Gospel Story Finder

I express gratitude for a Sunday School teacher [named] Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She made the scriptures actually come to life.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we [imagined] cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever.
None of us will forget that gray Sunday morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that day was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Lucy Gertsch asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. We [had] learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.

The Young Women of the Mountain Home Fourth Ward, Mountain Home Idaho Stake, undertook a special service project for the mothers in the ward. On Mother’s Day the Young Women took over the entire Primary to give the leaders and teachers a chance to attend Relief Society and Sunday School.

Each girl was assigned a position, from leading sharing time and the music to teaching a class. Some of the younger girls chose to team teach. The Young Women dedicated themselves to preparing excellent lessons for the children.

In preparation for the service project, the Young Women received instruction on teaching lessons. They were anxious to put into action the things they learned.

In addition to this service project, the Young Women also set up baby-sitting services for ward temple day.

Many, many years ago, woodcutters went deep into the jungle of Chiapas, Mexico, in search of precious wood. Because of the difficult terrain, they could not take their families with them. When they finally reached their work site, the men raised temporary rustic huts of thick branches, roofed with palm leaves.
Night after night, after long days of woodcutting, the men would sit around the fire and talk or sing. The songs they had learned from their ancestors floated away on the night wind. But the men were lonely, and there was sadness and even bitterness in their voices. There was a great need for some cheerful music to accompany the sad choruses that penetrated the jungle.
Among the woodcutters was a handsome young boy named Quetzal Feather. This boy loved the murmur of the jungle more than anything or anyone in the whole world.
One evening as the sun was about to set, Quetzal Feather went deep into the jungle. He was guided by the music of the wind in the foliage. Suddenly he stopped. He thought he heard the sound of voices high in the branches. He went forward cautiously until he was almost at the foot of a tasseled palm. The palm was speaking sadly to a majestic-looking silk-cotton tree.
Quetzal Feather hardly breathed as he listened to what the trees were saying.
“My friend,” said the palm, “because of my great height, I can see the place from where those heartrending songs come. Just before nightfall, I saw the woodcutters with their eyes fixed upon the jungle. How sadly they sang!”
The robust silk-cotton tree shook its branches in protest. “Man should not live sunken in sadness!” it declared.
“We should do something,” responded the palm tree.
Quetzal Feather, hidden in the underbrush, listened in wonderment to the conversation. Then, he heard another voice, shy and nervous. It sent a shiver through him as he strained to catch every word.
“Friends and companions,” said the voice humbly, “the sad songs of the woodcutters have moved me to my very roots. But—perhaps I can do something to help.”
Quetzal Feather poked his head out of the underbrush and saw the tree that had just spoken. It was an hormiguillo tree that stood not far from the stately palm.
The great silk-cotton tree answered first, a little doubtfully. “If you can help, please do so!” it begged.
“Yes,” agreed the palm, “but what can you do? How can you lift the sadness from the woodcutters’ hearts?”
“For a long time now,” began the hormiguillo tree with more self-assurance, “I have been storing under my bark the torrent of nature’s harmony. For a long time I have held the songs of the birds and the cricket, the murmur of wind and rain, and the sound of water cascading over rocks. I have treasured up in me the soft sound of doves in flight and the roar of the tempest.”
Suddenly, before Quetzal Feather had time to realize what the tree had said, beautiful chords began to come from the hormiguillo tree.
“What music is this?” Quetzal Feather asked himself in amazement. “Even the jungle trembles in delight!”
The branches of the palm and the silk-cotton tree swayed in surprised and happy approval.
Trembling with excitement, Quetzal Feather fled from the underbrush. He wished to tell the woodcutters all that he had heard.
But the woodcutters did not believe him, judging him to be a strange and imaginative boy. Wearily they entered their huts for a night’s rest. And Quetzal Feather was left by the dying fire, alone and confused. Then just before sunrise he arose and ran straight as an arrow to the place where he had hidden in the underbrush the night before. The hormiguillo tree was silent now, yet in spite of its silence, some strange love kept Quetzal Feather beside the tree.
Days and nights passed, but the youth, hugging the hormiguillo tree, heard not a single happy note of the heavenly music he had heard before.
The woodcutters were very fond of Quetzal Feather, in spite of what they thought were the boy’s strange imaginings, and they tried to persuade him to leave the tree. But it was of no use. “The tree has bewitched him,” the Old Ones said sadly.
At last, Quetzal Feather became so weak and tired that he fell asleep at the foot of the tree.
“Now,” said the oldest woodcutter, “we can help him. While he sleeps deeply, we will cut the tree down and free him from his bewitchment.”
With their sharpened axes, the woodcutters began to chop at the hormiguillo tree. But to their great surprise and fear, beautiful musical sounds came from the tree at each stroke of their axes.
Quetzal Feather, hearing the music, awoke and clung to the wounded tree that seemed to be moaning with pain.
“Finish cutting me down at once!” begged the hormiguillo tree. “Take my wood. It is full of harmony!”
The next day when Quetzal Feather gathered up the pieces of the fallen tree, he discovered to his great delight that the sticks of wood when tapped by other sticks sent out beautiful happy chords.
Day and night he worked without rest until he had arranged the small pieces of the hormiguillo tree into a rustic instrument.
Thus the noble forest of Chiapas had furnished a lively and happy accompaniment to the tired and sad voices of the woodcutters. The marimba was born, and to this day men search the jungles of Chiapas and Guatemala for the musical wood of the hormiguillo tree.

