Gospel Story Finder

Clancy O’Clagen was stacking wood in Mrs. O’Reilley’s woodshed. As he neatly piled the sticks, he was thinking of what his wife had said that morning. “It’s a fine thing to be helping Widow O’Reilley, Clancy,” she had said, “but while you’re setting her woodshed to rights your own is a sorry sight, what with kindling laying every which way. But if she pays you well for the work, I’ll be doing no more complaining.”
Clancy straightened up to rest his back and glanced around the gloomy shed. Suddenly he spied a shimmering of metal up high in a cobwebby corner. He moved nearer to see what the glimmer of light might be.
“Sure, and that’s an old Irish griddle, if ever I saw one!” he exclaimed. “But it’s rusted and grimy and in need of a good scrubbing. Now I wonder if I could lift it from the peg.”
Clancy stood on the tips of his toes and grunted and stretched and lifted. Then with a pull that nearly set him back on his heels, the griddle came off. Just as Clancy was slapping some of the webs from the griddle, Mrs. O’Reilley came in.
“So you’re interested in that old thing, I see now,” she said. “That’s been hanging there for many a year, and not much good it is to anyone. ’Tis one that came from the old sod country, it is. But only burned cakes is all it ever would bake, and who’d be wanting burned cakes now?”
Clancy’s eyes sparkled. “Sure, and I’d be glad to take the thing as pay for my work. Somehow I’ve got a fancy for it, seeing as how it came from Ireland.”
Mrs. O’Reilley threw up her hands. “Then pay it is!” she said. “But with that kind of pay, I can’t help feeling I’ll be cheating you for sure.”
Clancy finished his work in the woodshed and then, with a gay whistle on his lips and the griddle tucked under his arm, he went home.
But there was no gay whistling when Clancy’s wife saw the griddle and no money.
“Clancy O’Clagen!” she cried, “have you taken leave of your wits now? A grubby old griddle you bring home instead of money! And you with no good hat to wear on a Sunday and needing the same!”
“But no money could buy a griddle like this, and from Ireland too!” said Clancy. “Old hats shade heads as well as new.”
While his wife grumbled, Clancy went to work on the griddle. He scraped it, he scoured it, he brushed it. He rubbed and he scrubbed and he polished, and after a time part of the dullness was gone from the surface and bits of shining metal winked through.
“Potato pancakes!” said Clancy. “Good old Irish potatoes made into pancakes on an Irish griddle! Doesn’t that sound good? Would you be making some fine Irish potato pancakes, now, my good wife?”
Clancy watched his wife stir the pancakes. He watched while she ladled them out onto the hot griddle. He watched while their edges turned brown. And then, with his lips twitching in anticipation of a delightful mouthful, he saw the pancakes all at once turn black, burned to a crisp.
Time after time Clancy’s wife tried the griddle. But every time she did, it only burned whatever was on it. “A waster of good food and good time it is!” she cried. “I’ll be having no more to do with it!”
Then Clancy tried the griddle. He mixed pancake batter, spread it in little rounds on the hot surface, and watched the dough bubble. But just when he thought the cakes were baking well, they suddenly began to rise and went up and up. Like little round towers, the bubbling dough rose above the griddle—a foot or two high. Then, while Clancy watched open-mouthed, the cakes turned to cinders and crumbled away.
After that, Clancy’s wife turned the griddle upside down and used it to cover her churn of sour cream. But even as a cover it didn’t work well, for often in the mornings the griddle would be off on the floor and the cream would be sloshed about.
“Now you see what kind of a bargain you made, Clancy O’Clagen!” his wife said stomping her foot. “’Tis no good for baking. ’Tis no good for covering. A dirt-catcher and an eyesore is all it is. I’ll not be having it around any longer. If you’re bound and determined to keep the old thing, you’ll be keeping it outside and that’s a fact!”
Clancy picked up the griddle and marched outside. “’Tis no way at all to be treating a fine Irish griddle,” he muttered. “Using it for a cover for sour cream! It’s shame that I feel when I think of it, and this from the green land of Ireland, too, and maybe made with metal that’s been touched by the Little People’s own hands! Could be that houses are an irritation to the likes of it. Could be that a fire in a woodsy spot is what the griddle is needing!”
A sparkle leaped into Clancy’s eyes. He went back into the house, packed things for pancake batter, put two plates, two knives, two forks, a jar of butter, and a jug of syrup into a box, and then he took the griddle and went off whistling to find his young friend Denny O’Day.
“We’re going to make pancakes in the woods, Denny, my lad!” he said. “Pancakes on an Irish griddle!”
Denny loved to go into the woods with Clancy, but this time he kept looking to the right and to the left, and sometimes he even turned around and looked behind. “I’ve got a feeling that there are eyes looking at us,” said Denny. “And now and again I’m hearing the crackling of twigs. Do you think there might be something about, Clancy O’Clagen?”
“Sure, and what if there is? ’Tis nothing to do with us at all,” answered Clancy.
Beside a little spring Clancy made a fireplace. He put rocks about in a neat little ring. He scraped away the grass and built a fire that soon burned down to rosy coals. Then Clancy mixed the pancake batter until it was as smooth as liquid velvet. He whistled awhile, and every now and again he stopped to jig a little. When the griddle was sizzling hot Clancy poured the batter on it.
He stepped back and stared in amazement. For though he had meant to make round pancakes, the batter spread out by itself into dainty shamrock shapes—three rounds together and a little tail for a stem! And the pancakes didn’t burn. They browned gently on one side and, just as Clancy was about to give them a turn, over they flipped by themselves, or so it seemed.
“Hurray!” cried Clancy. “Sure, and I knew this was a griddle to be proud of!”
He heaped the pancakes on Denny’s plate. And when the boy had eaten all he could hold, Clancy said, “Run home now, Denny, my lad, and tell my good wife to come quickly! She’ll never be believing the same! Not till she sees it with her own eyes! Off with you now!”
Denny started off and Clancy made more pancakes for himself. But he was almost too delighted to eat. “I’ll just be making one more big one for myself,” he said, “and then I’ll sit back and wait for my wife.”
With an extra flourish Clancy poured batter onto the griddle. He poured until it was almost covered. Then he watched to see the shamrock take shape. But this time there wasn’t a shamrock.
The pancake spread and spread. It bubbled and bubbled, and then it turned itself over. But before the pancake was completely turned, a great zinging as of ten thousand hornets filled the air. The pancake flew high. The griddle rose and a huge puff of green smoke sent it spinning and sailing off over the woods.
In another moment the big pancake came flapping downward. It flopped on Clancy’s head and knocked him to the ground.
When Clancy sat up all was still, and he reached up his hands to push the pancake from his eyes. But instead of a pancake his hands pushed up a slightly warm, high plush hat of emerald green. From the bushes impish laughter and deep chuckles reached Clancy’s ears.
When Clancy walked into his own house his wife was busy knitting. Without looking up she said, “Clancy, how could you tell such yarns to Denny O’Day? I sent the lad off to nap after the way you’d filled his head with nonsense.”
Before Clancy could answer she looked up. Then she threw up her hands in surprise.
“CLANCY O’CLAGEN! Where did you get that elegant hat?”
Clancy pulled his ear thoughtfully for a moment and then he smiled. “Sure ’tis true,” he said. “In a manner of speaking, you might say I traded it for Mrs. O’Reilley’s Irish griddle! And that’s a fact!”

