Gospel Story Finder

Working with horses also taught me to be patient and to never give up. Progress comes a little at a time. Once I had a colt named Planchet. Someone said, “That horse is weak. He will never be worth anything.” But someone else told me that if I would be patient and exercise my colt’s muscles, he would someday be a good horse. I fed Planchet and took care of him and loved him. For one whole year, I just walked him to strengthen his muscles.
I worked and worked with him. And, sure enough, this weak colt became one of the best horses in Brazil. He won the Brazilian championship in a three-day-long competition.

Just like the fulfillment of Elijah’s promise to the widow, our food and oil did “not waste” while I was unemployed.
Two months after I had been called as a counselor in our stake presidency, I lost my job. I worried about how I was going to provide for my wife and our two children.
While looking for a new job, I dedicated myself to my calling, which gave me many opportunities to serve my brothers and sisters. In fact, I became so busy in my calling that my wife wondered if there was anyone else in the stake who could do some of my assignments.
One rainy night just before family home evening, the phone rang. A gravely ill brother in the stake needed a blessing, and I was asked to go see him. Straightaway, I made arrangements to have a friend accompany me.
When we arrived, I immediately recognized the ill brother and was thankful for the phone call. A few days before, he had been interviewed for a stake calling. After we had anointed and blessed him, we told him we would return later to check on him.
I arrived home late and wet, but we still had time for a short home evening lesson. We decided to watch a video about Elijah and the widow of Zarephath.
As the widow was preparing to cook a last meager meal for her and her son, Elijah said to her, “Make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy son.” For her obedience, “the barrel of meal [did] not waste, neither [did] the cruse of oil fail, until the day that the Lord [sent] rain upon the earth” (1 Kings 17:13–14).
Elijah’s words “make me thereof … first” penetrated my heart. With tears in my eyes, I said to my wife, “That’s it! First, we must do all the Lord commands, and afterward the blessings will come.”
Just like the fulfillment of Elijah’s promise to the widow, our food and oil did “not waste” while I was unemployed. The Lord knew our difficult financial situation, and He blessed us. The very morning after our family home evening, I was offered a job.
I know that the Lord keeps His promises. Because of this experience, my faith is great, as is my gratitude to Him.

At the end of January 1831, Joseph and Emma Smith traveled to Ohio from New York in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was very cold, and Emma was expecting a baby. They arrived safely in front of Newel K. Whitney’s store in Kirtland during the first part of February. As they stopped, the prophet sprang from the sleigh, entered the store, and approached Brother Whitney, whom he had never met before. “Newel K. Whitney!” he declared, extending his hand to shake. “Thou art the man.” “You have the advantage of me,” replied Brother Whitney. “I could not call you by name as you have me.” “I am Joseph the Prophet. You prayed me here, now what do you want of me?” Joseph then explained that while he was still in New York he had seen Brother Whitney in a vision, praying for him to come to Kirtland. With great joy, the Whitneys made room in their home for the Smiths until they could find another place to live.

On Brother Wayman’s last day at Cornell, he was saying good-bye to friends when Kim Ho Jik approached him. Brother Wayman felt impelled to ask the Korean why he had decided to leave his homeland and family to study in the United States. The Korean scholar responded that he needed the new knowledge in nutrition available at Cornell for the benefit of his people.
Then, Brother Wayman recalls:
“I bore my testimony … and told him that it was my opinion that the Lord had moved upon him to come to America … in order that he might receive the gospel and take it back to his people in preparation for a great missionary work to be done there. … I informed him … that if he refused to do the work the Lord had for him … another would be raised up in his place.”
Brother Wayman never saw Kim ho Jik again, but he left New York “sure that the Spirit which touched me when I bore my testimony to him touched him at the same time. I could see a change in his expression.”

Two days after David got home from his mission, he went to the fitness center his family had joined while he’d been away. An hour later, after working out and taking a shower, he stood with a towel wrapped around him, in front of a mirror. He began to blow-dry his hair. A guy his age approached the mirror, spread shaving cream on himself and began to shave his chest with a razor.

David had never seen anyone shave their chest before—he couldn’t help but stare.

The guy noticed David in the mirror. “How’s it going?” he asked. He turned around and stuck out his hand. “Brad Eppley here. Commodity trading.”

They shook hands. “I’m David Warner.”

“David, great to meet you. I notice you’ve got hair on your chest. The only reason I mention it is because most of the guys in the club shave their chests.”

“I didn’t have hair on my chest when I was 12. So why is a hairless chest such a big advantage now?”

Brad flexed and glanced at his reflection. “Shows muscle definition. And girls love it. With girls, appearance is everything. You know, like the kind of car you have. By the way, what do you drive?”

“A ’78 Pontiac.”

“That ugly green bomb that’s dripping oil all over the parking lot is yours? What do you do, wear a mask when you get into it so nobody will know who you are?”

“It’s not so bad. It gets me around.”

“Yeah, like that’s really the purpose of a car. You seem so out of it. When’s the last time you went out with a girl?”

“It’s been two years.”

Brad threw up his hands. “Well, there you have it! I’m not surprised.”

“The reason I haven’t dated for two years is because I’ve been on a mission for my church.”

“Are you a Mormon?”

“Yes, I am.”

“How much do they pay you to do that?”