One brother who had once been a prisoner of war had to withdraw money from his savings account—money which had been set aside for another special purpose. Then he learned of a pension for Canadian prisoners of war and found that he qualified. In fact, he was awarded the pension retroactively, and the cumulative amount was slightly in excess of the amount he had withdrawn to pay his building assessment.

On December 26, 2004, a powerful earthquake struck off the coast of Indonesia, creating a deadly tsunami that killed more than 200,000 people. It was a terrible tragedy. In one day, millions of lives were forever changed.
But there was one group of people who, although their village was destroyed, did not suffer a single casualty.
The reason?
They knew a tsunami was coming.
The Moken people live in villages on islands off the coast of Thailand and Burma (Myanmar). A society of fishermen, their lives depend on the sea. For hundreds and perhaps thousands of years, their ancestors have studied the ocean, and they have passed their knowledge down from father to son.
One thing in particular they were careful to teach was what to do when the ocean receded. According to their traditions, when that happened, the “Laboon”—a wave that eats people—would arrive soon after.
When the elders of the village saw the dreaded signs, they shouted to everyone to run to high ground.
Not everyone listened.
One elderly fisherman said, “None of the kids believed me.” In fact, his own daughter called him a liar. But the old fisherman would not relent until all had left the village and climbed to higher ground.
The Moken people were fortunate in that they had someone with conviction who warned them of what would follow. The villagers were fortunate because they listened. Had they not, they may have perished.

I think of the woman I met in the Dominican Republic right after Christmas in 1983. Some missionaries and I were sitting in her San Francisco home as she told us of the dramatic changes Church membership had brought into her life. I was impressed with her courage in blazing trails through habits and traditions she felt needed to be changed. My faith was strengthened as this great pioneer soul spoke of her deepest feelings about Jesus Christ and her joy in discovering the gospel.

I cried as I had to leave. We had been together for only a short while, yet I felt as if I had known her forever. As my companions and I walked down the street, I kept looking back to wave. She was still waving back as we turned a corner and lost sight of her radiant face.

An early lesson in honesty was taught a boy many years ago by his father. When he was just a young lad, he went to the store owned by his father and two business partners; and wanting a pocketknife, he proceeded to take one from the display case. Word got to the boy’s father. The father took the lad back to the case and had him replace the knife. Then he pointed out that he had two other partners in the business, that two-thirds of the pocketknife belonged to them, and that it was not the boy’s privilege as his son to take anything from the company, because it was not all his.

This father was honest and upright in his dealings; he was a man of integrity. When he made a bargain or a deal he kept it, regardless of what the cost to him might be. His reputation was for fairness with people. To him this attribute was more important than money.