I had just turned 14, and my bishop had invited me to enroll in seminary. Unfortunately, my bishop’s invitation came right when I was embarking on a system of torturous school examinations known as the General Certificate of Secondary Education. In England (I live in Manchester), we refer to them as the GCSEs. So here was the bishop inviting me to seminary, while the storm of exams, homework, mock exams, projects, tests, and experiments that are the GCSEs were just beginning.
Consequently, apathetic would be the best word to describe my approach to seminary. There was the initial excitement of studying in the same class as my big brother, but that quickly wore off. It wasn’t until I decided to find out about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon that I began to appreciate what seminary could do for me.
When I began the course, we had been taught that Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4] was our key scripture for the year. I had marked that scripture in red and green, and I had felt prompted to ask Heavenly Father for a special witness concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.
As I knelt by my bed to talk with my Father in Heaven, I realized I had not prepared myself very well. I remembered the passage in the Doctrine and Covenants where the Lord tells Oliver Cowdery that he “took no thought save it was to ask me” (D&C 9:7). I knew I was doing the same thing, and when I prayed to Heavenly Father I felt nothing different except a feeling that I was right to ask. But I didn’t feel like I’d received an answer to my prayer. I knew I had to do all that the Lord asked of me before I was to find out whether the Book of Mormon was a book of scripture or just a very clever novel.
One night I was alone in the house. My homework was already completed, and usually such times are a welcome opportunity to sit in front of the television or get lost in a science-fiction book. But that night I felt like doing neither.
On impulse, I went to my room and picked up my new copy of the Book of Mormon. I searched for the final chapters of Nephi’s life in 2 Nephi.
Somehow I felt that these were important chapters, so I said a short and simple prayer before I began to study, asking that the Spirit be with me. I had often asked for the same thing when I would pray before seminary lessons, yet this time my request seemed to mean more. I felt I needed to feel these words as I read them, so I began to read the scriptures out loud to myself.
As I read one chapter, then another, I began to feel as if I could actually hear Nephi himself saying those things to his people. As I read of his love for his people, I could feel the words of a prophet crying out, each sentence filled with the anguished cries of a loving man who had served God all his life. I read through chapter 32, spellbound by the words of a man who was suddenly becoming very real to me. The things he said were beautiful and right. When I turned the page and began to read chapter 33, my empathy for this man overflowed. I could not contain my tears as I read how this prophet cried day and night for his people, and so I cried with him—desperately aware that those words were the last ones we have from him in the Book of Mormon.
I finished the final testimony of Nephi with a clogged throat and teary eyes. Yet inside I felt on fire, alive with a knowledge that had settled in my heart. Nephi was a prophet of God, a real man, with a real life.
Many weeks after I had first prayed to know if those words were God’s words, I had fulfilled my part in Moroni’s promise and received a testimony that I hope will stay with me forever.

