Gospel Story Finder

When Thierry was called to serve a mission in the Cote D’Ivoire Abidjan Mission he had never read the Book of Mormon. His bishop encouraged him to read it cover to cover before commencing his mission. For three months, Thierry went every day to his ward building to read, ponder and pray about the Book of Mormon. This experience of daily study resulted in his taking into his mission a strong testimony of the book. He has said, “the greatest tool that we have to bring people to the light of the gospel and gather scattered Israel is the Book of Mormon.”
His mission was profoundly impactful on his life. French is the principal language of the DRC and of Cote D’Ivoire. Thierry had multiple English-speaking companions. His mission president counseled him to take time every day to learn English from his companions. Thierry obediently added English language study to his gospel study and proselyting. His English and French language proficiency has blessed many.

John began paying tithing when his mother did. When he heard about the Humanitarian Aid Fund and the Perpetual Education Fund, he started contributing to those too.
One day the missionaries came to visit. John likes to ask missionaries where they are from, what their families are like, and how many people they are teaching and baptizing. But on this day he asked them how they paid for their missions. Parents and family members often give support, the missionaries explained. “I want to pay for my own mission,” John said. At 10 years old, he’s well on his way to being ready for his mission in more ways than one.

Let’s compare the emotional healing process with that of caring for and treating a physical injury. Suppose that when you were young, you broke your leg. Rather than going to the doctor to get it set, you hobbled along until the deep pain was gone, but there is always a slight pain with each step you take. Years later you want the pain to go away, so you go to a doctor. The doctor must reset the bone, clean away any buildup that has grown, cast it, and send you to physical therapy to strengthen your leg.

The process of healing from abuse is similar in that the victim must first recognize that the pain is real and that something can be done about it. The process includes acknowledging what happened and allowing the feelings of being hurt, scared, and sad to be felt, acknowledged, and validated. Often it is helpful to work with a professional experienced in this healing process. (Check with your priesthood leader to learn if LDS Family Services is available in your area.)

Whether or not the victim has access to professional help, it is best to pray, study the life of the Savior and His Atonement, and visit regularly with a priesthood leader. He can help ease the burdens and receive inspiration to help the victim understand their divine worth and relationship with Father in Heaven and the Savior. As Sister Carole M. Stephens, First Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, recently taught: “Healing may be a long process. It will require that you prayerfully seek guidance and appropriate help, including counseling with properly ordained priesthood holders. As you learn to communicate openly, set appropriate boundaries and perhaps seek professional counseling. Maintaining spiritual health throughout the process is vital!”3

For Hannah, her life had become so uncomfortable that she sought help. She knew from her testimony that she could feel peace and contentment in life but did not feel them on a consistent basis. Through prayer and talking with her bishop, she was guided to counseling, where she was able to gain the tools she needed to bring the truth out of darkness and share the awful burden she had been carrying alone. In doing so, she was able to release the pain and find the peace promised by the Savior (see John 14:27). Along with this peace and comfort came the desire and ability to forgive.

The idea of forgiving is often difficult for victims of abuse to hear and is often misunderstood. If they think of forgiveness as letting the abuser off the hook or saying that what they did doesn’t matter anymore, the victim won’t feel validated. While we are commanded to forgive (see D&C 64:10), in situations where the harm is deep, healing typically must begin before the victim can fully forgive the abuser.

Those who are suffering the pains caused by abuse may find comfort in this counsel from the Book of Mormon: “I, Jacob, would speak unto you that are pure in heart. Look unto God with firmness of mind, and pray unto him with exceeding faith, and he will console you in your afflictions, and he will plead your cause, and send down justice upon those who seek your destruction” (Jacob 3:1). The need for justice and the right to restitution can be turned over to the Lord so He can replace our hurt with peace.

Hannah eventually found that she could turn the need for justice over to the Savior and in return find a feeling of peace in her life as she had never before experienced. Previously, she had feared attending family gatherings where the abuser would be present. Now, due to her willingness to face difficult emotional wounds on her way to healing, she no longer fears being in his presence and can even have compassion for him in his old age.

Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles stated that “complete healing will come through your faith in Jesus Christ and His power and capacity, through His Atonement, to heal the scars of that which is unjust and undeserved. …

“He loves you. He gave His life that you may be free of needless burdens. He will help you do it. I know that He has the power to heal you.”4

The adversary wants to keep people bound by pain and suffering because he is miserable (see 2 Nephi 2:27). With the help of our Savior, Jesus Christ, pain can truly be replaced with peace, only as the Savior is able to give, and we can live with joy. “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25). Living with joy will allow times of trial to be more bearable and enable us to learn and grow and become more like our Father in Heaven.

I am humbled by the blessing I have had in my life to sit with those who have been harmed by abuse and see the miracle of healing that truly comes only through the Savior. If you are suffering, please prayerfully turn for help. You do not have to carry the heavy burden alone. I know He heals, for I have witnessed it countless times.