Upon graduating from high school, I decided to move to Utah, USA, where my two older brothers had settled after returning from their missions. They had started their own construction companies and extended to me the opportunity to work for them while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
Both of them tried to persuade me to serve a mission. I had always felt impressed to serve a mission but failed to prepare. Rather than make the necessary preparations to serve a mission, I chose to serve in a different capacity. At the age of 20, I enlisted as a medic in the US Army.
Despite my joining the army, the impression to serve a mission never left. As I entered the last year of my enlistment, I pondered what was next.
“Do I re-enlist? Do I finish my bachelor’s degree? Or do I go out and make the necessary changes in my life, repent, and prepare to serve a mission? Even if I do want to serve, am I too old?” These were some of the questions that crossed my mind.
As I considered whether to serve a mission, I felt strongly that there were people waiting for me to invite them to come unto Christ. This impression was the catalyst for my decision to prepare to serve a mission. I decided that even if I had only a slight chance of being able to serve a mission at my age, I had to try.
I think for most prospective missionaries, the flood of emotion and the power of the Holy Ghost hits them upon opening and reading their mission call. However, for me, that happened the day I was informed that I was still eligible to apply to serve a mission.
As I had repented and prepared myself to serve, I felt an immense gratitude toward my Savior, Jesus Christ, and my Heavenly Father. I felt like They wrapped Their arms around me and said: “We forgive you. We accept your repentance and the changes you have made and who you have become. You are worthy to serve.” I felt triumphant.
Eventually I received my call to serve in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.
Entering the missionary training center at the age of 25 was a unique experience. Most of the other missionaries were much younger. Many had recently graduated from high school or had completed their first year of college. Several were experiencing their first time away from home and family. As for me, I had just finished spending four years in the US Army and was already acclimated to many of the sacrifices and adjustments that the other missionaries were only about to encounter. My experience afforded me the opportunity to focus less on myself and more on extending empathy and encouragement to others. My age and experience also gave me insight into the value of time and provided motivation to serve with focus, intention, and diligence.
My mission will always be one of the most important experiences of—and for—my life. It solidified and sealed my foundation built on the rock of my Redeemer (see Helaman 5:12). I am immensely thankful that I had the opportunity to serve.

When I first became a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I had the opportunity to accompany President N. Eldon Tanner, a counselor to President David O. McKay, to a stake conference in Alberta, Canada. During the meeting, the stake president read the names of four brethren who had qualified to be ordained elders. These were men whom President Tanner knew, for at one time he had lived in that area. But President Tanner knew and remembered them as they once were and did not know that they had turned their lives around and had fully qualified to become elders.

The stake president read the name of the first man and asked him to stand. President Tanner whispered to me, “Look at him. I never thought he would make it.” The stake president read the name of the second man, and he stood. President Tanner nudged me again and reported his astonishment. And so it was with all four of the brethren.

After the meeting, President Tanner and I had the opportunity to congratulate these four brethren. They had demonstrated that men can change.

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit, with her baked goods, with her quilts and afghans, with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 a.m., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”

Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 a.m. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

We are indebted to Dr. Homer Ellsworth for sharing with us many years ago two contrasting stories about the happiness of mothers. Often, in the days when the gender of the child could not be predetermined, expectant mothers were very set upon having a boy or a girl. Sometimes when the baby was not of the anticipated gender, the mother was temporarily disappointed. Of course this disappointment was forgotten as soon as the mother cuddled her newborn for the first time.

Dr. Ellsworth told us that a few new mothers demonstrated their immaturity for a day or two. One who wanted a boy baby and happened to receive a girl baby showed her displeasure by throwing tantrums and objects all over her hospital room for a day or two. One wise old nurse, when feeding time came, took a baby boy born with a small facial deformity from the nursery and quietly slipped him into the disconsolate mother’s arms. The immature mother exclaimed, “This is not my child!”

The wise old nurse said, “Well, it is the right sex. Maybe its mother would be willing to trade babies with you.” There followed no more demonstrations of immaturity.

Recently a young couple whom Kathy and I love wrote me about the precious baby they were expecting.

The father wrote: “[When my wife was] 10 weeks pregnant we found out that our miracle baby has the genetic condition of trisomy 21, commonly known as Down syndrome. We felt the pressure … from the medical field to consider termination. A few weeks later we discovered … our unborn child … would require multiple heart surgeries in her first year of life. Throughout this process as we prayed fervently for divine help, … we have felt the Spirit give us comfort. We received revelation and understanding that our daughter is an elite child of Heavenly Father and has an immense desire to be in our family and to come to earth.”

The baby’s mother wrote: “[We] were completely shocked, confused, and honestly devastated by the news. … When I was 14 weeks pregnant, we found out that our baby had multiple congenital heart defects, one that could be potentially fatal. We saw countless doctors and specialists from 10–18 weeks’ gestation. … At each of our appointments, we were asked if we wanted to continue with the pregnancy or terminate. … The Savior healed my heart and gave me a sense of peace and excitement about our baby girl. … [Heavenly Father] has shown me time and time again that He has a perfect plan for me [and] I trust Him.”