Illustration by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
I worked days, and my wife, Elen, worked nights. We hardly saw each other. We weren’t holding home evening or family prayer. We went to sacrament meeting, but we lacked commitment to the gospel.
We began to feel emptiness that came from focusing on the things of the world instead of the things of the Lord. We felt that Heavenly Father wanted more from us.
So we went to the Santiago Chile Temple for guidance on how we could improve. We both received the prompting that we needed to move with our little daughters from Santiago to the northern coastal area of Coquimbo.
We had never been there before, and we knew nothing about the area. But we quit our jobs, sold everything, and said goodbye to family, friends, and my university studies.
In Coquimbo, we didn’t know anyone, and we didn’t have any money. I found a job, but it barely paid the rent. We asked, “Why are we here?”
Elen wondered if there was something she could do to help pay the bills. One day she sewed a new cover for one of our old chairs. “I’m going to put it up for sale and see if someone buys it,” she said. Someone did buy it. Encouraged, Elen learned more about reupholstering furniture. She started advertising and began receiving work.
In 2016, I was called as bishop of our new ward. With my job, my resumed university studies, and my calling, once again I hardly saw my family.
“This isn’t working,” Elen said. “Why don’t you work with me? I’ll teach you how. You’ll be home, and you’ll also have more flexibility for your calling.”
I worried about quitting my job, but Elen suggested that we pray to Heavenly Father and say: “Here’s our business. We’re going to do it together. Please illuminate for us how we can make it work while Gregorio serves as bishop.”
Heavenly Father answered. Now, after years of hardly seeing each other, we’re adjusting to always being together. Sometimes Elen jokingly says, “Don’t you have some bishopric interviews to do? Come back in four hours!”
Here in Coquimbo, we have learned to have faith and live the gospel as a family, and we have been blessed. We moved to a city we did not know to serve people we had not met, and we have seen miracles we did not expect.

Those who are called to serve as bishops are blessed with the gift of discernment. The Holy Ghost helps them to discern when someone is telling the truth and also helps them see the good in ward members. Years ago, I was preparing to set apart a newly called bishop. Before I laid my hands upon his head, he turned and asked in great humility, "President, while you are setting me apart, could you bless me with the gift of remembering names. This is a weakness of mine, and I want to improve myself. I believe this gift would help me magnify my calling." I was struck with his childlike faith. The Spirit whispered to me that the Lord was pleased with such a righteous desire.

President George Q. Cannon, counselor to several Presidents of the Church, said, "If any of us are imperfect, it is our duty to pray for the gift that will make us perfect." Since the most important callings in the kingdom are that of mother and father, President Cannon encouraged parents to ask for spiritual gifts. He suggested to young mothers, for example, that they might ask for "the gift to govern children" or to "organize households."[25] If you want to be a better parent or spouse or roommate, there is heavenly help available. Why not ask?

