Gospel Story Finder

When Miss Nonchello asked the class to bring a treat to share in honor of Thanksgiving, Ying was excited to ask her mother to bake bread.
“I will make a special bread for your class,” Mom said before Ying went to bed that night.
Ying spent the night wondering what kind of bread Mom would make. She pictured herself taking cinnamon bread to class. Everyone would like cinnamon bread. Or what if Mom made honey bread, like Emily’s mother made? Her classmates would like that too.
Thinking about it made Ying’s tummy rumble. The next morning, Ying imagined she could smell the aroma of baking bread. Then her eyes popped open. She really was smelling something!
Ying jumped out of bed and got ready for school. Hurrying to the kitchen, Ying saw Mom wrapping something in foil.
“What did you make, Mom?” Ying asked eagerly.
“Bread,” Mom replied as Ying peeked under the foil.
Ying jumped back, staring at the flat pieces of bread she saw. It wasn’t honey bread or cinnamon bread. She didn’t think it was bread at all!
“That isn’t bread,” Ying said, disappointed. “It’s like pancakes.”
“Well, in the Chinese culture, we consider it like bread,” Mom said.
“My classmates won’t want to eat it,” Ying said with a frown. She was worried about seeming different.
“You never know,” Mom said, smiling. “Different can be good, and this bread is part of our family’s heritage.”
With a grumble, Ying took the Chinese bread to school. She knew Mom wanted her to be proud of her family, but she could only imagine her classmates laughing when they saw her treat.
A few of the students brought pumpkin pie. Others brought popcorn and candy. Seeing how different her treat was, Ying tried to hide the bread behind the large punch bowl at the back of the classroom.
“What’s that?” Steve asked.
“Bread,” Ying murmured.
Before Ying could stop him, Steve opened the foil and took a sniff.
“Ooohh!” Steve said loudly.
A crowd of classmates gathered around to stare at the flat pieces of bread. A few tears formed in Ying’s eyes as she braced herself for laughter.
“That looks wonderful!” Miss Nonchello said. “Who made this?”
“My mom did,” Ying said, blushing.
“It smells delicious,” Miss Nonchello said. “Ying, why don’t you tell us about it?”
“My mom said it was Chinese bread,” Ying said quietly. “But it doesn’t look like bread to me.”
“I think everyone is excited to try some,” Miss Nonchello said.
And with that, the feast began. Ying’s classmates all took a piece of the bread. Afraid to try it herself, Ying nibbled on popcorn and pumpkin pie.
“This is good!” Steve called out.
“Yeah!” Emily said as she took another piece of bread. “It’s even better than my mom’s honey bread!”
“Really? You think so?” Ying asked.
“We all think it’s great,” Miss Nonchello said with a smile. “Come have some, Ying.”
Ying nervously lifted one piece of the flat bread from the pile and took a bite. It was delicious!
“I guess Mom was right,” Ying thought. “Different can be good.” She smiled as she took another bite, proud of her family and their delicious heritage.