They excitedly welcomed their baby girl exactly one week ago today. She is theirs and they are hers forever.

Sister Beck: I think we underestimate youth. They’re in a searching age—it’s the “why” age. There’s a reason for that: the Lord wants them to get their own testimonies. It’s leaders’ and parents’ job to give them the doctrinal “whys” and to back up standards by teaching about the reasons for them. I remember some conversations I had with a daughter about Sunday dress. I explained how I felt she should dress to attend sacrament meeting. I also taught her about the sacrament and bore my testimony about why we go to church. It was done with love. She didn’t change the way she dressed that Sunday or the week after. But very soon she adopted a more formal standard of dress for sacrament meeting. I was patient while she got her own confirmation. And she never went back to dressing the way she had before. She had been taught the doctrine, and her “why” question was answered.

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

June 7, 1955
This afternoon I watched the girls play outside. They were having so much fun making necklaces out of dandelions. They laughed and giggled at the silly things each would say and do. As I quietly watched, Elizabeth noticed me and ran over to give me a big, yellow dandelion. “I love you, Mom,” she said.
In my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for such precious children. They are like the sunshine that lights my day. I continue to pray and work toward the blessing of being sealed as a family in the temple. Until that day arrives, I will put my trust and faith in the Lord.

Miss Blake is concerned that everyone in my fourth-grade class has a good self-image. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant. I knew that your image is what you see in the mirror, but I decided that the image that she was talking about was the one that you see of yourself when you’re not looking into the mirror.
Last Thursday she said that we should all think of something good to say about ourselves. Now, that really took a bit of thinking on my part. I wish I could have said, “I like the way I look,” as Mary Lou did. That was all right for her, with her beautiful long blonde hair and her big blue eyes. But it would never do for me. Oh, my, no! My hair is too thin and my freckles are too thick and my nose is too short. That would never do for me.
Neither could I be like Wendy and say, “I like the way I do my schoolwork.” She almost always has the highest grades in class. Not me. I’m really not very good in math. I’m better in history. I love the stories, but when a test comes along, I can’t remember the dates.
What I truly wanted to say was, “I like having so many friends.” But I would have to leave that for Kevin. Everyone likes him, me included. He lives just two houses away, so maybe that’s why he’s always friendly and nice to me. But then, on second thought, he’s that way with everyone. We elected him class president, and when Miss Blake said that it was time to vote again, no one wanted to change.
“Well, Angie?”
That was Miss Blake. It was my turn, and I still hadn’t decided on anything, so she went on to Linda and the others.
I had to think of something, something that I was really good at. I couldn’t even say that I was the fastest runner. Both Kevin and Linda could beat me at running. They knew it, and so did I.
While I was trying to think of something, I was also listening to what the others were saying. When it was Kevin’s turn, he didn’t say a word about all his friends. He just said, “I like the way I can catch high flies when I’m having a good day at baseball practice.”
There is one thing I’m good at: I notice things, and I’m honest enough to tell people what I notice. For instance, one morning Mary Lou came to school with her hair looking just awful. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. I asked her if her mother was away. She seemed surprised and wanted to know why I asked. “Because,” I said, “your hair is such a mess.”
I learned later that her mother had been away—to the hospital for a new baby—but Mary Lou didn’t tell me. She sort of stayed away from me the rest of the day. Most of the other girls did too. They just seemed to flock around Mary Lou. I guess they hadn’t noticed how weird she looked.
And when Wendy came to school with a tear in the back of her blouse, not one other person seemed to notice. But I did; I told her about it too.
“Are you ready, Angie?” Miss Blake had finished with everyone else and was back to me. I had to think of something quickly.
“Honest.” I said. “I suppose I’m about the honestest person in this whole class.”
There was a big silence, a real silent silence. I was a little surprised. Didn’t the class members agree with me?
I thought about it as I walked home by myself. I decided that I’d have to work even harder at being honest. I began the very next morning.
Miss Blake was wearing a dress that I disliked. Now, I can take most colors. But purple! I have this strong feeling against purple, particularly that purple. I had to be honest about it. As soon as school started, I spoke right up. “Miss Blake, I don’t think I can do my work very well today.”
“Why, Angie? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Yes … I mean, I was. But I hate that purple color of your dress, and it upsets me. I thought that I had better be honest and tell you.”
Well! The silence that followed that remark made yesterday’s silence sound like a traffic jam. For the next few moments I don’t think that anyone even breathed.
Miss Blake spoke first. “I am truly sorry, Angie. I shall try to remember.”
The next recess, when I tried to join the girls playing jump rope, they quit and went over to the volleyball net. When I moved over there, they all ran into the school building.
Then Kevin ran by, chasing a softball. He got it and threw it back to the pitcher. I wasn’t surprised to see him playing in the field, even though he is our best pitcher. He says that the other kids like to pitch too. That’s Kevin, always thinking about others.
“Hi, Angie,” he said.
I felt silly standing there all alone. “The others were all thirsty,” I explained. “They all went in early.”
He just glanced at me, then started back to his game.
“Well, I don’t care!” I shouted at him. “See those mountains in the canyon, those far, far back ones? My dad and I are riding our horses up there on Saturday. That’s my favorite place in all the world, and I don’t care what these girls do or say!”
“Honestly, Angie?” Kevin called back over his shoulder. Then he stopped and turned around. “You know, Angie, some people like purple. It’s my favorite color.”
I stood there thinking about what he had said and about what I had said to Miss Blake—and about how the other kids had looked at me. Right there on the playground, without any kind of mirror, I took one good long look at myself, and I didn’t like what I saw.
And to think that Kevin liked purple! Evidently Miss Blake did too. I looked again at the mountains to the east. The closer ones were different shades of blue, but those farther away, those up against the horizon—those in my favorite place in all the world—were a beautiful, lovely purple! And it was the same color as Miss Blake’s dress. …
I made up my mind. When the bell rang, I raised my hand and said, “Miss Blake?” My voice was a little shaky, but I made sure that it was loud enough for everyone in class to hear. “I’m sorry for what I said about your dress. It’s really very nice, and I’ve decided to learn to like purple.”
Once more there was silence in our classroom. Then Kevin started to clap. After a moment the other kids all smiled and joined in. So did Miss Blake.
After school Mary Lou, Wendy, and Kevin waited to walk home with me. I felt happier than I had for a long time. I decided that I would still be honest, but from now on I was going to be like Kevin, honestly kind.
When I reached the sidewalk in front of my own house, I took another good long look at myself, still without a mirror. I liked what I saw a little better.