There’s something different about Chris and Jason Trevino of Huntsville, Alabama. Something different in a positive way, a way that makes you want to understand why they’re so upbeat all the time and why they seem to have life all figured out.
This is made all the more intriguing by the fact that the two 19-year-old brothers are identical twins—twins so much alike that people get confused, yet with something so different about them they stand out among their peers. For example:
—They spend a lot of time helping their neighbors, the Wellmans, take care of their three youngest children, Michael, Jennifer, and Nathan. They play and laugh with and tease them in a good-natured way. They organize parties for them and take them fishing or boating. Sometimes they all camp out as a group in the Wellmans’ backyard. Chris and Jason are more like older brothers than neighbors to them. And what do the twins get in return for their kindness? A squeeze play. The kids smother them with hugs.
—They take care of three horses at a nearby riding club, mostly in return for the privilege of being allowed to exercise them now and then. They do the dirty work without complaining. They show up when they say they will and do all that they’re asked. They help with expenses. They’re totally dependable.
—They love their family. Put Jim and Barbara Trevino and their twin boys together and it’s like you’re with a group of best buddies, friends who treat each other with ultimate respect. Add 15-year-old sister Allison to the mix, and it only gets better.
Bad mood? The twins make it disappear.
Help with homework? No problem.
Want to tag along while we go somewhere? Great. Hop in.
Yes, the twins treat everyone well, most of all mom and dad and sister. But there’s something else—fondness may be the closest description. This family really enjoys being together, in a way that lets you know they’ll always be close.
—Most of all, at a time in life when many young men of their age and athletic ability concentrate on which college they’ll attend, what teams they’ll be on, and what young women they’re dating, the twins are leaving all that behind.
Argentina. That’s what they want to talk about right now, because soon that’s where they’ll be. They’ve both been called to serve as full-time missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Chris in Bahia Blanca. Jason in Resistencia. Two years at their own expense. Two years bearing testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. Two years focused entirely on the needs of other people.
And maybe that’s the clue to figuring out the Trevino twins. The difference that makes them both the same is their love for other people. It’s a love that comes from following the Savior and living his teachings, from concentrating on what really counts instead of wasting worry on worldly things. It’s a dedication that brings happiness so filling it spills out into everything they do and everyone they meet. Add that to personalities that have always been spontaneous, and you’ll find Chris and Jason telling everyone what they’re up to:
—Getting passport pictures taken, they keep telling the photographer about how they’ll be representing the Church. “That’s why we brought our suits for the pictures,” Chris explains.
—Meeting with the county sheriff, who has to sign letters for their visas, they can’t help explaining how excited they are about spreading the gospel. “I can tell,” chuckles the sheriff, who already knows their father.
—At the county government building, they tell the clerks about going to Argentina to preach the gospel. “Isn’t that great?” Jason beams.
—Their mother’s boss, Victor Howard, is a Church member who works across the street. Dropping in to visit, they soon have him joking along with them. But after a few minutes, they talk seriously about the mission he served and how much he loves the Lord, the gospel, and the Church.
You have to understand. Chris and Jason are the kind of guys who, if you ask about diving and you’re close to the community pool, will show you the dives they do. Never mind that they didn’t bring their suits. They’ve been lifeguards here, and the caretaker, who knows them well, gives permission. They look at each other, accept the challenge, and even though they’re in jeans, jump on the board and plunge in the pool. You get the feeling that’s the same way they’ll plunge into missionary work—follow the rules, be dependable, work hard. But get with it—no wimpy excuses.
It’s sort of like a lesson Chris says he learned at the stables.
“Horses are good,” he explains. “If you work with them you learn to love them. But there’s one named Alvin. I don’t like to ride him a whole bunch because of his attitude. He fights me and tries to get the reins from my hands. He thinks he should do what he wants when he wants. There are a few missionaries who are like that. If their mind’s stuck on somebody back home, or if they go out just because everybody else thinks they should be there, they’ve got to change their attitude. You can’t complain about the reins; you’ve got to concentrate on where you’re going.”
And that’s what Chris and Jason are doing—concentrating on where they’re going. Not just on their missions but in their lives.
Sure there are some things that will be tough to leave behind. Family first of all. Friends a close second. Even the horses they’ve taken care of. And school, and work, and just having a blast. But nothing stands in the way once you gain the perspective of eternity. Even having to work in separate missions.
“Chris opened his call letter first, and I saw Argentina,” Jason says. “Then I opened mine, and for a split second it was like, ‘We’ll be in the same mission!’ Then we read more and found out we’d be in different parts of the country. We’ve been together for 19 years, and now we’ll be apart. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is what we’ll be doing.”
Serving others. Bringing them the truth.
Like the times when they’ve talked with Mrs. Wellman about her oldest son, who died in an accident at age four, and where he is now and what he’s doing. Like the times when they’ve shared Church magazines with her, or watched the video Called to Serve.
“Don’t just let her borrow it,” Chris said then. “Let’s have her over here and we’ll all watch it together.”
These are, after all, brothers who are close in more ways than appearance. “We talk about everything together,” Jason says. “Now we’ll just do it through our letters.” That will make for some pretty great letters. Letters they’ll share with Mom and Dad and Allison. Letters they’ll share with the Wellmans and their kids. Letters they’ll share with close friends. Letters in which they’ll bear testimony and record the adventures of two years spent preaching the gospel.
“In the past we looked at missions like they were something they ask you to do,” Jason says. “Once we got closer to it, we thought, ‘It’s the Lord and the prophet who call you, and their way is the right way to go.’ We’d go to church and come home in such a great mood. We talk to everybody about it.”
That includes the 12- and 13-year-old Sunday School class he and Chris teach together.
“I’m learning more and more about the gospel,” Jason says, “especially when we talk about things like the plan of salvation and patriarchal blessings. It’s a learning experience. And I think a lot about Heavenly Father and how much he loves us. He gave up his son for us. He must have a lot of love for us to do something like that.”
“Being as close as I am to my brother,” Chris continues, “it gives me some understanding of how close I should be to the Savior, who is also my brother. Even though Jason and I will be apart during our missions, we’ll be close to Him. And that will make the bond between us even stronger.”
Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. That’s the something that makes these twins different from a lot of their peers, but exactly the same in what truly counts.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, both Chris and Jason have arrived in Argentina and are faithfully serving their missions.