Sister Paula Thomas of Sandy, Utah, discovered for herself that Heavenly Father does indeed speak to His children. She remembers:
“I was raised in a less-active home. Because of the influence of friends, I began attending Primary. When I was nine years old, my Primary teacher gave a lesson on personal prayer. I knew that I could pray at mealtimes and in meetings, but I had never thought of praying to Heavenly Father on my own.
“After the teacher dismissed our class, I approached her and asked her to teach me to pray. Kindly, she pulled out a piece of paper and began to write and talk at the same time. ‘You always begin by thanking Heavenly Father for all you have,’ she said, ‘and then you tell Him the desires of your heart. Is there something special you want to ask for, Paula?’
“I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to make my mother happy. I did not recall ever seeing her smile or laugh. Life was hard, and Mother cried often. I loved her so much that I would write poems, put on programs for her on Mother’s Day, and buy her gifts with my baby-sitting money. She was always grateful, but I knew her burdens were heavy.
“I left Primary that afternoon with those written instructions from my teacher. That night, when the house was quiet, I knelt at my bed and began my very first personal prayer. I prayed that I would be able to make my mother happy. I offered the same prayer every night for seven years.
“When I was 16, I received my patriarchal blessing from a patriarch whom I had never met. In my blessing he said: ‘Paula, the Lord has heard the prayers of your heart. A time will come in your life when you will be able to return with a deep feeling of love the gifts that have been so graciously given unto you by your mother. You will not only bring your mother happiness, you will give her the gift of joy.’
“As he was giving me the blessing, I received a powerful witness of God’s desire to communicate with us through personal revelation. Heavenly Father had heard my prayers, and He let me know he was aware of me.
“Years later, after my mother’s death, I went through the temple to receive sacred ordinances in her behalf. While there, I received an impression that I had truly given my mother the gift of joy—that day and on many other occasions.”

Some time back a small, bent, elderly woman came to my office. For the purpose of this talk I shall call her Mary Olsen, although that is not her name and she would not wish her identity disclosed. She said she had just come over from the temple. She took from her purse her checkbook. She said that she had been a widow for many years, that life had not been easy for her. She had a great love for the Lord and his Church. She had faithfully paid her tithing all her life. She felt she would not live much longer. Now, she said, she felt she ought to be doing more to help than she had done. In a hand shaky with age, she wrote a check for $5,000. She handed it to me. I noted the address where she lived. It was in a poor neighborhood. I confess that as I looked at that check tears came into my eyes. I have held many larger checks than that in my hands. But as I held the check of this widow woman, I was almost overcome by her faith and the seriousness of the trust that was mine in the expenditure of her consecrated contribution.

My dear young friends, we—you and I—are trustees of that which has been given to the Lord by Mary Olsen and thousands like her whose devotion is as great and whose sacrifice is as certain. This beautiful campus, with its many programs, is a consumer of a very substantial portion of the widow’s contribution. She gives her offering to the Lord, and she is then released from responsibility. The responsibility then becomes mine—and yours!

Ruth has a love for children that she gained in part from her own youth. Many of Ruth’s childhood summers were spent in Springville, Utah, with her Aunt Millie Reynolds Martain. Aunt Millie was the midwife for that area, and like the old horse-and-buggy country doctor, many nights—good weather or bad—she would go out to help some new child into the world.

When Ruth was visiting her, Millie would take her along. Ruth would wait outside until the baby had come and then be called in to help give the newborn his first bath.

It was a beautiful tradition that helped teach her reverence for life; she has carried it on with each of her grandchildren. Wherever it happens, when they come into the world, Grandmother Funk is there to welcome them. Her careful attention and investment of time and love has developed into a close relationship with each of her grandchildren.

It was here, during my time as a student at BYU–Hawaii, that I met my husband, Thomas. At the time, it didn’t feel like anything extraordinary—it actually started in a very ordinary way. I was a staff writer for Ke Alaka‘i, and I had been assigned to cover a big event taking place in the ballroom that weekend. I ended up having one circumstance after another pile up, which meant I arrived at the event a little late and by the time I got there, I had completely missed the band that everyone had been talking about. I remember thinking, this is not ideal… I still have to write this article.

I told my friend, “I didn’t even get to see them play—what am I supposed to do?”

And she said, “Well, the good news is I know the drummer. He’s my Gospel Doctrine teacher, and he’s really nice—you can just interview him.”

So, I walked up to this tall, thin haole guy, wearing a skinny tie, and really cool shoes—which I noticed immediately, because I always notice people’s shoes.

And I introduced myself and explained, “Hi, I’m writing an article about your performance… but I didn’t actually see it.”

And he blinked at me a few times, kind of laughed under his breath, and said, “Seriously?”

And I said, “Yep. So… can you give me a quote for my article anyway?”