“I paid my own way.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You want to know what I’ve accomplished in the last two years? Plenty, I’ll tell you. Right now I drive a BMW, I live in the best condo in town, I’ve got the best sound system they make, I go out with the best looking girls. And what have you got to show for your two years?”

“I’m grateful for the experiences I had.”

“What kind of experiences?”

“Having my prayers answered, knowing that Heavenly Father loved the people we were working with.”

“Well, that’s all fine and good, but tell me this, can you deposit experiences like that in a bank?”

“No, but I wouldn’t trade my mission for any amount of money.”

“Look, no offense intended, but maybe you’re not really right for this club. I mean, there’s plenty of other places to work out where you’d feel more comfortable. Like outside, for example, where all those biblical things are—you know, like animals and flowers, things like that. I mean it’s just a thought.”

“You may be right. Is everyone here like you?”

“No, not everybody. For me, though, this club is perfect. They’re open every day of the year, even Christmas. Okay, I admit it, I’m a little on the compulsive side. I come here every day. I have a routine—Monday, abs; Tuesdays, pects …”

“Abs?”

“Abdominal muscles. Pects is pectoral muscles. You don’t get around much, do you? By the way, do Mormons have monasteries? I mean, if they do, you’d be perfect. Well, anyway, I come here every day. If I miss one day I really feel it. Like the time my aunt died. They made me go to the funeral. Yeah, this is a great place. Cheyenne and I come every day. You might have noticed her. You can’t help noticing her. But don’t get any ideas. I’m the man of her dreams, the key to her heart and, really, if you think about it, the hope of her future.”

“Well, good for her. Excuse me.” David went into the locker room to get dressed.

Brad finished shaving his chest, wiped off the excess shaving cream with a towel, and then smeared a white cream on his chest. He came out to talk to David. “You want to know why I’m doing this now?” he asked.

David sighed. “Well, not really, but go ahead.”

“To rid myself of razor stubble. Let me tell you, it’s a big problem. You put on your shirt and it’s like having sandpaper on your chest. This cream is supposed to take care of that. It’s the first time I tried it. Wish me luck.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Just as David was about to leave, Brad suddenly yelled, “Aaaah!” He rushed into the locker room area. “I’m having some kind of allergic reaction! My whole chest is on fire. I’m going to take another shower to get this stuff off me. Look, can you go find Cheyenne and tell her what I’m going through. Tell her not to worry about me though. She’ll be in the snack bar drinking a large tomato juice. That’s all she ever drinks.”

It was easy for David to find Cheyenne. Brad was right—she was beautiful and she was drinking a large tomato juice.

“I have a message from the man of your dreams,” David said, trying to keep a straight face.

“I don’t dream much actually. Sometimes though, when I have a pepperoni pizza late at night, I have a recurring nightmare.”

“By any chance is your nightmare about a guy with an absolutely hairless chest?”

She laughed. “How did you know?”

“I met him. He told me to tell you he was having a reaction to the cream he put on his chest to get rid of razor stubble.”

“Poor baby,” she snickered. She pointed to a full glass of tomato juice on the other side of the table. “You want some tomato juice? I ordered one for Brad, but it looks like he’ll be a while.”

“You might not want to be seen with me.”

“Why’s that?”

“See that car out there? It’s mine.”

“You’ve been around Brad too much. Sit down and drink the tomato juice.”

He sat down and took a sip. “This is the first time I’ve been alone with a girl for two years.”

She looked worried. “What were you in for?”

“In for?”

“You don’t look like the armed robbery type. And with that car of yours it couldn’t have been auto theft.”

“I wasn’t in prison.”

“Sorry. What were you doing for two years?”

“I was a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“The Mormons, right? That sounds like a nice thing to do. What was it like?”

He told her about his mission and then said, “I’m really grateful for the experiences I had.”

She looked up from her tomato juice. “You’re the first guy I’ve met who said he was grateful for anything. What are you grateful for? What did you get out of your mission?”

“I found out what’s really important in life?”

“Which is?”

“The people we meet every day are important.”

“Why?”

“Because every one of them is our brother or our sister.”

“That makes you my brother then, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She gave him a teasing smile, but then looked into his eyes, recognized something very deep and serious, became uncomfortable, and looked away.

They talked for another 20 minutes, until Brad came in and sat down. “You still here?” he asked David.

“I asked him to stay,” Cheyenne said. “I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

“Is that right? Well, you should see his chest. It’s an absolute hairy mess I’ll tell you.”

“Why do you think I care about things like that? It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“Well thanks a lot, after I slave all day. What’s this guy got that I don’t have?”

“Gratitude. You have everything a guy could want, but I’ve never heard you say you were grateful for any of it.”

“Hey, look, everything I’ve got is like teetering on the edge of a huge cliff and any moment it can all be swept away. I have to keep fighting just to stay where I am. There’s no time for gratitude in my life.”

“Are you grateful that I came into your life?”

He paused. “It’s not like you don’t get anything from our relationship. I’ve introduced you to some very influential people.”

“Are you grateful for anything?” Cheyenne asked.

“I’d be grateful if you’d quit talking about this.”

There was an uneasy silence. “I’d better go,” David said.

“Let me walk you to your car,” she said.

“Don’t even go near that car,” Brad said. “What if somebody sees you?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

David and Cheyenne walked out to his car. “Beautiful sunset,” he said.