A little while ago, my bishop invited our ward to think of some weakness or sin that we could figuratively leave at the sacrament table for Jesus Christ to take away. There are sins I’ve carried with me throughout my young adult life that I’ve tried to conquer but haven’t been able to overcome through prayer or my own willpower. Despite my growth throughout the years, I knew I needed to overcome them to continue progressing.
The Sunday after the bishop’s challenge, I decided that I would leave just one of my sins on the sacrament table, a physical representation of the Savior and His atoning sacrifice. As I prepared to take the sacrament, I remembered that the cloth covering it represented His burial cloth, and the bread and water represented His body and blood.
With sincerity and full purpose of heart, I renewed my baptismal covenants and said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for help and making a commitment to leave this sin behind. Then something happened I never expected: my desire to sin completely left. I tried this a few more times, and the same thing happened with other sins. Was it too good to be true?
The next week, I knew what sin I wanted to leave at the sacrament table, but I didn’t feel ready to give it up. Looking back, I realize that my heart wasn’t in the place it needed to be. I wasn’t being sincere enough to commit to change. But I realized how much the sin hurt Heavenly Father. I knew I needed to align my will with His and center my life around Him to become free. So I did my best to make that a reality.
I avoided any temptation that could lead to this sin. I changed the way I read my scriptures every day and truly pondered them and applied them to my life. I focused on being sincere in my commitment to change, and I sought every day to seek the Lord’s will over mine. I put Him first, because I knew I couldn’t leave this sin behind without the power of the Savior’s Atonement. By continuing to put Him first, I was able to surrender this sin at the sacrament table. I was finally free from something that had held me back for so many years.
Through this process, I grew closer to my Heavenly Father and my Savior. I imagined Them looking down on me for all of these years with patience and love—knowing, eventually, I would give up the sins that spiritually hampered my progress. And when I was ready to give them up, Jesus Christ would be there to lift me—to take me by the hand and grant me forgiveness and strength. He already provided a way for me to become free from my sins through His Atonement. He paid the price for my weaknesses, mistakes, and sins. I just needed to trust Him.
During this time, I read some words from Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles that gave me the little push I needed: “If your life is in disarray and you feel uncomfortable and unworthy … , don’t worry. He already knows about all of that. He is waiting for you to kneel in humility and take the first few steps. Pray for strength. . . . Pray that the love of the Savior will pour into your heart.”1
When we sang “I Stand All Amazed” (my favorite hymn) the next week, each word rang true; I really was amazed—in awe that the things I had struggled with for more than a decade were taken from me. In awe that through the power of the Savior’s Atonement, I could move forward. That He can heal all sins and wounds and leave no trace of them behind. That I didn’t need to be held back by my past.
I still have so much to learn and overcome, but my life is on an upward course. I’m feeling more joy and peace. I’m expressing more gratitude. I’m coming closer to and strengthening my testimony of Heavenly Father and the Savior. Every day that I choose to try again, I come one step closer to Them and the person They know I can be.

“We knew quite early that Shawn would be good in basketball,” says Reiner. “I played ball with some men in the ward early mornings at the stake center. I asked Shawn if he would be interested in coming along. He went with me many mornings to the stake center and played with the adults when he was only eleven or twelve years old.”
Some time in his early teenage years, Shawn first beat his Dad in one-on-one basketball competition. “I don’t remember when it happened. When Dad would win, it would make me feel bad, so the next time, he’d let me beat him. I never really knew when I actually could beat him.”

In February 1847, the Saints were in Winter Quarters, preparing for their journey to the Salt Lake Valley. They were wrestling with a difficult doctrinal problem, and Brigham Young felt inadequate to solve it. One night, Joseph Smith, who had now been dead for more than two and a half years, appeared to Brigham Young in a vision. Brigham explained the problem and asked Joseph if he had any counsel.

Rather than answering the question outright, Joseph said:

Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord. . . . If they will, they will find themselves just as they were organized by our Father in Heaven before they came into the world. . . .

. . . Tell the people to be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and follow it, and it will lead them just right.14

Steven rolled his tie right up under his chin as the rest of the Primary kids practiced the new song. Nope, no way was he going to sing this song.
The father of our home leads our family …
Steven looked out the window and up at the ceiling. He moved around so much in his chair that he was almost dancing. He couldn’t sing even if he wanted to. Something big and uncomfortable was stuck in his throat. The rest of the Primary kept singing, learning the new words one line at a time.
With wisdom’s light in all that’s right;
My father’s good to me (“Fathers,” Children’s Songbook, 209).
Steven felt a tap on his arm. His mum, who had been quietly watching from the Primary room doorway, tugged gently on his arm. She led him out into the hall. Away from his friends in Primary, Steven couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Mum pulled him close into a warm, strong hug.
“It’s OK to be upset,” Mum said, patting his back. “I know hearing and singing that song is hard.”
Steven nodded, then wiped his eyes. “I don’t want to sing at Father’s Day because I don’t have a dad.” Steven’s eyes burned, and he bit his lip. “I don’t want to call him Dad anymore. I haven’t seen him in ages, and he doesn’t even want to be my dad.”
Steven tried really hard to not cry—but he could still hear the other kids singing. That song just made him hurt deep inside. Just like when his dad wrote and said he and his new wife had decided that he wouldn’t see Steven or his brother anymore.
Mum pulled him in for another hug, and Steven let a few more tears soak into her shirt. “I’ll talk to the Primary president. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to. But hey—I have an idea.” Mum looked straight into his eyes. “This year we won’t celebrate Father’s Day—we’ll celebrate Future Father’s Day!” She smiled, and he stared back.
“Huh? Celebrate what?”
“Future Father’s Day—we’re going to celebrate how amazing you and your brother are going to be as dads someday. We’ll have presents and a cake and your favorite soft drink!”
Mum kissed his forehead and then tried to fix his mangled tie. “You, Steven, are going to be a brilliant dad—I can tell already. Because you are already thinking about what you are going to do with your kids and planning what kind of dad you’ll be.”
The more Steven thought about it, the bigger his smile grew. He hugged Mum and went back to Primary feeling much better.
Two weeks later Steven stood in front of the mirror, straightening his cool new bow tie. Mum had given it to him that morning for his first ever Future Father’s Day! Steven picked up his scriptures and walked to the front door to head to church.
He smiled at his mum.
“Happy Father’s Day, Mum.”
Mum grinned. “Happy Future Father’s Day, Steven.”