And he very kindly did. I don’t even remember what he said. But I do remember having a very clear impression at that moment: This person seems like he would be a really good friend. And at that point in my life, I really needed a good friend.

The next week, I was talking to someone from his band and mentioned that I had met their drummer and was going to quote him in my article.

And he said, “Oh—Tom?”

And I said, “I think so…”

And he said, “You two would actually really get along. I could connect you.”

And I said, “Absolutely not. That would be so embarrassing. I’m good—thank you.”

But, he gave him my number anyway. And Thomas called me the next day. We spent time together the day after that, and we have pretty much been together every day since. I went from missing his performance to attending just about every show his band played around the island—and even a few on Maui. And over time, that simple introduction became something much more. We built a life together. We have raised four beautiful children. We have gone through multiple graduate programs together. And we have walked through both joyful seasons and very difficult ones.

It’s a whirlwind BYU–Hawaii, Seasider, slightly punk-rock love story. But looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully see then. What felt like a small, even inconvenient moment—missing a performance, arriving late, was actually part of something much bigger. I was exactly where I needed to be. The Lord was quietly shaping my life in ways I didn’t yet understand. And even then, even in that early beginning, I was not alone.

Some time ago in my high priests quorum meeting, the instructor introduced the lesson by asking each of us to respond to who our hero is and why. As each member took his turn responding, the answers were not unexpected. Of course someone named the Savior, the Redeemer of the world. Another spoke of Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves, led the United States through a civil war, and eventually unified the country. Others chose the Prophet Joseph Smith and our beloved current prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley. As each named a hero, I silently concurred and acknowledged that all were men worthy of emulating and that I would be a better person if I possessed some of the qualities that made those men great.
When my turn came to respond, I turned to a brother on my right, a few seats down the row from me, and said, “My hero is Ken Sweatfield and his wife, Jo Ann.” For 20 years I watched Ken and Jo Ann care for their comatose son with all the love and patience a parent could possibly give. I had often pondered the shattered hopes and dreams they surely had for Shane before he suffered a terrible automobile accident just two weeks before he was to begin his mission in Leeds, England. I have watched Ken and Jo Ann wheel Shane into the sunlight or push him through the neighborhood, describing the scenery, hoping that he might hear and feel, and hoping that the fresh air and sunlight might lighten a very subdued spirit. For 20 years there were no vacations from this care, few evenings out, but there was always a spirit of faith, optimism, and gratitude—never a show of anger, despair, or questioning of God’s purposes.
I then turned to a brother on my left and said, “My hero is Jim Newton and his wife, Helen.” Shortly after Jim and Helen’s son Zach received his mission call to Peru, he was taken in an automobile accident. When I heard of the accident, I rushed to the hospital, hoping to hear that Zach was alive and would recover. The parents, in a most dignified and peaceful manner, explained that Zach would now be serving his mission on the other side of the veil. As I witnessed the calm resolve of these two strong parents, I realized that through the pain and anguish there was a peace that could come only through a deep and abiding faith in a loving Father and an atoning Savior. My faith was strengthened, and through their inspiration my resolve to follow their example in meeting similar trials and tragedies was reaffirmed.
I could have also answered that my hero is Tom Abbott and his son John, my faithful home teachers who never missed a home teaching assignment even though we are often a difficult family to catch at home. I could have named dozens of others that I admire and could call my heroes. Many do not hold so-called high or prominent callings in the Church, but all are worthy to hold any position. None are widely known to the general membership of the Church, but all, I am certain, are known by name to our Heavenly Father.
On the occasions that I am able to attend sacrament meeting in my own ward, I am often reflective as I look down in the congregation and see the same faces Sunday after Sunday. Some I have seen regularly in sacrament meeting for more than 20 years. Again, most are not in the limelight of the Church, but all consistently attend their meetings and privately meet life’s challenges.
These are the many members I see, admire, and am grateful for. They are not seeking position, prominence, or fame, but each is earning a place in our Father’s kingdom by taking care of the business of everyday living. They are consistently doing the unnoticed, the unspectacular, but humbly and righteously doing the important. Challenges they have, but out of their bitter struggles they are able to find the sweetness that is so often the silent companion to adversity. This picture is duplicated hundreds of times in thousands of wards throughout the world. They are The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Yes, the strength of the Church is in the millions of humble members striving every day to do the will of the Savior—day by day, one step at a time. These humble members come from all nationalities, all social strata, and every economic background. They include those of the highest educational backgrounds as well as those of the humblest who live in the smallest hamlets in the most remote areas of the world—all having hearts throbbing with a vital testimony of Jesus Christ and a desire to serve the Lord.