The Kuang Kuang Hao, a special express train, sped through the countryside in Taiwan, passing scenes of quiet rivers, hills dotted with Chinese burial mounds, scattered villages, and endless waves of rice fields. As I stepped off the train in Miao Li, the cold winter wind hit me in the face.
Despite the cold, missionary routine in my new area soon became settled. I enjoyed being a senior companion and had a good junior companion. I was comfortable giving the missionary lessons and interacting with the people.
In our branch I met a member named Hu Chin Hsi, who looked like a scarecrow with wild, straggly hair. His eyes were bright but sunken, and his body was thin and straight. He talked with enthusiasm but stopped often to wheeze and cough because he had a chronic lung and respiratory disease. Despite his struggles, Brother Hu was a faithful member and the branch clerk.
One cold winter night we rode our bikes to visit Brother Hu. He lived on a hillside, where the winter wind blew. His home made of loosely nailed planks with a dirt floor was just large enough for one man to lie down and store a few things in. Brother Hu explained he was poor because the money he made as a tax assessor was spent on medicine to keep him alive, and any leftover money was spent on food.
As the rainy season became more severe, we knew Brother Hu needed more help to survive until spring. We collected two extra comforters, some clothing, and some money for food. Brother Hu was grateful for the gifts, and with tears in his eyes, he thanked us over and over.
Everything seemed fine until we noticed he had nothing to keep his hands warm. I thought we could buy him a pair of cloth gloves, but I knew these gloves didn’t last long and often came apart. Brother Hu needed something dependable, long-lasting, and warm.
I had a pair of leather, fur-lined gloves that were given to me by a companion who had completed his mission the previous summer. He told me the gloves were rare and that it would be impossible to find or buy such gloves in Taiwan. The moist, cold tropical air of Miao Li proved how valuable a gift those gloves were, and I guarded them everywhere I went. But now someone else needed them.
When Brother Hu needed blankets, clothes, and money for food, we shared. Now he needed gloves, and I was more than willing to buy him some cloth gloves but not give him mine. I rationalized that I had two more winters as a missionary on this island and needed warm gloves. I even bought a pair of cloth gloves to give Brother Hu, but I was uneasy and unhappy.
I contemplated my behavior and realized I was being selfish. If it didn’t cause me any hardship or sacrifice, I was willing to give. But a rare possession like my gloves was a harder test.
Though it seemed like such a sacrifice at the time, I gave Brother Hu my leather, fur-lined gloves. I took the cloth gloves, which caught on my bike and totally unraveled two days later. What lasted, though, is my memory of Hu Chin Hsi with his cough and wheeze and what I learned from giving to him.

In the city of Bangalore the Roshan family was introduced to the gospel through an uncle. At the time, Rakesh, 18, or “Rocky” as everyone calls him, was the only family member to be baptized. He wasn’t serious at first, but as he attended church, read the scriptures, and heard the testimonies of others, he gained a testimony of his own. After his baptism, however, Rocky became somewhat inactive and the elders began to visit the family regularly again. This led to the baptism of Rocky’s older brother, Dinesh, whose example of faithfulness and love not only led Rocky back into activity, but led their parents to the waters of baptism also.

