it. You could walk down the halls and see people sprawled on the floor, blatantly copying their friends’ work. He was trying to be friendly, I’m sure, but I couldn’t do that. It would be dishonest, and I wouldn’t feel right doing it.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t really feel comfortable doing that,” I said.
He paused for a moment, smiled at me, and then he said something I will never forget: “I didn’t think you would. Actually, I didn’t even do mine.”
So what was he doing? Trying to test me? I was actually surprised that he would know enough about me to know I wouldn’t copy his work. It was only the second week of school, and I hadn’t known him the previous year.
“You’re Mormon, aren’t you?” he asked.
I said yes. We talked for a few minutes, and then our teacher started the class. I reflected on this incident for the rest of the day. I’d only talked to this guy a few times, yet somehow he knew that I, a new freshman in a school of more than 2,000, was a member of the Church. How?
Then I had another thought. What if I had accepted his offer? Not only would it have made me look stupid, because he hadn’t even done the homework, but how would that have affected his idea of how Mormons behave?
That experience made me sit a little taller the rest of the year. I knew he was watching me and that other people I didn’t even know were watching as well.

It bothered me so much that someone could be so cruel and not even apologize.
For a long time I struggled with forgiveness. Through my own negative experiences, I had often been given counsel that made me feel as though I was being villainized if I didn’t forgive. I often heard phrases like, “If you don’t forgive, then you’re a hypocrite.”
And as someone who has been hurt by others many times, it really hurt me spiritually to hear messages like that—that I would be just as terrible of a person if I was genuinely struggling to forgive. Sometimes I even felt that people excused or dismissed my perpetrators because they may have been facing challenges that caused them to act cruelly.
This mindset made me feel confused and alone. Was it OK for people to be unkind?
When I asked my dad why he didn’t seem so angry about the whole situation, he told me, “He already stole so much from me, so why would I let him steal my happiness too?”
After this conversation, it was as if a light had come on. I saw forgiveness differently.