They stopped to look at the sunset. “You find something every day to be grateful for, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Even when things are going bad?”

“There’s always something to be grateful for.” He opened his car door. “I’d better go.”

“What if sometime I decide I want a little more gratitude in my life? What would I have to do?”

“You could start by coming to church with me.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard.”

“I could come by for you this Sunday.”

“Actually I think it’d be better if I drove myself. Brad gets kind of crazy with jealousy sometimes.”

“Yeah, sure. Church starts at nine. Do you know where it is?”

“I pass by it every day on my way to work.”

“I’ll wait for you at the door.”

Brad came running out. “We need to go now. Get in the car.”

“See you.” She turned and walked toward Brad’s BMW. “Brad, did you notice the sunset?”

“What about it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not like I’ve never seen a sunset before. I mean, it happens every day.”

“I think today I will choose to be grateful for a sunset.”

“How can you talk about sunsets when my chest is still on fire?” They got in the car and drove off. David stayed a minute more to look at the sunset, and then he drove home.

On my mission, there was someone who grew up hearing about God but didn’t feel he needed to have a relationship with his Father in Heaven. He spent most of his life in rough spiritual waters, not giving much thought or attention to God. As life went on, the winds began to blow, and the sea began to beat upon his little boat of faith. After nearly 30 years of missionary visits and endless prayers from family and friends, my dear friend knelt in earnest prayer and in essence asked, “Master, carest thou not that [I] perish?” or “Father, are you there?” And a sweet, familiar Spirit confirmed a truth that my friend once knew. A short time later he was baptized, and now he is a faithful member of the Church in Bonaire.

While packing to attend Especially for Youth at a local college campus, I felt as though I should bring an extra copy of the Book of Mormon to pass out. Thinking only members of the Church would be there, I didn’t understand why I would have such a prompting, but I followed it anyway and packed the book.
During several mealtimes, I happened to sit by some girls attending a jazz band camp that was on campus that week. They had a lot of questions about the Church, and I felt the Holy Spirit guide me on what to say. Much of my time was spent teaching instead of eating. I offered the girls the Book of Mormon that I had felt prompted to bring. One accepted it. Then I knew why the Lord had prompted me to bring it.
Be sure to listen to the promptings of the Holy Spirit and “trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Prov. 3:5).

I was baptized when I was 12, and for many years I was the only member of the Church in my family. That wasn’t always easy, but fortunately I was blessed with good leaders who helped me in my journey of learning the doctrines of the gospel and using those doctrines to strengthen and improve my life. Because of my decision to stay true to what I believed, I have seen great blessings come into my life and, much later, into the lives of family members as well.

Some while ago, I went to visit my son who was studying in Rexburg, Idaho. He, his wife and I went out to dinner at a restaurant where people stand in line to get served. It was full of students excited for graduation and the end of the semester. I noticed a young lady come in by herself, looking somewhat lonely and overwhelmed by the noise and activity around her. I felt prompted to invite her to sit with us. As she got her food, she walked by us and made her way to a table by herself. At that moment, I thought, “Oh, she’ll think I’m strange if I invite her to sit with us,” and I let the prompting pass. I remember waking up about 2:30 a.m. the following morning thinking “What if she had really needed our help and friendship?” I got out of bed onto my knees and prayed that someone else might help her where I had failed. I also determined then that I would try never to let that kind of prompting or the opportunity to lift another pass again.

I know that I have an elder brother Jesus Christ. He is my Savior and Redeemer. Without his atoning sacrifice none of us would have any hope of every returning to live with our Heavenly Father again. Next to his atoning sacrifice I am grateful for the perfect example that he has set for me to follow. I will conclude with a personal experience that illustrates this concept.

A year and a half ago our beautiful two-year old daughter passed away. Through the long night before she died I sat at her bedside in the Intensive Care Unit at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City ,Utah. As I held her hand, I prayed silently, but constantly that Heavenly Father would spare her life and that she would be restored to health. Being a Registered Nurse, I watched anxiously for any sign of improvement in her condition. As the dawn came, signaling the beginning of a new day, so did the realization that not only was her condition not improving, but it was deteriorating. The doctors gave us no hope. I, at that point, had to contemplate what my life would be like without her. I could not imagine it. She was my baby and she liked me. I couldn’t comprehend living the rest of my mortal existence without her here with me. I began to silently plead with my Heavenly Father. I begged him not to make me go through it. I told him it was too hard and I couldn’t do it. Somewhere in the midst of my pleading, words came into my mind. They were the words of my Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane where he suffered beyond anything that I, as a mortal, can comprehend. He pleaded with our Heavenly Father to not make Him go through it. But then came His concluding words, “Not my will, but Thine be done.” With all of the courage, hope, trust, and faith I could muster, I silently concluded, not my will, but Thine be done.

Within an hour as my husband and I rocked her, still connected to life support, she was gently lifted from our arms and returned to our Heavenly Father. As we drove the 3 ½ hours to home in silence, there were many things that went through my mind. One that I shamefully admit thinking, “Heavenly Father, I sure hope you know what you are doing.” because taking her had left such a huge hole in our family and in our hearts.