Mark Hansen shut his car door and looked in through the glass entryway. Kelly wasn’t there. He looked down at his watch. She had told him to pick her up at eight, and it was a quarter after now. He kicked at the step, looked up through the door again, and bit his lower lip.
She knows I don’t like places like this, he thought. I ought to leave, and then she’d have to walk home. He smiled picturing her walking the ten miles to their house. He softened—no that wouldn’t be too good. Besides, he thought, Mom would be furious.
He leaned against the glass door. It swung open. He stepped inside. The air was warm and stank of antiseptic and pine deodorant that only partially covered other smells.
He remembered the smells from when he was younger. His mother pushing him forward, he saw his grandmother’s sunken face and felt her cold skin. There had been a strong smell in her room mixed with the odors of wilting flowers and stale perfume.
He was ten then, and now he was seventeen. He pushed the memory back.
How can she stand to work here? he thought.
“Kelly,” his voice echoed in the empty halls.
“Hi, Mark,” Kelly leaned out from a door, her dark hair hanging back over her white uniform.
“You’re late.” Mark furrowed his brows and turned the corners of his mouth down, trying to look angry.
“Sorry,” she said and smiled. “How did your track meet go?” She was still leaning out of the doorway. Mark kicked at the polished floor with the toe of his shoe.
“I’m going to state.”
“That’s great. What place did you take today?”
Mark smiled. “First in the mile.”
“Not bad for a kid.” She smiled again. “Mark, I’m going to be a few more minutes. Is that okay?”
Mark took a deep breath.
“I guess,” he turned and walked toward the doors. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Mark, why don’t you go into the lounge and talk to Jackson. I think you’ll like him. He doesn’t get many visitors.”
“All right,” Mark mumbled. He pushed open the lounge doors and walked in. The room was quiet. A window was open, and fresh cool air blew in, waving the curtains.
Mark looked around the room. He felt his throat tighten. In the far corner, near the open window, half in the light and half in the dark was a thin figure in a wheelchair. Mark had expected Jackson to be an older man, but the figure in the chair looked young. Mark moved closer.
“Hi,” he said. His throat was dry. He felt a small aching pain somewhere deep inside his chest.
Jackson reminded Mark of a string puppet that had had the strings cut. He was sitting limp in the chair, his head bowed down with his chin resting on his chest. His arms, wax-white skin stretched loose over bones, were resting on his legs. There was a lifeless quality about the form. Jackson’s hands moved slightly, shaking. Then his head moved up slowly and stopped, his eyes looking directly at Mark. His eyes were warm and brown. A smile curled on Jackson’s face.
“Hi,” the voice was weak but pleasant.
“I’m Kelly’s brother.” Mark tried to smile.
“You’re Mark, aren’t you? Kelly talks about you a lot.”
Mark nodded.
“Yeah,” he couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt empty inside. He was back again in his grandmother’s room. The smell and the sound and the sight of her dying came rushing up at him. The aching pain in his chest grew and spread to his stomach. He felt weak.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello.”
Jackson leaned back, resting his head against the back of his chair.
“It’s nice in here at night when the windows are open and the outside air blows in. It smells like rain tonight, like a slice of watermelon. The others, they don’t like to have the windows open when the cool air blows in. They say it’s too cold.”
Jackson closed his eyes. His chest moved up and down with his breathing.
“It’s not that I don’t like them. I do. They’re fine people, but they make me feel so old. I don’t want to feel old. Come and see me again, Mark.”
Mark nodded.
“Sure.” He looked up. “I’ve got to go now. See you.” He waved and left.
Mark stood next to his car. The air was cool. A few drops of rain fell. Mark breathed in deeply and smiled.
“It does smell like watermelon.”
“What does?” Kelly stood smiling on the steps. “I’m finished. Are you ready to go?”
Mark got into the car.
“Did you talk to Jackson?” Kelly asked.
Mark nodded.
“What’s wrong with him? He looks like a skeleton.”
“Well, it’s a muscle disease. I don’t know much about it. I guess no one does.
He’s had it all of his life. There’s no cure, and they don’t expect him to live much past 20. He’s 17 now.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Mark said.
“It is, but you know he doesn’t look at it that way. He just does the best he can with what he has. He’s been places inside of himself that most people will never come close to.”
She turned her head and looked forward. Rain fell lightly on the windshield and sparkled like diamonds and rubies in the light from neon signs and street lights. She smiled again and turned back toward Mark.
“What smells like a watermelon?”
Nearly a month passed. Mark stood on the steps looking through the glass doors. He felt his heart beating hard with excitement. He felt the smooth surface of the medallion deep in the pocket of his letterman’s jacket. Gold, he thought. First place in the mile. He remembered standing highest on the three-tiered platform, the red-and-blue ribbon with the gold medallion being hung around his neck, raising his arms up in victory, the sound of the crowd cheering and the handshakes and smiles and slaps on the back.
He couldn’t wait to tell Kelly. He looked through the doors. As usual she wasn’t waiting for him. He opened the door and went in.
“Kelly.” There was no answer.
She must be in the back somewhere, he thought. I’ll go say hello to Jackson. For the past month, whenever he had gone in to get Kelly, he had stopped and waved his hand up and said hello to Jackson.
Mark pushed the door open and stepped into the lounge. Always before he had found Jackson alone. Now there were about ten people in the room, most of them old. They were all smiling. Kelly was standing next to Jackson. They were all looking at Mark, then turned and looked at Jackson.
The room was silent. Mark noticed a table with paper cups filled with punch, and there was a large cake that had “State Champion” written on it in gold letters.
Jackson was looking directly into Mark’s eyes. He smiled slightly. His claw-like hands shook and began to rise slowly. The smile faded, and Jackson’s hand rose another inch. It came halfway up to his face and dropped slightly. Mark felt the muscles in his arm twitching with the effort. He remembered running the mile that day, the sound of feet hitting the track and the sound of his own heart.
He remembered the pain in his lungs and in his legs and calves. He remembered reaching inside of himself trying to find the strength to push on the last lap. He saw and felt that reaching in Jackson’s whole effort. The arm rose above Jackson’s head. Mark knew what he was seeing was incredible. Kelly had told him Jackson couldn’t move his arms more than a couple of inches. The hand dropped suddenly. Mark felt his lungs gasp for air. The hand stopped halfway down and slowly started up again.
“Come on, Jackson,” Mark whispered.
The hand was above Jackson’s head. The arm straightened. There was sweat on Jackson’s forehead. He took a deep breath. A smile spread wide and warm on his face. His eyes sparkled.
“Hi, Mark, congratulations.” The hand fell.
There was a loud cheer. The old people were shouting and clapping. Mark’s eyes were moist. He felt the medallion in his pocket. He remembered meeting another man who had done what others said was impossible.
The man was an Olympic gold medal winner and had broken the record for the mile. Mark saw the same look of inner strength in Jackson’s eyes that he had seen in the eyes of the athlete.
Mark stood in front of Jackson. The room was silent again. Mark tried to talk and choked. He cleared his throat. He took out the gold medallion and hung the ribbon around Jackson’s neck.
“I want you to wear this,” he said.

Lukás cares for a sleepy little hamster named Kikina. He feeds his pet seeds, carrots, potatoes, apples, oranges, and nuts and keeps the hamster house clean so the small animal will stay healthy. When Kikina is awake, Lukás talks to him. He used to put Kikina in a toy car and pull him around the room. That was until Kikina jumped out of the car window one day. Lukás has decided the hamster doesn’t like riding in the car.