When Hurricane Irma came through my town in Georgia, it did some damage. We were out of school for two days, and we had no power. Then we started hearing about the destruction in Florida. So many homes were flooded and damaged by winds. Families lost many of their belongings. My family started making plans to go down with the Mormon Helping Hands teams for the weekend relief efforts. I was sad that I wasn’t old enough to go help.
Then a teacher at my elementary school heard that my siblings were going down to help. She offered to send school supplies. I was so excited when I heard about this because now I had a way to serve. I started collecting backpacks. With the help of my Primary friends, we collected and put together 63 backpacks. We filled them with school supplies to give to children impacted by the hurricane. I learned that you are never too young to serve. If you have a desire to help others, Heavenly Father will provide a way.

Renee was born in Haiti, a small country on an island in the Caribbean Sea. When she was eight years old, she and her mother moved to Utah to be closer to Renee’s aunts, uncles, and cousins.
After the move, Renee’s family and friends told her and her mother about the gospel. Soon the missionaries started teaching them.
At first, Renee wasn’t sure that she wanted to be baptized. Then one day the missionaries read something special from the Book of Mormon—words of the prophet Nephi. He said that baptism is like a gate to a path that leads to Heavenly Father. He also talked about the blessings of the gift of the Holy Ghost that come after baptism.
Renee felt a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She knew that she wanted to return to Heavenly Father. And she wanted the gift of the Holy Ghost. She thought that the Holy Ghost would be a good friend and companion to help her throughout her life. She and her mother were soon baptized.

Although he always believed, Enoch was always eager to learn and know more about the gospel. It was at age 14, when his mother gave him a Bible, that he read the New Testament for himself that Jesus became real for him. The joy of the personal relationship he now felt with his Saviour filled him with a desire to share that joy. So as a teenager he took advantage of opportunities to go on visits with the full-time missionaries. This allowed him to continue building his own relationship with God while helping others develop one for themselves.

My husband, John, was a big man. He stood six feet four inches (1.9 m) tall and weighed more than 200 pounds (90.9 kg). For him, air travel in economy class was uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.
In August 2006 we were called to serve a Church educational service mission at Brigham Young University–Hawaii. When it came time to return home, we were dreading what he would have to endure in the flight back to the mainland. During check-in we were delighted to find that there was one seat available in first class, so we upgraded his ticket. He would be able to sit in a comfortable seat with plenty of room for his long legs.
About midway through the flight, I decided to go see how he was doing. As I approached the first-class area, a flight attendant stood in the doorway to stop me.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I would like to see my husband for a moment,” I replied.
“I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly but firmly, “you can’t come up here.”
“But he’s my husband, and I just want to see him for a minute.”
Still barring the door, she again stated, “I’m sorry, but you are not allowed up here. I can give your husband a message, and if he would like to, he can come visit you. But the policy is that only first-class passengers can be in this area.”
I was taken aback for a moment, but seeing her persistence, I quietly returned to my seat in economy class.
I began to think about the three degrees of glory mentioned in the scriptures and by the prophets. We read that Christ will visit those in the terrestrial kingdom (see D&C 76:77), and administering angels will visit those in the telestial kingdom (see D&C 76:88), but those who are in the lesser kingdoms can never go up to the celestial kingdom (see D&C 76:112; see also D&C 88:22–24). Reflecting upon my experience, I felt that I just had a glimpse of what it might be like for those in the lower kingdoms. How would they feel upon hearing the words “I’m sorry, you can’t come up here”?
About five months later my husband passed away from cancer. My experience on the airplane gives me extra incentive to live so that I never have to hear those words again—at least not on the other side of the veil.

Danny was worried. He was excited about spending the night with his friend Jonathan, but he had a problem. This would be the first time he had stayed overnight with a friend, and even though Jonathan was his best friend, Danny had never mentioned his pillow. Could he take it with him? Danny wasn’t sure. He decided to ask his older sister, Linda.

Linda looked up from the TV set. “You’d better not, Danny. You’ll get teased about wanting to sleep with it.”

“But I always take it when I go to Grandma’s house.”

“Grandma would never tease,” said Linda. “But Jonathan’s big brother might, and then you would be embarrassed.”

“But I don’t think I can sleep without it.”

“Oh, sure you can,” Linda reassured him. “You’ll be so busy talking and laughing that you won’t even think about your pillow.”

Danny wasn’t so sure. It was the only pillow that felt comfortable when he went to sleep. Maybe he’d better ask Mom.

Danny stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Mom cook. That meant that it would soon be time for him to leave, because he was eating dinner with Jonathan. Maybe I should stay home, he thought. Then I won’t have to worry about my pillow.

When his mother saw Danny in the doorway, she grinned and said, “Hi, sport. Are you about ready to go?”

“Mom, do you think I should take my pillow to Jonathan’s house?”

“Do you want to?”

“I think I do, and I think I don’t. I don’t really know.”