“When I was 10 years old, my family became refugees in a new land. I had always been a good student in school—that is, until we arrived in West Germany. …
“Because so much of the curriculum was new and strange to me, I fell behind. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder if I was simply not smart enough for school.
“Fortunately I had a teacher who taught me to be patient. He taught me that steady and consistent work—patient persistence—would help me to learn.
“Over time, difficult subjects became clearer—even English. Slowly I began to see that if I applied myself consistently, I could learn. It didn’t come quickly, but with patience, it did come.”
“Continue in Patience,” Liahona, May 2010, 57.

1 Tomorrow would be Father’s Day, and Jimmy, Henry, and Bob were busy making cards for Dad. Jimmy was trying to think of something special he could do for Dad.
“How do you like my card?” Henry asked as he held up a piece of paper with a picture of a boy and a lawn mower drawn on the outside. On the inside Henry had printed:
Happy Father’s Day!I will mow the lawn.Love, Henry
2 “I like it,” Jimmy said. He wished he were as old as Henry so he could draw nice pictures and use the lawn mower.
“Look at my card!” cried Bob. His card had a picture of a shiny car pasted on the outside. Inside he had printed:
Happy Father’s Day!I will wash and shine the car.Love, Bob
3 “That’s nice,” Jimmy said. Bob was ten, and he was big enough to do lots of things.
Jimmy used a yellow crayon to color a sun in the blue sky on the outside of his card. “I wish I could think of something to do for Dad too,” he said as he bent over his card.
4 “Maybe you could bring in the paper every afternoon,” Henry said.
“I do that all the time anyway,” Jimmy replied. “I want to do something special.”
5 “You could try to find the nozzle for the water hose,” Henry suggested. “When Dad was washing the car this morning, he couldn’t find it.”
6 Henry and Bob picked up their cards and crayons and left Jimmy all alone.
Jimmy tucked his card inside his shirt pocket and put away his crayons. Then he began to try to find the lost nozzle for Dad.
7 He went out to the garage and looked on all the shelves, in the corners, and even inside Mother’s watering can. He looked inside Dad’s tool box and behind his own toy box. But he couldn’t find the nozzle anywhere.
8 Jimmy looked again at his toy box. Maybe I should straighten it up a bit, he thought. So he carefully took all of his toys out of the box and put them on the floor. Then one by one he replaced them—all except an old pair of cowboy boots with the toes worn out. As he picked the boots up, something fell on the floor with a clatter.
What a surprise! There on the floor lay the lost nozzle.
9 The next morning Henry and Bob gave Dad their Father’s Day cards, and Dad was very happy.
Then Jimmy handed Dad the hose nozzle and his card. On the inside of the card, Henry had helped him write:
I will help find things!Love, Jimmy
10 Dad laughed and put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “I have one boy to help me keep the lawn mowed,” he said. “I have another boy to help me keep the car shined. And I also have a boy who finds things for me. This is a happy Father’s Day.”
Jimmy was happy too. Finding things is a very special kind of gift, he decided.