Recently our daughter and son-in-law were preparing to enjoy an evening together. They were rushing around trying to get ready and give the babysitter some last-minute instructions. They didn’t really notice the sad countenance of one of the children and the tears in the eyes of another until they were at the door, ready to leave. They realized that their children were apprehensive about their mommy and daddy being away from them. So their parents gathered their four precious children around them. Their daddy asked them to put their hands out in front of them. All eight tiny hands were extended. Mom and Dad then kissed each hand and told them that when they missed them or they were frightened or needed to feel their love, they could put their little hands up to their cheeks and they would be able to feel Mommy’s and Daddy’s presence anytime. They were so happy, and when our daughter and son-in-law left, they saw four little children standing at the window with smiles on their faces and hands on their cheeks.

They trusted their parents. They knew they were loved.

When my wife, Mary Anne, and I served in the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, we had a missionary who was an orphan boy. He had no family. The Lord assigned him to be Elder Hawkins’s trainer. I don’t think he was the best trainer, but Elder Hawkins was the best companion for an orphan boy who had become one of the Lord’s missionaries.
Elder Hawkins’s parents wrote to this missionary during his mission and have continued to write to him for the past 15 years. Because of Elder Hawkins and his family, this orphan boy has been loved and cared for and is now happily married, employed, and active in the gospel of Jesus Christ. We all can help change orphan children.

I’m a deacon. My parents have taught me that I should be an example for my friends because I hold the priesthood and because I represent Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. It really helps me to choose the right and look for chances to serve others. I know that if I do good things, my friends will see what I do and maybe want to do good things too.
After Sunday School a while ago, I was in the hall when I saw a teacher who needed help with some chairs. She was going to set them up outside the building for an activity. She didn’t ask me to help her, but I saw that she needed help. There were a lot of chairs, and she was all alone. So I took most of the chairs outside and set them up for her.
Afterward, the teacher said, “Thank you for helping.” It wasn’t a big deal for me since it didn’t take very long, but she was really grateful, which made me feel good. Later, the teacher told my mom about what I had done. My mom said I did a good thing and that I should keep looking for opportunities to serve others, because it’s something that Christ would do.
I was happy and grateful that I had served. It made me feel good, and it made me want to serve more often.
Emiliano H., Texas, USA

It was a stormy winter night. At the airport in Chicago, Illinois, many people were stranded due to delayed or canceled flights. A young pregnant woman stood in the long check-in line, nudging her two-year-old daughter forward with her foot.
Many people made disapproving comments, but no one offered to help.
Man: Why doesn’t she pick up that screaming child?
Woman: What a terrible mother.
With a kind smile, Elder Kimball walked up to the woman.
Elder Kimball: Can I help you?
Mother: Thank you.I’ve had four previous miscarriages. My doctor told me I can’t lift anything—not even my own child.
Elder Kimball picked up the crying child, rubbed her back, and gave her a piece of candy. When the girl was comforted, he informed the other passengers and the airport workers of the woman’s condition.
Airport worker: We’ll have you on the next available flight.
Supervisor: Come and sit and rest until your departure.
The woman’s stress was lessened. Later, she saw a picture of Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Mother: That’s him! That’s the man who helped me.
A few months after that, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
Twenty-one years later, President Kimball received a letter. It was from the son of that young mother.
Student: I served a faithful mission and am now a student at Brigham Young University. Thank you for helping my mother that terrible night!
President Kimball was happy that his small act of service had resulted in so much good.