“Well,” said Mom, “why don’t you take your pillow with your other things. Maybe they don’t have enough pillows, and they’ll be glad that you brought yours.”

Danny immediately felt better. “You don’t think Jonathan’s big brother will tease me?” he asked.

“No,” said Mother. “You’re going to be sleeping in Jonathan’s room with him. Thomas has his own room. He probably won’t even see your pillow.”

Danny grinned happily. “I’m going to go pack it now. Do I still have to take my toothbrush?”

Mother grinned back. “Yes, you do, young man. You wouldn’t want to sleep on that pillow with bad breath!”

Danny laughed and ran upstairs to get his things. Stacking everything on his pillow, he waited for Mom to take him to Jonathan’s house.

Jonathan was standing by the door when Danny arrived. The two boys ran to Jonathan’s room to unpack Danny’s suitcase and play. He looked at the twin beds. There were pillows on both of them.

“This is where you’ll sleep,” said Jonathan, and he placed the suitcase at the foot of one bed.

Danny held out his pillow. “I brought my own pillow in case you needed an extra.”

“Oh, we have enough, but you can sleep with yours if you want.”

Danny put his pillow on the bed, carefully putting the other one on a chair. Then he and Jonathan sat on the floor to build a block city. They hardly knew how hungry they were, until Jonathan’s mother called them for dinner.

Dinner together was fun, and they had a great time playing board games in the family room until it was time for bed. Danny looked around Jonathan’s bedroom. The block city was still there. His pillow was still there.

When Danny jumped into bed and snuggled under the blanket and felt the familiar pillow beneath his head, he was cozy and comfortable. Smiling, he raised his head to talk to Jonathan. But Jonathan was still walking around the room.

“Are you looking for something?” Danny asked.

“Yes, my brown bear. I always sleep with him.”

Danny sat up straight, a look of surprise on his face. “You always sleep with a brown bear?”

“Yes.” Jonathan lowered his voice. “I even took him with me to a hotel once.”

Danny laughed and held up his pillow. “I’ll tell you a secret, Jonathan. I always sleep with my pillow.”

The boys laughed together, and Danny jumped out of bed. “Come on. I’ll help you look for your bear.”

They found the bear sitting behind a stack of blocks. Jonathan picked it up, holding tightly to the brown body. He whispered to Danny, “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too.”

Then Danny went to sleep on his pillow, and Jonathan went to sleep holding his brown bear.

I grew up in Norway. The nearest temple was in Stockholm, Sweden, an 8- to 10-hour drive away. Needless to say, any trip to the temple took careful planning and deliberation. Our stake planned two visits to the temple for the youth each year; several wards would rent a bus and go to the temple for a weekend. It was fun to go with other youth, but my family and I wanted to go to the temple together sometime.

So one year we decided to go to Stockholm during our summer vacation. It was a great experience, and it soon became a pattern for our summers. We would camp at a campground close to the temple. Each morning we would get up early for a baptismal session with other families from Norway who had come to the temple. Afterward we would play football and go swimming at the campground.

These summers are sacred memories for me now. Although we didn’t live close enough to the temple to go there each month, it was always a special occasion when we could go. And even though the car ride was long and tedious, the Lord blessed us for our sacrifice. The spiritual experiences I had at the temple helped me develop my love for the temple and its ordinances. They also brought us closer together as a family.

Because his father was a bishop, young Harold witnessed Church welfare at work. “Then as now, the bishop was responsible for the care of those in need,” wrote President Gordon B. Hinckley, a longtime friend. “Bishop Lee ran his own storehouse, the commodities coming from his own pantry. In the night, the family would see him take a sack of flour, they knew not where, because confidences concerning those in trouble were to be strictly observed.”

Young Harold learned what it meant to listen to the voice of the Lord from an experience he had with his father. “I think maybe I was around ten or eleven years of age … , trying to spend the day busying myself until my father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds that would attract a curious boy, and I was adventurous. I started to climb through the fence, and I heard a voice … calling me by name and saying, ‘Don’t go over there!’ I turned to look at my father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight, for I had definitely heard a voice. Since then, when I hear or read stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I too have known what it means to hear a voice.”

This experience with the watch-care of the Holy Spirit impressed Harold that safe passage to Heavenly Father’s kingdom depends on our willingness to hear and obey that voice. “I have learned something of what the Spirit has taught,” he later reflected, “and I know now that … security can come to Israel only when they keep the commandments, when they live so that they can enjoy the companionship, the direction, the comfort, and the guidance of the Holy Spirit of the Lord.”

My father-in-law was a real inspiration to me. He was the 12th of 13 children of a very poor immigrant family from Switzerland. After he had finished elementary school, he, like many others in his time, was encouraged to drop out of school and learn a trade. Then one day he met Mr. Hicks, the new school teacher. Mr. Hicks asked, “Albert, are you coming to school this year?” Albert explained that he was not planning to. Mr. Hicks said, “Well, why don’t you come for three or four days and see how you like it?”
Albert came, and his future life was dramatically changed for the better. He said this new teacher didn’t just answer the questions. Instead he would write on the chalkboard the titles of the books where they could find the answers. A thirst for learning developed in Albert that was never quenched.
He was a hard-working farmer, providing for a large family. But when I came to know him, I hardly remember his being in the house without a book in his work-worn hands. He would circle words he didn’t know and write their definitions in the margins. He was a real student of history and the doctrine of the Church. Although he never had the opportunity to attend school beyond the eighth grade, he read much more than most college graduates. He not only learned to read; he read.