“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about ‘I Am a Child of God.’ I was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”

Illustrations by Christopher Thornock
When I was 14, I made a decision that changed everything. I was walking down the street with some friends on a Friday night, and we were having a good time, just as we usually did. But tonight there was a problem, and I knew I had to do something about it. I just wasn’t sure I could.
For the past couple of years, my friends had started experimenting with cigarettes and alcohol. It was slow at first, just a once or twice sort of thing, but by the time this Friday came, they regularly smoked and drank when we were out alone.
I thought that as long as I just kept myself clean, I could still have a good time with my friends. Of course, my parents could tell something wasn’t right with my friends. And my friends could tell that my parents didn’t approve of them. That left me in the uncomfortable middle: I found myself repeatedly defending my friends to my parents and defending my parents to my friends.
So there we were that Friday night, walking down the street. My friends started drinking and smoking, and I finally realized how uncomfortable I was with their behavior. So I made a choice.
I walked to the other side of the road.
My friends laughed at me. They called me a “goody-goody.” And they said that if I stayed over there, I wouldn’t be their friend anymore.
Well, we got to the end of the road. My friends turned left, and I turned right. I was two miles (3.2 km) from home, and they were the longest two miles I’d ever walked. You might think I would feel good about making such a courageous choice, but in that moment, I felt awful. I woke up the next morning with the terrifying realization that I had lost my friends and that I was now alone. For a 14-year-old, that was devastating.
Not too many days later, I got a phone call from a member of the Church I knew named Dave. He asked if I wanted to come to his house on Saturday night. He also invited me to join his family for dinner the next day. It sounded like a lot more fun than I was currently having with no friends, so I agreed.
Dave and I had a good time together—and, of course, there were no cigarettes or alcohol. As I listened to Dave’s dad say the prayer at dinner, I felt so good. I began to think that maybe—just maybe—things were getting better.
Dave and I became best friends. We played football together, went to school together, helped each other go on missions. When we got back, we were college roommates. We helped each other find the right women to marry and kept each other on the strait and narrow path all the way to the temple and after. All these years later, we’re still good friends. And it all started with a simple phone call, right when I needed it.
At least, that’s how I thought it had all started. Imagine my surprise when, years later, I found out that it was my mom, working behind the scenes, who had orchestrated our friendship! Soon after I lost my old friends, she noticed something was wrong with me, so she called Dave’s mom to see if they could figure out a way to help. Dave’s mom then coaxed Dave into contacting me and inviting me over. Sometimes promptings to help someone in need come from the Holy Ghost; sometimes they come from an angel—such as a mother—who “speak[s] by the power of the Holy Ghost” (2 Nephi 32:3).
I’ve often wondered how life might have been different—for me and for Dave—if my mom hadn’t perceived my struggle and taken action. Doesn’t that remind you of the way Heavenly Father blesses us? He knows about our every need, and He sends “blessings from above thru words and deeds of those who love” (“Each Life That Touches Ours for Good,” Hymns, no. 293).
Ultimately, we are all responsible for our own choices. As President Thomas S. Monson has said repeatedly, “The choices we make determine our destiny,”1 and many of those choices must be made personally, individually. Often our decisions make us feel isolated, even lonely. But our Heavenly Father did not send us here alone.
The decisions I made at key moments blessed and guided my entire life. But those decisions were inspired and empowered by my mother’s prayerful efforts and by Dave’s support and friendship.
The test that we call earth life is different from the tests we often take in school—where you have to keep your eyes on your own test and you aren’t allowed to help your neighbor. No, in this test, we can and must help each other; in fact, that’s part of the test. So while your choices may at times take you to the lonely side of the road, please know that all along that road are others who have made their own difficult decision to be on the Lord’s side. They will walk with you, and they need you to walk with them.