When we walked into our family room that day, all ten of our children were there along with our two little grandchildren. Our returned missionary son was reading from the scriptures about where Kaylie, our little daughter had gone. Our then, three-year old son ran up and hugged my legs and then looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, how long are you going to be sad?” My response was immediate and without thought. I told him that I was going to be sad forever because at that moment, it truly seemed like I would be sad forever. But then I had to stop and think. Really, how long would I be sad? I would be sad until I was with Kaylie again and if I looked at it in eternal perspective, this life is but a moment. I would be sad, but a moment and than I would be with Kaylie again.

We then sat down and talked as a family about why we were sad that day. We decided we were sad because one of us was missing. We concluded that is how sad we would be in the next life if one of us was missing because we did not make right choices in this life, only then, it truly would be forever. We made a vow that day that we would try harder to live worthily to be with our Heavenly Father and Kaylie again. If you were to come into our home today, you would notice tucked in the corner of each of our temple pictures, a wallet size photo of Kaylie in her little white dress taken just three weeks before she died. A constant reminder of the commitment we made to each other to be together in the eternities.

“Whom are you going to invite to your birthday party tomorrow?” Mom asked as I looked at the purple alligator piñata she was making for me.
Mom always made a piñata for our birthdays. She had made cowboys, horses, elephants, and pirates and stuffed them full of candy and surprises. We would invite our friends over, hang the piñata in our willow tree, and give everyone a chance to break it and grab some of the goodies inside.
“I’m going to invite everybody in the neighborhood.” I grinned as Mom glued big teeth and plastic eyes onto the alligator made of bright, fluffy tissue paper.
“Are you even going to invite Bobby Wilson?” my brother, David, asked. I frowned and stuffed my fists into my pockets. “I wouldn’t invite Bobby to anything. He’s a jerk.”
“Benjamin!” Mom said, turning around and glaring at me. “You know you don’t talk like that about your friends.”
“I wasn’t talking about my friends.” I turned and stomped out of the house. Every time I thought about Bobby, I got mad. He was the worst pest a guy could have. He lived across the street and two houses down in a yellow house that needed painting. The lawn in front was never mowed, and most of the time it had big patches of brown in it because nobody watered it.
Nobody liked Bobby. He wore ragged clothes and a baseball cap that looked like he’d dragged it from the trash. But the way he looked was only part of it. He was such a big mouth, bragging about all the things he had and all the things he could do.
“Mom’s going to make you invite Bobby to your birthday party,” David teased as he followed me out the front door and onto the lawn under the willow tree.
“I might have to take an invitation to his house,” I said defiantly, “but I’ll hide it in the bushes so he’ll never find it. When he doesn’t come, if Mom asks if I took him an invitation, I can tell her yes.”
We started to giggle, thinking of the good joke I’d play on Bobby.
“Hey, what are you two doing?” a voice called out.
David and I looked up. There stood Bobby, with his stupid baseball cap on his head.
“We’re not doing anything,” I said. “And we don’t plan to,” I added, hoping Bobby wouldn’t decide to stay.
Bobby strolled over and dropped down on the grass beside us. “I sure played a good game of baseball,” he announced smugly. “I hit about ten home runs.”
“Ah, come on,” David scoffed. “You never hit a home run in your life.”
“I did so—with the new bat my dad sent me.”
“You don’t have a new bat,” I argued.
Bobby jumped to his feet. “I do too.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Go get your new bat and show it to us, then.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I figure that’s what you are.”
I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Bobby grabbed me in a headlock and was punching and scratching and kicking all at the same time. I rolled over and tried to break away from him, but he stayed right with me.
“What are you boys doing?” I heard Mom ask.
I jumped up, glared at Bobby, and ducked my head as I turned toward Mom. “We were just playing around.”
“Well, it didn’t look like either of you was having any fun. If that’s the way you’re going to play around, then maybe you’d better do it cleaning up the garage. That way you won’t get into trouble.”
The rest of the morning David and I stayed in the garage, cleaning up and grumbling about Bobby.
“I’m never talking to him again,” I told David as I swept the garage floor.
“Don’t let Mom hear you say that, or she’ll really make you invite Bobby to your piñata party.”
“I’ll just skip my birthday this year if I have to invite Bobby. And I’ll give my purple alligator away.”
“Hi, Benjamin. Hi, David,” someone shouted.
We looked up and saw Bobby coming up the driveway on his old, beat-up bike. David and I didn’t say anything. We just kept right on working.
“What are you guys doing?” Bobby asked, leaning his bike against the side of the house.
“We’d be out playing ball if somebody hadn’t showed up this morning and started a fight,” I muttered.
Bobby didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. He came into the garage and looked around. “You still want to play ball?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything, hoping he’d just go away.
“Guess what tomorrow is,” Bobby said excitedly.
David and I didn’t ask.
“It’s my birthday! I’ll be nine.”
“Your birthday?” David gasped. “You and Benjamin have the same birthday! His birthday is tomorrow, and he’ll be nine, too.”
“Be quiet!” I snapped at David.
“My dad’s going to send me a new bike. A ten-speed.”
“Why don’t you stop all your bragging,” I said. “You aren’t getting anything, and you know it. You don’t even know where your dad is. You’ve probably never even seen your dad, so stop telling us about all the great things he’s going to send you. He hasn’t sent you anything so far. And he never will.”
I figured then that Bobby was going to start swinging at me, so I threw my dustpan down and put my arms up defensively. But Bobby didn’t charge at me, swinging. He just stared at me for a minute. Then he swallowed once, ducked his head, and backed out of the garage. When he grabbed his bike and wobbled it down the driveway, he was crying.
I had wanted to hurt Bobby—after all, he was the one who had made Mom put us to work. But as I watched him ride away with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, I felt sorry for him. It was the first time I’d ever felt sorry for Bobby Wilson.
David was staring at me as if he couldn’t believe that I’d said what I’d said.
“It serves him right,” I defended myself.
David turned away and started straightening some boxes.
I saw Bobby a couple of times that day in his yard, just sitting under an elm tree, staring at the ground. There was a cold, empty place inside me. I wanted to make it go away. I tried to think of lots of different things—fun things, exciting things—but no matter what I thought or did, that cold, empty place just stayed there.
That night, before David and I turned the lights off in our room, I lay on my bed, staring up at my piñata hanging in the corner. But I didn’t see the purple alligator. All I could see was Bobby Wilson.
“Are you boys going to keep the light on all night?” Dad asked, poking his head into our room. “You’d better get some sleep, Benjamin. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Dad,” I said suddenly, “what makes Bobby Wilson the way he is?”
Dad thought for a moment, then came and sat on the edge of my bed. “Mom said that you had a little trouble with Bobby today,” he mentioned. “What was the problem?”
“Bobby’s the problem,” I muttered. “He’s always acting like a hotshot, bragging about all the things his dad is going to send him and about all the things he can do. Why does he act like that? It makes me want to punch him.”
Dad thought for a long time. “Bobby doesn’t have a lot of nice things. Maybe he’ll never have them. But he wants them, just the same. He’d like a new bike, but the only way he’ll ever have one is to dream about it—to hope that someday his dad, whom he never hears from, will send him the best bike in the world.”
“But he doesn’t even know where his dad is.”
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you didn’t have a dad or mom here all the time? Tonight Bobby’s probably climbing into bed by himself. There’s no one to go in and tell him good night and ask him if he has said his prayers. He wants those things as much as you do. But the only thing he can do is dream about them and maybe talk as if he has them.”
I lay in bed awake long after David had gone to sleep. It didn’t do any good to close my eyes, because I kept tossing and turning and thinking. It wasn’t until I looked over in the corner and saw the dark shape of my purple alligator that I knew what I was going to do the next day. After that, going to sleep was easy.
The next morning, I walked over to Bobby’s house. “Hello, Mrs. Wilson.” My voice trembled as I stood on Bobby’s front steps. Even though it was pretty late in the morning, Bobby’s mom was still in her robe and looked like she’d just got out of bed. “Is Bobby here?”
She stared at me a while and scratched her head. “I think he’s around in the backyard. You can go look. But don’t bang on the door anymore.”
I thanked her and walked around the house. Everything back there was kind of a mess. For a while ! didn’t see anyone. Then I spotted Bobby sitting on a crate with his dumb baseball cap on his head and a cracked baseball bat in front of him. I called to him so he wouldn’t think I’d come to spy on him.
Bobby looked up. “What’d you come around back here for?”
I shrugged. “Just stopped by to see how things were going. I thought I’d wish you a happy birthday. It is your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Sure, it’s my birthday. I was going to have a big party.” He stopped and bit his lip. “I still am. But probably later. Mom isn’t feeling too well. And Dad hasn’t sent my ten-speed yet.”
I hesitated, then blurted out, “Mom made me a piñata for my birthday. We’re going to break it this afternoon and have a big party.”
“I think I’ll ask my mom to make me a piñata, too, when she gets to feeling better.”
“She doesn’t have to do that. Why don’t you just share mine? There’s no sense in both our moms giving a party. If your mom’s not feeling well, you can just come over to my place, and we’ll have our birthdays together. In fact, you can be the very first one to take a crack at my purple alligator.”
“Do you mean it?”
I grinned. “Sure, I mean it. I’ve never had a double birthday party before. Come on. We can help Dad hang the piñata in the willow tree.”
Suddenly we were running together. And I noticed that the cold, empty feeling was finally gone.