As I have pondered these faithful members, I am struck by two qualities they all seem to have. First, regardless of social or economic status or position, their humility leads to submissiveness to the Lord’s will. And second, in spite of the difficulties and trials of life, they are able to maintain a sense of gratitude for God’s blessings and life’s goodness. Humility and gratitude are truly the twin characteristics of happiness.
A story is told of an encounter between the Prophet Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. In the presence of a rather large group of brethren, the Prophet severely chastised Brother Brigham for some failing in his duty. Everyone, I suppose somewhat stunned, waited to see what Brigham’s response would be. After all, Brigham, who later became known as the Lion of the Lord, was no shrinking violet by any means. Brigham slowly rose to his feet, and in words that truly reflected his character and his humility, he simply bowed his head and said, “Joseph, what do you want me to do?” The story goes that sobbing, Joseph ran from the podium, threw his arms around Brigham, and said in effect, “You passed, Brother Brigham, you passed” (see Truman G. Madsen, “Hugh B. Brown—Youthful Veteran,” New Era, Apr. 1976, 16).
Many of us live or work in an environment where humility is often misunderstood and considered a weakness. Not many corporations or institutions include humility as a value statement or a desired characteristic of their management. Yet as we learn about the workings of God, the power of a humble and submissive spirit becomes apparent. In the kingdom of God, greatness begins with humility and submissiveness. These companion virtues are the first critical steps to opening the doors to the blessings of God and the power of the priesthood. It matters not who we are or how lofty our credentials appear. Humility and submissiveness to the Lord, coupled with a grateful heart, are our strength and our hope.
In giving the requirements for membership in His Church, the Lord stated, “All those who humble themselves before God … and come forth with broken hearts and contrite spirits, … [these are the ones who] shall be received by baptism into his church” (D&C 20:37).
And so within the membership of the Church we see men and women of all backgrounds humbly submitting to the counsel of God. We see the prominent business executive graciously and humbly receiving and being taught by a humble, sometimes even intimidated, home teacher. We see the highly educated humbly following counsel from their bishops, who sometimes have little formal education. We see former bishops and stake presidents graciously and humbly accepting calls to teach in the Primary, assist in the nursery, or assemble humanitarian kits to be sent to the needy throughout the world. We see thousands of mature couples leaving their comfortable homes to live in circumstances to which they are not accustomed, to humbly serve the poverty-stricken throughout the world—and then serve again and again and again. We see the poverty-stricken in the world humbly sacrificing to share their meager substance of life with those who are even more destitute. And each, in their humility, is serving and giving with a grateful heart and giving praise to God.
King Benjamin warned that we must “[become] as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [us]” (Mosiah 3:19).
Humbly submitting our will to the Father brings us the empowerment of God—the power of humility. It is the power to meet life’s adversities, the power of peace, the power of hope, the power of a heart throbbing with a love for and testimony of the Savior Jesus Christ, even the power of redemption. To this end, the Savior is our supreme example of the power of humility and submissiveness. After all, His submitting His will to the Father brought about the greatest, and even the most powerful, event in all of history. Perhaps some of the most sacred words in all the scriptures are simply, “Not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42).
So we have the thousands, even millions, of throbbing hearts—heroes, I suspect we could say, but perhaps a more appropriate description is merely humble followers of the Savior Jesus Christ. And, as President Hinckley has asked of each of us, they are just doing their best—one day at a time.
May a humble and submissive heart be our empowerment from God with all of its attendant blessings is my humble prayer. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I reflected on this experience some months ago when in Sunday School the class discussed the ministry of President Spencer W. Kimball. I can remember as a student your age hearing President Kimball ask, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” in reference to being prepared for the gospel to be preached to the Communist bloc countries. This was at the height of the cold war. I marveled at his faith. I doubted I would see the day this would happen. Last year, in joyful irony, I welcomed back my daughter Emily from a mission to Russia.