Stephanie David has made quite an impression on the people of Waco, Texas. In fact, the mayor of Waco was so impressed that she officially named March 2, 2004, Stephanie David Day.
So what did Stephanie, 17, do to get her very own day named after her? “It all started with Personal Progress,” Stephanie says. “I wanted to do something for my Good Works Value Project that really would be a good work. I wanted to make a difference.”
The seed for Stephanie’s Value Project was planted as she browsed through items at a rummage sale. She remembers looking at the clothes and thinking they were in great shape. Then she asked a question that set everything in motion: “Who could benefit from having these clothes?”
Stephanie’s question was answered a few days later as she talked to a foster mother in her ward. She found out that children who were removed from their homes and placed in foster care usually weren’t able to bring personal belongings with them. Often, they needed more clothes.
So Stephanie decided to organize a nonprofit clothing center in Waco. Her idea was to gather gently used clothing at garage sales and encourage community members to donate clothes. She would then wash, organize, and store the clothes until foster children needed them.
Although her idea was a good one, Stephanie had to wait four months to get her project approved by officials of Child Protective Services. Eventually, Stephanie was given the go-ahead, and she named the clothing center Kind-er Closet, which is a fitting name because Kind-er Closet is just that—a closet in Stephanie’s house.
Stephanie and her family operate Kind-er Closet all by themselves. When foster children need clothing, case workers call an automated phone number and leave messages for Stephanie that tell how many children need clothing and what sizes they wear. After listening to the messages, Stephanie searches through the stash of clothes and finds 6 to 10 outfits per child. Then she wraps each child’s clothing and delivers it to the Child Protective Services office in Waco.
Even though Stephanie has long since met the requirements to complete her Personal Progress project, she plans to keep Kind-er Closet going for several more years. Over the past year, Stephanie has spent about 600 hours on the project. Thanks to her, more than 100 children have received the clothing they need.
Stephanie’s mother, Sarah, says, “At first, when we started telling Child Protective Services officials about the project, they didn’t understand why Stephanie would donate so much time to something she wouldn’t get paid for.”
But Stephanie understands there are more important rewards than money. For legal reasons, she never meets the children she collects clothing for. But the good feeling she gets when she finishes a clothing package is the only reward she needs.
“I see all these packages going out, and I can’t really describe the way I feel,” Stephanie says. “It just makes my heart burst open. I don’t get to meet these kids, but deep inside, I know my gift made them happy.”
Stephanie says her experiences with the Kind-er Closet helped her enjoy Personal Progress and strengthened her testimony of service. “Now that I’ve done something that really helps others, I think of service in a whole new way,” Stephanie says. “It’s fun.”
So how did Stephanie come up with such a great idea for her project? She prayed that our Heavenly Father would inspire her, and she knows the idea for the Kind-er Closet was an answer to her prayer.
Stephanie’s advice to other young women trying to come up with meaningful Personal Progress projects of their own is to think big. “If you have a good idea, don’t push it aside,” Stephanie says. “If you really want to make a difference, the Lord will help you.”

Two years before I was born in 1942, my mother gave birth to my older brother, Gary. Gary is a very special person. When he was born, his brain was damaged by a lack of oxygen. His mind never grew above the level of a six- or seven-year-old.
For more than 60 years, I watched my parents take care of Gary. They helped brush his teeth, comb his hair, and tie his tie on Sunday. Because he loved horses and cowboys, they took him to rodeos and Western movies. They performed countless acts of love and kindness for him.
Unfortunately, people aren’t always so kind to those who are different. I’m sorry to say that some children—even children from active Latter-day Saint families—were unkind to my brother. They shut him out of games, called him ugly names, and teased him unmercifully.
Gary was a childlike person who was always quick to forgive. He loved and accepted everybody. I think that aside from my parents, this special brother did more during my childhood to shape my outlook on life than anyone else. I sometimes think how it will be after the Resurrection, when as Alma describes, “all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame” (Alma 40:23). Then we’ll know the real Gary, and I think we’ll be very grateful for all the good things we’ve done for him and very sad about those times when we might have been more loving and understanding of his special circumstances.

In a stake in Chile the young women did this at camp by keeping a book of each other’s virtuous qualities. Each day they got better acquainted and wrote down the intrinsic good they were learning about each person there. At the end of the camp, they shared their thoughts, helping each person to see more of the divinity within herself. Their leader said, “We were literally basking in this wonderful spirit of kindness and goodwill. I can honestly say that I never heard a word of complaint from the girls! They were flourishing in a sweet spirit of mutual acceptance that is not often present among teenage girls. There was no competition, no contention. Our camp had become a little bit of heaven” (personal correspondence). The girls recognized and reaffirmed the divine natures of each other, and the Spirit filled the camp as these virtuous thoughts were expressed.