Adina, from Switzerland, learned how family members can help one another develop talents as they enjoy wholesome recreational activities together.2 Her family plans a monthly family outing where they learn more about each other’s hobbies. “We have the opportunity to give our siblings a deeper insight into our life and our passions,” she says. One time, her father taught the family about dog training (below). “It was nice to see his enthusiasm and how happy he was to share an important part of his life and hobby with us,” Adina remembers.
Through these family activities, Adina has developed many skills. She has also noticed more peace in her life: “The family is a place where I can rest from the stress of everyday life and breathe peacefully, as well as gain strength and know that I don’t have to stand alone in this life. I am thankful for this because the world today is so fast and loud. I am glad I have a place to regenerate and rest.”

Joey Reidhead, 17, from the Harris Second Ward, quickly became good friends with his partner, 4-year-old Mikey. “He was very quiet. He didn’t talk very much. But you could tell when he was excited,” Joey said. “He was so excited, he went around to every single game twice. When I was taking Mikey around, he was just like a little brother to me.”
But what Joey remembers most isn’t the excitement of the day but the lesson about gratitude he learned when it was time for Mikey to go home.
“When he left to get on the bus, he said to me, ‘Why do I have to go?’ I wish I could have traded everything that I had, because I had been so ungrateful. I wish I could have just given it to him, because I had taken it for granted so many times. I loved him so much, and it was strange that I had only known this boy for maybe three hours, and I had this overwhelming love for him. It was amazing.”