The northern Arizona evening air had the feel and smell of autumn. The cool air felt good to Letha as she carefully guided Grandmother to the wooden chair outside the old adobe house that rose from the high rocky mesa. Grandmother’s old feet walked very slowly, and her aging body leaned heavily upon Letha’s young arm.
“Here we are, Grandmother,” Letha said gently. The old Hopi woman slowly lowered herself into the creaky wooden chair. Letha sat down on the hard, dry ground next to Grandmother’s feet. She gazed at the quiet desert far below them. A peace settled in Letha’s heart.
“Little Sister, tell me what you see.”
“The sun has painted the sky bright red, the color of your red pottery. Around the edges of red, the sky is dark blue,” Letha said, trying to describe the brilliant sunset.
Letha had become Grandmother’s eyes for her, guiding the old Hopi woman here and there, finding things for her, and, as now, trying to describe the surrounding beauty. In doing so, Letha had begun to see their desert home in a new and wondrous way. Each time she looked at the ever-changing desert floor below, she found a new color, shape, or texture and she saw fresh beauty in each tree and rock. She noticed the swift, smooth, sequential movements of the slick brown lizards on the red rocks. She studied the graceful flights of the birds overhead. All these Letha tried to describe to her beloved grandmother so that she might see them with her mind’s eye.
“Are there clouds?” Grandmother asked now.
“Yes, Grandmother. They are in long streaks, like waves in the sky, each a different shade of red or pink and each turning a new shade of pink with the setting of Brother Sun.”
The air turned cooler as the sun disappeared from sight. Still the two sat quietly, enjoying the evening and each other’s company.
“Tell me about the stars, Little Sister,” Grandmother said as the crickets started to sing.
“They are bright tonight but scattered among the clouds. Bear star is hiding.”
After a long while Grandmother spoke again. “Letha, tomorrow I want you to go down the mesa and get me some white clay.”
“Oh, Grandmother, you are going to make pottery again!” Letha’s young voice held great excitement. Grandmother was a famous potter. Her work was so well known that people had come from far away and paid great amounts of money for her beautiful pottery.
“Yes, Little Sister. I am going to make a very special piece of pottery.” The sadness that was in Grandmother’s voice confused Letha. Making pottery had always been Grandmother’s heart song. She was always happiest when she was creating a piece of fine pottery.
But Grandmother had not made any pottery since her eyes had dimmed. Her old, gnarled hands could still mold perfectly shaped vases, bowls, and pots, but her clouded eyes would not let her see to paint the beautifully intricate and unusual designs that identified her work. When she had begun to lose her sight, she had said, “I will not make pottery that is not my best,” and had put away her pottery tools.
It had broken Letha’s heart to have Grandmother put her tools away. Grandmother had taught Letha to make pottery in the traditional way. Patiently and lovingly she had taught her the ancient craft, guiding her in ways known only to a master potter.
Although Letha was still learning the art of pottery making, it was already the song of her heart too. She loved the feeling of the wet clay in her small hands as she carefully coiled, sanded, smoothed, and painted each piece of pottery. Each vase, bowl, or pot that she created had a bit of herself molded into it. But Letha still had much to learn. Tomorrow she would watch and learn more as Grandmother made her pottery.
“Come, Little Sister. It is time to go in. The air is too cool for this old woman,” Grandmother said as she started to rise from the chair.
That night, as Letha lay curled up in her blanket on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed, her heart was troubled. If Grandmother was going to make pottery again, her heart should be happy. But Grandmother had sounded sad when she asked for the clay. …
It was late in the afternoon when Grandmother sat at her old table with the clay that Letha had gathered. The gnarled old hands rolled out a long thin rope of damp clay with practiced ease. Then slowly, carefully she coiled the rope around and around. Letha watched quietly, amazed that Grandmother could still shape pottery with such ease with blinded eyes.
Grandmother worked silently as she formed a round vase about the size of a grapefruit. Next, her hands skillfully created a graceful neck at the top of the vase. The neck extended into a flat spout. Then another graceful neck with a matching spout was formed on the opposite side of the vase. Lastly a braided handle joined the spouts together.
Grandmother’s hands searched through her tools until she found her favorite dried gourd rind. With the rind she painstakingly smoothed the walls of the double-spouted vase to an even thickness. She handed it to Letha, who carefully set it on the drying shelf.
“This old woman is tired, Little Sister.”
Letha helped Grandmother to her narrow bed and covered her with a warm quilt.
“It is very good clay that you dug today, Little Sister. Thank you.”
Two days later Letha made a big pile of juniper chips outside the adobe house. She covered the pile with sheep dung, placed a flat sandstone on top of the pile, gently placed the now-dry wedding vase on the sandstone, very carefully covered the vase with large pieces of broken pottery, then started the sheep dung on fire. As the flames engulfed the pile, Letha went over to Grandmother.
Grandmother was humming the traditional “firing song.” Letha hummed also. The firing song would help protect the vase from scorching or cracking during the firing.
Much later, when Letha lifted the wedding vase from the gray ashes, she could see that it was perfect in every way. The surface was smooth and uncracked, the white color flawless. Letha carried the warm vase to her grandmother and set it in its maker’s hands. Grandmother turned the vase carefully, feeling every inch of it. A smile crossed her lips.
After holding the vase lovingly for a few minutes, she reached out and took Letha’s small hand into her old, worn one. “Sit, Little Sister. Be my eyes. Tell me what you see here.” Grandmother held out the wedding vase.
“A beautiful, perfect, white wedding vase.” Although Grandmother’s dimmed eyes had not permitted her to paint the intricate designs and lines for which her pottery was famous, to Letha it was the most beautiful piece of pottery that Grandmother had ever made.
“Yes, the traditional vase that binds two hearts together in love.” Grandmother halted for a moment, and Letha could see tears in the clouded brown eyes. “It is the last piece of pottery I shall make. This old woman will not feel the warmth of the next spring.”
“Grandmother—“
“No, Little Sister, you must listen. Soon I will leave this life. There is no sadness in it for me. It is the way of all life. But for you, Little Sister, there will be sadness, I know.” Grandmother squeezed the small hand she still held in her own. “This vase is for you, Little Sister. In it I have molded our hearts together. Each time you look at it, you will think of me and feel me near. Each time you look at it, paint it with the new eyes you have found by seeing for me. Paint it as you have painted my life—with warmth, love, and great beauty. I will continue to live on through you and your pottery making, for we sing the same heart song.”

Dad got us a job mowing the lawn of our meetinghouse. We used an old push lawn mower. At that time, the Church was just beginning to buy power lawn mowers. But my father, who had a calling in the stake, said, “We don’t need a power mower. My boys will take care of it.” Some parts of the lawn were very thick and hard to mow, so we attached a rope to the front of the mower. One brother pulled on the rope while the other pushed the mower. People laughed as they went by and saw us doing this, but it worked!