My youngest sister wrote the following: Our family was living in Mexico City when my oldest brother, Ken, was preparing to go on a mission. He had just become engaged to his high school girlfriend. The night before he was to meet with the stake president, he told my parents he had decided not to go on a mission. This was unthinkable to my parents who had come from families that had given up everything several times for the gospel's sake, and who were themselves willing to sacrifice anything that was required by the Lord. My mother prayed and in the morning a terrible storm was unleashed by Heavenly Father in answer to her prayer. So much water fell from the heavens that the entrances to the school where we lived were flooded. (description of the school) No one could come in or out. Ken wasn't able to meet with the stake president that afternoon. The storm gave Ken time to feel the workings of the Spirit. He decided to serve a mission. He went on to fill an honorable mission, he was blessed, our family was blessed, and the people he taught were blessed. He has always been thankful for his opportunity to serve. I feel that my mother's prayers made a difference. We can't always change people, but the Lord certainly can work miracles. Alma teaches this when he tells the story of his son, Alma. He couldn't change his son's life, but his prayers opened the way for the Lord to help him. As a family and as individuals, I know we have been blessed by Mother's prayers for us. I know when I am praying about something really important I call Mom and Dad so they can help me pray about it. End of Quote.

In my home ward growing up, Brother Smith (not his real name) was the choir director for as long as I can remember. It was not until years later that I learned that Brother Smith had a Word of Wisdom problem that he never completely overcame. I am grateful to the members of our ward who made room for Brother Smith in the inn. I am also grateful to Brother Smith, who came to church and served despite his weakness. We, like the members of my home ward, should do our best to welcome all of God’s children at the inn. Most importantly, we should see ourselves as always welcome at the inn.

With sorrow we have read of young men and those not so young who bravely die, who give their lives upon the altar of freedom. In a hurried moment, one such took in hand a pencil and a scrap of paper and wrote to a worried loved one: “Soon we go into battle. The enemy is well fortified; loss of life will be great. Mom, I hope I live, but I’m not afraid to die, for I’m right with God.”

His mother received the precious note. On the same day another message arrived; “We regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action.”

Friends visited, loved ones comforted, but peace came only from him who called Nazareth his home.

Last year, Lisa dislocated her shoulder and missed a chance to go to the Blue Star Basketball Camp to be seen by college recruiters. She was disappointed, but she didn’t give up. “I knew that I’d kept my body clean and strong and that it would heal fast.” She came back playing even stronger.
Lisa’s coach, John Schneiter, says, “In my 35 years of coaching, I’ve never seen a harder working athlete.”

As a young missionary I witnessed such an example in the conduct of President Harold B. Lee. I had the privilege of traveling through my mission with Elder Lee, who at the time was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. During the trip he was suffering with stomach pain from what was thought to be an ulcer. Some individuals might be unpleasant traveling companions with such discomfort, perhaps feeling irritable or complaining, but Elder Lee was not the least bit unpleasant.