“My dad was a real farmer, and he had 32 hectares that he farmed, although we lived in town. Dad and I used to spend a lot of time together, and we understood each other very well. He felt obedience was the most important principle. He never questioned any instruction or guidance that was given by Church leaders. He obeyed any directive they gave, and he instilled that desire to obey in his family. I remember Dad as being a strong disciplinarian, but he always tempered his discipline with love and concern. Once when he spanked me, he cried. But he felt that he had to spank me in order to teach me obedience. I remember thinking then that it hurt him worse than it hurt me.”

Kathy Solomon thought carefully about whom her gift subscription should go to and felt impressed to choose a girl who was suffering a great many problems in her life and was not very popular at school. “When I said, ‘I want to give you a gift subscription to the New Era,’ she just started crying right there. She couldn’t believe that anybody would want to give her a gift.” When the first issue arrived, the girl read it from cover to cover and came to school with a lot of questions about it. Sometimes the least likely prospects turn out to be the most receptive. Sherilyn Oakey and some friends were feeling crestfallen one day because a friend had just refused a gift subscription. “Well, I’ll take it,” a voice behind them said. They looked and then they had to look again. The voice belonged to one of the most anti-Mormon students in the whole school. She hasn’t shown much interest in the Church yet, but she now reads and enjoys the New Era.
Lynne Nielsen has been sending the New Era to some nonmember relatives in England for three years. These relatives gratefully report that when they finish reading each issue, they send it to their cousin in Cheshire who reads it and then takes it to work where clients and fellow workers read it.
Perry Christensen sent a subscription to an inactive young man who received it with real gratitude.
Patti Mackelprang sent her gift to an old friend in Florida. She received a letter telling how much enjoyment the first issue had brought.
Kelly Manning gave the New Era to some girls who had received the missionary discussions in his home but didn’t feel they could join the Church at the time because of family loyalty. The girls came by his house and told him that they and their family both enjoyed it.
When looking for someone to give the New Era to, don’t overlook your school or public library. If they do not subscribe presently, you could expose a lot of people to gospel principles for the first time by subscribing for them. You might also want to give a subscription to a barbershop, doctor’s office, beauty parlor, or any other place with a waiting room.
So the who is really no problem, but what about the how? Basically all you have to do is fill out one of the subscription blanks in this magazine and send it in along with your money. But that still leaves you three possibilities: you can tell the recipient you are sending the subscription before you send it; you can just send in the subscription with your name as donor and a gift card will be sent to the recipient; or you can send the subscription anonymously. The seminary leaders suggested that the students check with their friends in advance to assure that no subscriptions would be wasted on someone who didn’t want one, but in practice everybody did it his own way. Kelly Manning, who was mentioned above, asked that his name be listed as donor but said nothing to the girls in advance. He felt that the element of surprise made the gift even more exciting. Shanna Grayson, on the other hand, sent an anonymous subscription to her nonmember cousins. A week later when visiting them, she saw the New Era on their coffee table and asked if they were reading it. They said they were and that they really enjoyed it.
Fawn Burrell found still another option. She sent a subscription to an inactive girl but did it in the name of her whole Mutual class. In the meantime somebody sent an anonymous gift subscription to her little brother who is a nonmember. He became an immediate fan and now reads every word as soon as a new issue comes, even if it means reading all night. He no sooner had the June issue open than he made Fawn sit down and play the leadership game with him. He is currently taking the missionary discussions.
Carrie Buffat told her friend in advance that she would be receiving a gift subscription. The friend was so excited that she kept coming back every few days, asking when the first issue was going to arrive. By the time it did, anticipation had whetted her appetite to a fine pitch. Many students reported this side-benefit of telling the recipient in advance, although some also said that if the magazine was late in coming, the person could get a little irritated.
In short, there doesn’t really seem to be a wrong way to send the New Era. You’ll have to examine each case on its own merits.
If you do decide to tell the lucky person in advance, what do you tell him? Vickie Owen simply said, “I’m giving you a gift subscription to the New Era magazine. I really enjoy reading it, and I think you will too.” Others explained in more detail what the New Era contained. Some mentioned specific articles they had enjoyed.
Just as we’re not all Captain M, we’re not all Mister Rich either, so we’re providing a special service for those with echoes in their pockets—a special six-month gift subscription for two dollars, in addition to the regular four dollar year’s subscription. Isn’t it worth giving up one movie in order to give your friend a six-month smile?
When your friend has received an issue or two of the magazine, you can mention specific articles from time to time in your conversation with him or her. If you feel there is a growing interest in the Church, you might want to follow up with some more direct missionary approaches. Be sensitive, use wisdom, and rely on the Spirit in making those decisions. Do not try to push the gospel down anyone’s throat. Missionary work requires love, not salesmanship. The gospel should be shared, not sold. We think that you, like the youth of Pocatello, will find it easier to share than you ever suspected, even if you’re not yet Captain M.
Although we at the New Era wholeheartedly recommend this program to you, we must humbly admit that it was not our idea. Ever since the first issue was published, many wise readers have been sharing the magazine with their nonmember friends through gift subscriptions. In fact, it was their success that inspired this program in the first place.
We’d like to share with you a little of their success through a few of the many letters we’ve received from nonmember readers.
Barbara Lemke of Sacramento, California, wrote: “This month marks my year-and-a-half anniversary. Since Christmas 1974 I have been receiving the New Era every month, and I’ve enjoyed each issue thoroughly. A very dear friend gave me a subscription as a gift, and I’m so glad she did. It keeps my Christmas spirit alive each month, renewing my awareness that Christ lived and died and rose again as an expression of our Father’s love for us. It reminds me that this isn’t just for a day in December, but for every day, every month, and every year of our lives, and the life hereafter. It also makes me happy to read about so many people who are in love with the idea of loving each other. Thank you for a wonderful magazine. Even though I’m not a Mormon, I can appreciate the love and thoughtfulness that go into every issue.”
Cindy Shufeldt of Jackson, Wyoming, demonstrates the missionary potential of the New Era in her letter: “The New Era really brightens my day. Just recently I read one through from cover to cover and then lent it to a girl friend. She quickly devoured every word, and then I took it to my place of employment—the Jackson Hole Playhouse Theatre—where it was passed around one evening. One of the guys in the cast adopted it, and I haven’t seen it since! I am an investigator of the Church, and I can’t express in words how much the New Era has helped me in my studies. In fact, you may wish to know that I plan to be baptized.”
In giving the New Era, you should always keep in mind that the personal example you set for your nonmember friends may have the largest influence of all on their attitude toward the Church. When they read the New Era, they will learn what the standards of an LDS youth should be. If you yourself are not living those standards, your gift may be in vain. If you are living those standards, the New Era’s effect will be multiplied.
Consider this letter from Kathleen Garvey of West Sacramento, California: “I am not a member of the Mormon church, but I really like the New Era and the inspiring articles it has each month. However, I wouldn’t be enjoying the New Era if it weren’t for my Mormon friend who has given me several subscriptions to your magazine. In addition to giving me the magazine, she has given me an even greater gift. She has set such a fantastic example for me by living the Church’s high standards that she has really helped me in leading a clean and spiritual life, which I might not have done otherwise. So thank you, Vicki, and thank you, New Era.”
“If it weren’t for my Mormon friend,” Kathleen wrote. Perhaps there is someone who will never have the opportunity of getting to know the gospel through the New Era, unless you give it to him.