When I was 11, at a regional conference in Johannesburg, South Africa, President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95) shook my hand and said, “You’re going to go on a mission and be a fine missionary someday.”
Most young men would have cherished those words forever. Not me. For the next 10 years I had no desire to serve a mission. I was more concerned with success in sports and my social life. I thought that giving up two years would throw all that away. During interviews with my branch and stake presidents, I would come up with excuses as to why I didn’t want to serve.
At 21, still with no desire to serve a mission, I visited my family in the United States, in Iowa. They had moved there the year before. While in Iowa I had the chance to go to the Winter Quarters Nebraska Temple with the local singles branch. I wasn’t endowed, so I figured I’d perform baptisms for the dead.
Upon arriving at the temple, I discovered there was no baptismal session scheduled for the afternoon. I thought, “Great, what am I going to do for the next two and a half hours?”
I decided to go to the Mormon Trail Visitors’ Center across the street. After watching a 15-minute movie about the pioneers, I was greeted by two sister missionaries who were going to take me on my own personal tour. After learning a little bit about me, Sister Cusick asked why I hadn’t served a mission. The usual excuses came flying out. Sister Cusick then testified to me not only of the pioneers but also of missionary work.
After the tour I sat in the temple waiting room, thinking. Suddenly, my excuses for not serving a mission became a stupor of thought. The Spirit testified strongly that I should serve a mission. From the time I started talking to the sister missionaries, everything had changed inside me. The Spirit testified to my heart what I needed to do.
Months later I found out that the still, small voice had told Sister Cusick that I needed to have my own tour. She didn’t know why, but the Lord had plans for me.
I served in the California Ventura Mission—the greatest mission in the world—and built some wonderful friendships that I hope will last through the eternities. I didn’t believe President Hunter for 10 years, but he knew exactly what he was talking about.
My life changed completely, all because a sister missionary acted on the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Deborah hadn’t meant to listen to her friends’ conversation, but when she heard her name mentioned, she couldn’t resist listening.
“Did you know that Deborah’s mother is having another baby?” Cassie remarked.
“How many children does that make for them?” Tiffany asked.
“Five. Or six. Something like that.” Cassie laughed. “I don’t know how Deborah stands it. I can’t stand one little brother, and she has three—or four. Plus a baby sister!”
Deborah wanted to tell the girls that she loved all three of her brothers and her little sister. She wanted to tell them that her family was none of their business. But her throat was so tight from being upset that she could barely swallow back her tears, much less speak.
After school, instead of waiting to walk with her friends, she hurried home by herself. She found her mother in the living room, rocking two-year-old Samantha.
Deborah smiled at the sight. Samantha was snuggled against her mother, thumb in her mouth.
“Let me take her.” Deborah lifted her little sister and carried her to the crib. After kissing Samantha’s cheek, Deborah laid her down.
Mom began picking up the toys that littered the living room floor.
Deborah took over the task. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Didn’t the doctor say you’re supposed to take it easy?”
Her mother gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words wrapped Deborah’s heart in a cocoon of warmth.
“Why are you and Dad having another baby?” she asked hesitantly as she put the toys into a basket.
Her mom sat down and placed a hand on her rounded stomach. “There’s a life growing here. A special spirit that Heavenly Father has chosen to send to our family. It’s a wonderful feeling. And a sacred one.” She looked at her daughter curiously. “I thought that you were excited that we were having another baby—aren’t you?”
“I am.” Deborah had looked forward to having another baby in the family since the moment her parents had announced the news.
“But?” her mom prompted.
Deborah thought about making something up, but she could never fool her mother. “Some girls at school were saying that our family has too many children already.” She swallowed hard. “They said that the world has too many people, that you shouldn’t be having any more children.”
A shadow crossed her mom’s face. Deborah sat beside her and leaned against her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“I’m just sorry that you had to hear that. Many people don’t understand the blessing it is to bring another spirit child of Heavenly Father into our home.” Her mother settled back in the sofa. “When we were married, your dad and I didn’t wait to start our family, like many couples do. When you were born, he was still in college, studying to be a teacher. People told us then that we should wait to have children.”
“Wait for what?” Deborah asked.
“Until your dad was out of school and had a good job. Or until we had a house and money in the bank. People have a lot of reasons for waiting to have children.
“President Ezra Taft Benson was the prophet then. He counseled families to not wait to have children, so we didn’t.” Her mother squeezed Deborah’s hand. “You were our first. And you were very, very precious to us. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have a lot of money or that we had to make do with what we had. You were more than worth it, and you still are. So are your brothers and your sister and whoever is coming this time. Your dad and I love each of you with all our hearts.”
“I’m glad you listened to the prophet.”
“So am I, sweetheart.”
The following day, Deborah found Cassie and Tiffany and other friends in the cafeteria. She took a deep breath. “I heard you talking yesterday, and I know that you think our family is too big. The truth is, we’re not big enough. There’s another spirit in heaven waiting to come to earth, to be part of our family.”
The girls looked embarrassed. “Do you really like having so many brothers and sisters?” Tiffany asked at last.
“Sometimes they can be a pain,” Deborah said honestly. “But I love all of them. And I wouldn’t trade any of them for a new pair of jeans or anything else.”
Cassie slid over to make room for Deborah. “Sit down and have lunch with us. Maybe you can teach me how you put up with little brothers.”
Deborah grinned. “First, you have to know how to make truck noises.”

A few months ago, while participating in a service activity I was able to observe a sister who was heavily expecting. I wondered how much she would be able to offer while carrying such a physically demanding load. The agility and energy with which this sister moved to help lift a load for another needing relief, seemed to have lightened her own load. President Spencer W. Kimball (1895-1985) observed, “Only when you lift a burden, God will lift your burden. Divine paradox this! The man who staggers and falls because his burden is too great can lighten that burden by taking on the weight of another’s burden.”3

Jared has also noticed an adjustment in himself in the way he treats his family. He explains: “When you go to the temple, you see things more clearly. I have felt the Spirit guide me to treat my parents and siblings better, to maintain a good relationship with them. There have been times where I have felt upset and was convinced that the other person was wrong, but when I remember that we are an eternal family, I realize that it’s not worth it to argue over petty things.
“Besides,” he adds, with a wry smile, “if I am going to live with them forever, I had better get used to them.”