One evening, after driving several hours, we stopped for dinner, and a young waitress came to take our orders. Elder Lee, feeling the painful effects of his condition, asked only for a bowl of “milk toast.” The young lady replied that he could not have milk toast because it was not on the menu. Elder Lee, in a kindly manner, simply requested two slices of toast and a glass of milk. He then asked if it would be too much trouble to warm the milk. When his meal was served, he politely asked if he might please have an empty bowl. After he received the bowl, he thanked the waitress and proceeded to break the bread into the bowl and pour the warm milk over it. He did not get upset or impatient; he just kindly resolved the situation. I have always been grateful to have observed this mark as it was added to President Lee’s touchstone.

I too would like to give a special thanks to Jamie Glenn and Rayna Jones for being “in tune” with the Spirit when they composed the beautiful “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God,” which was published in the April 1979 New Era. This song contributed much happiness, serenity, and peace of mind to my dear friend Lorna Smith during the last year of her life.
In May of 1981 Lorna had her first operation for cancer. The family was told that life expectancy for this type of cancer was about four months. However, she was given chemotherapy and her health improved. One year later, in May 1982, she became very ill again. One Sunday morning before she was taken back to the hospital, I was visiting her when she told me about hearing this song at a Relief Society function. It had so touched her heart that she had asked Kris Taylor, the sister who had sung it, to record it for her so that she might listen to it at home. This had been done, and that Sunday the two of us listened to it and shed tears as we heard the words, “He’s closer than you know—reach up, He’ll take your hand.” Lorna sent a copy of the tape to Nebraska to be played to her 92-year-old mother and aged aunt who are not members of the Church. She also shared the song with her daughters whom she wanted to realize that they are truly daughters of God.
She had another operation that May 1982, and the new growth was found to be inoperable. She was again given about four months to live. Her treatment was changed and she lived another 13 months, during which she had the privilege of enjoying the arrival of two new grandchildren. Throughout this last year of her life she often listened to “her song.” The words gave her strength, hope, and courage. Her display of these qualities touched the lives of many.
In May of 1983 she again became so ill that her digestive system could not tolerate even water. Another operation disclosed several cancerous blockages in her intestines. During this lengthy stay at the hospital I took a tape to her on which the Gunderson sisters had recorded some special songs for her. One of them was “Walk Tall.” As it was playing there in the hospital room, a nurse came in singing the words. She told us that this song was also special to her. She had heard it and sung it on her mission. This seemed to create an understanding between her and Lorna.
The cancer spread to Lorna’s liver, and she died at home on June 28, 1983. As I stood there by her, in my mind I could hear and feel the impact of the words, “He’s closer than you know—reach up, He’ll take your hand.”
Her special song was sung beautifully at her funeral by the Gunderson sisters, and on her headstone, as a reminder to her children and grandchildren, is engraved “WALK TALL, YOU‘RE A DAUGHTER OF GOD.”
Dorothy M. BolinderGrantsville, Utah

Valerie Walters and Becky Warnick, dressed in white robes with sparkles in their hair, were participating in an angel choir, singing about the birth of Jesus Christ. Seated between Valerie and Becky was Chelan Feller, also dressed as an angel. Chelan needed the comforting shoulder of Becky and the kind touch of Valerie to be able to participate. Chelan attends the American Fork Special Education Seminary, and she, along with 40 of her fellow students, were participating in the first of what they hope will be their annual Christmas pageant. Serving the American Fork Training School in Utah, the seminary has classes geared to the levels of their special education students.
Valerie and Becky, 18, were just two volunteers from the Alpine Utah 11th Ward who volunteered to help the Special Education Seminary stage their pageant. Each special needs teen was assigned a helper to assist in putting on costumes over everyday clothes, to be by the sides of the students as they spoke or sang their parts, and to accompany them as they entered and exited.
It turned out to be an exciting evening. With parents and families crowding the seminary building, the age-old story of the Savior’s birth was presented. But more than the story, the example of kindness and unselfishness that represented the Savior’s life also filled the room.
Becky said, “Many of the students can’t bear their testimonies in words, but when I look into their eyes I see that they know Christ.”