Last spring an elderly resident of Provo took me down a peg. I had just attended the convocation of the College of Physical Education in the Provo Tabernacle and was rushing out of the Tabernacle to try to get to the Smith Fieldhouse for the convocation of the College of General Studies. My two daughters were graduating, and I wanted to be present for each of them. As I came running out of the Tabernacle dressed in my academic costume, the robes flowing behind me with my agile wife and younger children running to keep up, an elderly man just coming out of the post office across the street stopped, hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets, and watched the spectacle with a combination of amazement and indulgence. As I hurried past him toward the car he tried to make a friendly conversation with this question and comment: “Well, you finally made it, did you?”

My beloved sisters, I think my first awareness or consciousness of the existence and the importance of the Relief Society came very early in my life.
My family left Salt Lake City for Arizona when I was three years old. My mother then had six children, and during the time that she went through five more pregnancies and five more births, she was president of the ward Relief Society.
We went to a new land, where water was drawn out of open wells; where flies were so thick you could hardly see out of the screen door in the evening; where typhoid fever was prevalent, and many other diseases, too; where medical help was extremely limited—there were no hospitals, no nurses, and no trained people except the country doctor who had more than he could ever do.
I read in my mother’s journal not long ago such expressions as these: “I left the children with Ruth or Delbert or with Gordon and went to Sister Smith’s home where the second twin had just died and where there were other children desperately ill with typhoid fever.” Again: “Today I spent the day with other sisters making burial clothes for the two children of Sister Jones.” and on and on and on. That was my introduction to Relief Society, and I am sure that to some degree that kind of work is still going forward, for as I understand your work, it includes not only the spiritual and the moral, but also the physical well-being of the people of the ward.