Soon the corn was growing in straight green rows. We’d weeded out the suckers and weaker plants, leaving only the sturdiest stalks. Papa pulled three white crayons from his pocket and handed one each to Caroline, Ed, and me.

“I want you to draw a line around the bottom of each cornstalk, so the ants don’t crawl up. They won’t cross that line,” he said and showed us what he meant.

“Will the ants hurt the corn?” I wanted to know.

“No, but the aphids will, and where there are ants there are aphids.”

“Why?”

“The ants milk the aphids like we do cows. They need each other.”

“Do we have to do all the corn?” Ed asked.

“Every plant,” Papa said. “If you each do ten rows a day, it will soon be done. That will help keep the worms out too.”

“Ten rows?” Ed complained. “That’s impossible.”

“OK, eight then,” Papa compromised. “Now get to work.”

Every minute Papa could spare from working in the fields he spent fixing up the house. He added on until we had a front room, kitchen, bedroom, and back porch. He dug out underneath the house to make a cellar to store our food and coal for winter.

Occasionally Papa got a job laying brick for a fireplace chimney, and once he received a horse in trade for his work. It was a gentle, broad-backed creature named Bessie, who would carry as many children as could climb on. When she got tired she would walk under the low limbs of the Early Harvest apple tree and sweep the laughing riders off onto the ground. Ed could leap onto her back with a quick, smooth movement that I envied. I always seemed to get stuck lying across her back on my stomach, unable to wiggle around to swing one leg over and sit upright. Ed usually had to give me a shove that threatened to push me off.

One day I had an idea as I sat on the barn roof watching Ed ride Bessie around the yard. “Bring her over here,” I called. “I want to try something.”

Ed rode over. “OK, here we are,” he said. “Come on down.”

“Back her up under the sliding board,” I said.

Ed could see my idea at once and did as I asked. It was not more than two inches from the end of the board to the horse’s back, and I slid easily from one to the other. After that I always mounted Bessie the same way, and before long she backed herself close to the board as soon as anyone was on the barn roof. She learned to lower her head so we could slide down the board onto her back, over her head, and onto the ground in one quick swoop. We called that game the Bessie Bounce, and it was one of our favorites.

One time Bessie got tangled up in some barbwire and had deep, bleeding cuts on both hind legs when we found her.

Papa came out of the house with a curved needle and some black silk thread.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“To sew her up—like you do a tear in your dress,” he explained and showed me how to take a stitch, tie a knot, cut the thread, and take another stitch.

Quickly the wound was pulled together and Papa washed off the blood.

“It’ll soon be good as new,” he assured us.

After that, whenever an animal had a bad cut, I ran to get the curved needle and thread for Papa and watched while he sewed it up.

Mama, Caroline, and I were busy bottling the produce from the garden. Papa had wrapped the stems of the chard in gunnysacks to keep them white, and we bottled the leaves in one half-gallon jar and the stems in another. It was like having two different vegetables.

We were washing the boiler in the yard after finishing the chard when Papa came in from the garden with a bushel basket full of cucumbers for pickles.

“I picked them just the right size for dills,” he said.

We ran clean water into the boiler and he dumped them in for me to wash, while Caroline went after the crock and some salt to make the brine.

“Be sure you rub them all over until you get all those little black prickles off,” Mama told me.

When Caroline came back she filled the crock half full of water. “How much salt do you want put in?” she asked.

“Enough to float an egg.”

As soon as the egg was floating, I slipped the smooth green “torpedoes” into their briny bath until the crock was full. Mama put a dinner plate upside down on the top and weighted it with a brick to keep the pickles submerged. “They have to soak a week in the brine, then in clear water to soak the salt out,” she explained.

“Why put them in salt in the first place if you only have to get it out later?” I wanted to know.

“It makes them keep better,” she said.

“What do you do next?”

“Soak them in alum water so they’ll be crisp. Then we put them down in the pickle barrel in alternating layers of cukes, dill heads, and grape leaves. Then cover it all with a vinegar brine.”

“Are they ready to eat then?”

“No, they have to cure for about a month first.”

After the big barrel was full of dill pickles we made some sweet ones from tiny cukes and a sugar syrup and kept them in the crock. We bottled bread and butter pickles, mustard pickles, piccalilli, and relish.

When the cucumbers were big and fat and yellow we cut them open, hollowed them out, and made boats to float down the irrigation ditches. I thought pickle season was over, but Mama knew one more kind—ripe cucumber pickles.

The corn was ready next. No vegetable was so deliciously sweet as corn on the cob popped into boiling water as soon as it was picked and husked. The eight-row variety we grew had the kernels spaced just right to bite off easily—four sections with two rows in each.

I loved to walk down the whispering rows with Papa to pick the corn. If the ear felt full and hard and the silk was frizzled brown on the top, it was ready. Papa would grab it firmly and crack it off with a quick, downward jerk.