As the father of seven sons, I have always wanted them to love, honor, and respect their mother. As the older ones have gone through their teen years and beyond, it has been gratifying to watch them do special things for their mother.
My wife, Nicki, loves flowers. Over the years, it has not been uncommon for one of the boys to bring his mother a special bouquet of a dozen roses. These floral gifts haven’t necessarily come on Mother’s Day, her birthday, or some other special occasion, although they have come then too. More often than not, these timely gifts come spontaneously and unexpectedly just to say, “Thanks, Mom, for everything you do and for putting up with me.”
Such was the case when Jarom, our mission-bound son, surprised his mother. Over the years Jarom had found words and gestures of love and appreciation difficult to come by. He was a big, handsome, muscular young man who could bench-press 300 pounds but still struggled to refine the delicate art of telling his mother he loved her.
Of course, Nicki knew Jarom loved her, and she had accepted the fact that he would probably communicate his love and appreciation to her in other ways not associated with flowers, cards, or even spoken words.
But one afternoon he walked into the house and handed her a bouquet of yellow long-stemmed roses. Somewhat taken aback, Nicki caught her breath and exclaimed, “Jarom, how beautiful!” She instinctively breathed in their rich fragrance. “I love them. One dozen yellow roses!”
Jarom shrugged sheepishly and shook his head. “Actually, there are only 11,” he confessed. He cleared his throat and smiled bashfully. “I gave one of them away.”
He paused and then explained. “I picked up the roses and was on my way home when I passed this girl from our neighborhood. She was about nine or ten, just kind of dragging down the sidewalk, looking really sad.” He shrugged and grinned. “So I figured, why not. I stopped, took a rose from your bouquet and handed it to her. I told her to have a great day.”
“What did she do?” Nicki asked, curious.
Jarom laughed. “Well, she wasn’t sad anymore.” He took a deep breath and added, “So that’s why you’ve only got 11 roses.”
Nicki smiled for a moment and tried to picture in her mind that girl walking down the street, discouraged and perhaps crushed by some adolescent tragedy. In the midst of her sorrow she looks up and sees this big, handsome neighbor approach her with a single yellow rose, perhaps the first she has ever received in her life. He smiles at her, hands her the rose, and tells her to have a great day. She is probably flattered beyond words, and suddenly her gray day is brightened by the unexpected light from Jarom’s yellow rose.

Ana chewed her last bite of tortilla. She loved her grandmother’s tortillas. They were the best part of breakfast.
Ana watched her grandmother, Abuela, wash the dishes. It was like any other morning. But one thing was not the same.
Most mornings Ana and Abuela walked to the market to buy food. But today there was no money.
What will we eat tomorrow? Ana wondered.
Then Ana remembered. Last night she saw Abuela put a few pesos in a little bag.
“Abuela, you have money to buy food,” Ana said.
“What money?” Abuela asked.
Ana ran to get the little bag of coins. Clink! Clink!
Abuela smiled. “That is our tithing. That is for Heavenly Father.”
“But what will we eat tomorrow?” Ana asked.
“Do not worry,” Abuela said. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
The next morning Abuela gave Ana the last tortilla. Then she sat down in her chair. She told stories about when she was a little girl. She did not look worried.
Then Ana heard a knock. She ran to open the door.
“Uncle Pedro!”
“I had a feeling I should visit,” Uncle Pedro said. He put three sacks on the table. One had flour for tortillas. Another had meat. Another had vegetables.
“Oh, my sweet son,” Abuela said. “Thank you!”
Ana was so happy. But there was one thing she wanted to know. “Abuela, did you know Uncle Pedro would come? Is that why you weren’t worried?”
“No,” Abuela said. “When I pay tithing, I have faith that Heavenly Father will bless me. And He did!”
Ana hugged Abuela. She felt like the happiest girl in Mexico. She and Abuela had faith in Heavenly Father.