Words jumbled in my mind as I desperately tried to concentrate on Dante’s Inferno. I gazed at the living room clock. It was already 10:00 p.m. I had a quiz in the morning on eight chapters of the Inferno that I had not read yet, I needed to write an outline for my English class, and I also had a 6:00 a.m. meeting in the seminary building. I needed to go to bed soon. I read:
Soon as the charity of native land
Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter’d leaves
Collected, and to him restored, who now
Was hoarse with utterance.1
I was finally grasping the concentration needed to endure this dragging night.
… To the limit thence
We came, which from the third the second round
Divides, and where of justice is display’d
Contrivance horrible.
“Hi, Shan,” my seven-year-old sister, Shallen, uttered.
I mumbled a little humph and hoped she would go away. Where was I? Hmmm … horrible … horrible … Aha!
… Things then first seen
Clearlier to manifest, …
I couldn’t concentrate. I felt Shallen’s baby doll face examining my every move. I felt like a prisoner under the careful eye of my annoying little sister. Her sparkling, emerald eyes ignited with excitement when she saw me look at her.
“Today in school my teacher told us that all the second graders are going to have a hero day, and we get to dress up as our hero, and we get to give a report, and it is going to be fun, and we get to wear our hero outfit all day even at recess, and we …”
I knew if my blabbering kid sister didn’t stop talking, I would never finish my chapters, my critical outline, or see the reality of straight-A grades.
I had to do something. Her absence was essential. Neglecting her would hopefully bore her, and she would redirect the “hero day” story to another family member.
My index finger guided me back to my place in the Inferno:
… I tell how next
A plain we reach’d, that from …
“And we get to draw pictures of our hero and …”
Why couldn’t she understand that I was going to be up all night doing my homework? My anger was surfacing, a swelling bubble about to burst, when she actually stopped talking. I was startled. I kept my eyes buried in my book, hoping she had finally discovered my lack of interest.
“Shan,” she whispered in her innocent, sweet voice.
My eyes still fixated on Dante’s words. She paused for a moment. I glanced up to see her head bowed in despair from my lack of attention. My guilt began to build, but I buried my eyes even deeper in the print of the faded pages.
“Shan, I want you to be my hero. Can I wear your lifeguard uniform for hero day?”
My eyes darted from my book to the golden hair that swallowed my little sister’s drooping face. I never dreamed that I was Shallen’s hero—a hero who didn’t even take time for an adorable seven-year-old. My guilty heart crumbled in shame when I realized my selfishness.
I put down my pen and set the book aside. I took my sweet little admirer by the hand and led her to my room. I dressed her in my sun-worn shirt, crowned her with my foam visor, and placed the water-worn whistle that faintly read “Shanda” around her neck. She looked up at me and beamed the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her face. Her love convinced me that my little sister was much more important than any grade I would ever receive.

But soon after I began using it, I became Anderson’s close friend.
It happened in gym through a bizarre accident. We were on the field playing soccer, when suddenly a ball came sailing from nowhere.
“Save it, Jack, save it,” I heard, and the next thing I felt was a terrible blow to my head. Some primitive instinct told me to fight back, so I kicked with all my strength and heard a crunch before I fell into blackness.
When I awoke, I saw the white curtains of the infirmary and knew I was going to be sick.
“Want me to call Ol’ Collins?”
I rolled over and in my misery saw Anderson’s grin with a slightly fat lip and missing one tooth.
“Anything you want,” I groaned.
Collins came bustling in, murmured about “concussion” and “our mother” and bustled out.
“I didn’t know you could kick so hard.” Again I saw the snaggly grin.
“It must have been the blow to my head. It gave me strength.”
“Your head is only half your problem. We also have two months in the clink together for fighting.”
“Fighting? Who was fighting? And what’s the clink? Where am I, Africa?”
“You and I, sir, have two months in detention hall.”
And that’s how I met Scott Anderson.
For a first friend there could have been no better. He showed me how to play soccer, and I showed him geometry and sentence diagraming. He explained to me the caste system of Eaton from the lowliest freshman to the headmaster. His parents had been assigned to a post overseas, so he was at Eaton finishing up his junior year. His comprehension of human systems astonished me just as my understanding of split participles fascinated him. I felt as though that day of our soccer crash had been for me a grand awakening to a world that had always been but I had never seen. I was a blind man granted sight.
It was four weeks into our detention that I mentioned to Anderson his famous quote from World Problems.
“That was some line,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s no joke, you know. I really am going on a mission.”
“A mission, a mission, what is a mission, Dr. Livingstone?”
“I’m going out into the world to teach people about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Why?”
“Because the Church is true.”
“Are you really Mormon?”
“Sure thing, died in the wool, true blue.”
“No kidding. I never thought they got out of Utah.”
“Yeah, they did. Got out all over the world.”
So not only did I meet Scott Anderson, but also the Mormon church.
Too soon the term came to an end. When I came back from vacation, Scott Anderson was gone. “Moved,” somebody told me, “back to Utah.” I clung even more to his famous one line in memory of our friendship.
It was a fresh April day at the Apothecary Outdoor Restaurant when I had a final chance to use Anderson’s line. We had just finished our salad and were beginning our soup when an acquaintance of my mother stopped to greet us. He added the usual, “And what are you going to be doing next year, Jack?”
“I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir,” I replied.
“You will?” He seemed more than astonished. “Why I didn’t know you were Mormons!”
“We’re not,” my mother smiled her let’s-get-on-to-other-things smile.
“But I am,” the man went on. “As a matter of fact, I’m bishop of the Manhattan Third Ward.”
“A bishop? I’ve heard of bishops,” I said. “You see, I had this friend at school …”
And so I met Bishop Beesely. And now I am going on a mission for the Mormon church. My father thinks that I am tomorrow’s Dr. Livingstone because I am going to South Africa.
My mother, though, is her same plural self. Just yesterday she said, “We’ll be needing some white shirts and dark suits now, won’t we, Jack?”

Moira nodded. Heavenly Father had helped her before. Like when she and Mamá had joined the Church a year ago.
Moira had been excited to tell her best friend, Dorita, about her baptism. But when Dorita’s parents found out, they wouldn’t let Dorita play with Moira anymore. Moira had felt so lonely.
But Heavenly Father helped her make new friends. On her very first Sunday at church, she saw a girl standing by the door.
“Hi,” the girl said. “I’m Carmen. Do you want to sit with me?” Soon Carmen and Moira became good friends.