Sometimes there was a little baby corn with long pink or green hair as smooth as silk growing next to its mama. Once in a great while there were twin corn babies. I always saved these little dolls and made cradles for them to hang in the tree where they rocked in the breeze.

When the corn patch was at its peak of production, Papa carried basket after basket into the shade by the house. There the boys pulled off the husks and put the cobs in a pan for Mama, who was waiting on the back porch with a sharp knife to slice off the kernels.

The chickens always came running and flipped up their feather duster behinds as their heads went down to peck up the corn worms or any discarded kernels they could find. Later they would have a feast cleaning off the cobs when Mama had finished with them.

Caroline put the sliced-off corn into dripper pans, heated it for a while in the oven, and then spread the steaming kernels on flour sacks to finish drying in the sun. Flies swarmed around the fragrant sheets but couldn’t get through the layer of gauze that had been put on top for protection. After several hot days, with an occasional stirring, the hard, dry corn was hung in cloth bags from nails in the rafters so the mice couldn’t get at it.

The husks were dried and saved to be used later for filling mattresses and quilts.

At last the watermelons were ripe. I’ll never forget the crisp, cracking sound when the knife bit into the green shell and spread open the luscious fruit, colored like a rosebud and speckled with flat and shiny black seeds, just right for spitting target practice. Watermelon was the best thing of all at the farm. My face was always sticky from being buried in a piece. We didn’t have to bottle, dry, or preserve watermelons. They were just for enjoying while they were fresh—and they were certainly that!

Lizzie used to think a lot of Primary songs were boring. She liked the ones about Jesus, but she felt too old for the playful ones. She’d usually slouch and mumble the words.
But not anymore. Now Lizzie sang all the songs as joyfully as she could. She sat up straight. She sang loudly. She had fun.
Because now, Abby was sitting next to her.
Earlier in the year, Lizzie and the other kids in her class had each been matched up with a new Sunbeam. It was their job to help their Sunbeam buddy feel more comfortable in Primary.
Abby was Lizzie’s Sunbeam buddy. They sat together in Primary. They sang together. Whenever they saw each other at church, they always waved or hugged.
Lizzie loved seeing Abby every Sunday. And she knew that Abby loved seeing her. Abby watched her a lot. When Lizzie sang loudly, so did Abby. When Lizzie folded her arms and sat reverently, so did Abby. It made Lizzie want to always be a good example.
Lizzie wanted Abby to love Primary. She wanted Abby to have fun and feel loved. They could learn about the gospel together!
Abby and Lizzie sat side by side, just like every Sunday. But today they were sitting on the stand in the chapel with the rest of their Primary. It was the Primary program.
Abby swung her legs and grinned up at Lizzie.
“It’s almost your turn,” Lizzie whispered. Each of the Primary children had a speaking part in their program. The older children, like Lizzie, read longer parts. The younger ones, like Abby, recited shorter ones. Lizzie had helped Abby learn her part.
“Just remember, be loud and clear for everyone to hear,” Lizzie said.
“You’re coming with me, right?” Abby said. She looked nervous.
“Of course!” Lizzie said. “I will be right next to you. You are going to do great.”
They stood and sang a song with the rest of the children. Lizzie remembered how she used to not like being in the Primary program. But with Abby, it was so much fun!
Next it was Abby’s turn to speak. Together, the two girls walked to the microphone. Lizzie helped Abby step onto a little stool. Abby froze. She looked scared.
Lizzie put her arm around Abby. She gave her shoulder a little squeeze and whispered, “In my prayers …”
Abby took a deep breath. “In my prayers, I tell Heavenly Father what I’m thankful for.” Her voice was confident and clear.
Abby smiled big, took Lizzie’s hand, and hopped off the stool. They sat down as other children stepped up to the microphone.
“You did so well, Abby!” Lizzie said.
“Was I loud and clear enough?” Abby asked.
“It was perfect!” Lizzie said. “I’ll bet they could hear you all the way in the back row!”
Abby wiggled happily and leaned against Lizzie. They listened as other children recited what they were grateful for.
“Hey, Lizzie?” Abby said. She pulled Lizzie down to whisper in her ear.
“I’m grateful for you!”
Lizzie smiled. “I’m grateful for you too!”

Tomorrow was Christmas!
Jacob helped Mom make sugar cookies. They made them in fun shapes. Stars. Candy canes. Snowmen. Christmas trees.
Mom made frosting. Jacob helped frost the cookies. Jacob and Mom put sprinkles on the frosting. Jacob was having fun.
But Jacob kept thinking. There were lots of presents under the Christmas tree. One of them was wrapped in red paper. It had Jacob’s name on it. He thought maybe it was a soccer ball. Jacob loved soccer.
Tomorrow was so far away. Jacob wiggled in his chair. He wanted Christmas now!
“Time for dinner,” Mom said. It was chicken noodle soup. That was Jacob’s favorite! But all through dinner Jacob wiggled. It was just too hard to wait for Christmas.
After dinner the family went to the living room. Jacob tried to sit still. But he kept wiggling. He wanted to open his presents.
Jacob’s family had a Christmas program. They sang “Silent Night.” Then Dad read about when Jesus was born.
Jacob stopped wiggling. He felt peaceful. He remembered that Christmas was about Jesus.
Mom prayed. Then Jacob hugged her.
“Jesus is the best part of Christmas!” he said.