I grew up in a house on the corner of Main Street in a small Idaho town. Often during the summer we would spend our afternoons and evenings in the front yard, playing on the grass or visiting with our neighbors.
One afternoon while we were playing in the yard, my youngest sister, who was only two years old, bolted out into the street. At the same moment, a truck with a couple of teenage boys from down the street screeched around the corner. My dad acted quickly and pulled my little sister out of the truck’s path. The boys in the truck shouted unkind and inappropriate words as they sped down the street.
I was angry, to say the least. I remember thinking someone should go down to the boys’ house and put them in their place. My sister could have been hurt or killed by their careless, dangerous driving.
I was glad when I saw my mother walking down the street, and I followed her. I was certain that the boys were going to be in big trouble. When we got to the house, the boy who had been driving answered the door. He was angry and defensive. He asked what we wanted and, to my surprise, my mother began to apologize. She said she was sorry that she had allowed her daughter to be so close to the street and told him she would watch my sister more carefully in the future.
Immediately the boy’s countenance changed. He apologized for driving so fast and for putting my sister in danger. He vowed to be more careful as he drove. After the short conversation, we returned home.
I still have never seen such an immediate change come over someone as it did over that boy that afternoon. We lived in that house for 11 more years, and in that time I never again saw the boy drive carelessly around the corner. As Proverbs 15:1 teaches, “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” I imagine the outcome of the situation would have been very different if my mom would have approached angrily. Instead, two hearts were changed by the soft words of my mother.

Recently, Lesa and I attended the viewing of a dear friend, a woman of faith whose life was cut short by illness. We gathered with her family and close friends, exchanging fond memories of this beautiful soul who had enriched our lives.
While standing away some distance from the casket, conversing with others, I noticed two young Primary-age girls approach the casket and stretch up on their tiptoes—eyes just reaching its edge—to pay their final respects to their beloved aunt. With no one else nearby, Lesa slipped over and crouched down beside them to offer comfort and teaching. She asked how they were doing and if they knew where their aunt was now. They shared their sadness, but then these precious daughters of God, with confidence brimming in their eyes, said they knew their aunt was now happy and she could be with Jesus.
At this tender age, they found peace in the great plan of happiness and, in their own childlike way, testified of the profound reality and simple beauty of the Resurrection of the Savior. They knew this in their hearts because of thoughtful teachings of loving parents, family, and Primary leaders planting a seed of faith in Jesus Christ and eternal life. Wise beyond their years, these young girls understood truths that come to us through the Easter message and ministry of the resurrected Savior and the words of the prophets as told in the Book of Mormon.

One man told of an interesting coincidence that happened the first time he attended the Gospel Essentials class with a neighbor. “I had mixed emotions about going at first,” he said. “I was mildly interested in finding out what the Mormons believe, but I was afraid someone would say something about me smelling like tobacco. I knew the Mormons didn’t believe in smoking. But when I got there, who should I see but my other next-door neighbor. I knew he had smoked for years, and he looked pretty sheepish, too. But when he spotted me, he opened up with a wide grin, and we were a pair throughout the classes. We got along great with everybody.”

“Put your foot inside this shoe,” seminary teacher Tatyana Mutilina said, holding out a boot nearly large enough for Goliath. Her student Anzhelika Kovalova timidly placed her foot inside.
“Now,” the teacher said, “put it here on the table where everyone can see.”
That got the class’s attention.
“Don’t go on a journey wearing shoes that don’t fit,” Sister Mutilina said. Then she taught the Kharkovsky Branch youth a powerful lesson from the seminary manual, reading scriptures, discussing questions, and bearing her testimony of how important it is to be prepared when the Lord calls upon you.
The point? “That the future of the Church in Ukraine will require youth like us to step forward,” Anzhelika says. “We need to be ready for the challenge.”