Gospel Story Finder

“I know it’s the end of the month, and I’m so sorry we haven’t had a chance to discuss the Visiting Teaching Message,” said Sister Julie B. Beck’s visiting teacher. But even as she made this statement, she was leaving the home of the general Relief Society president with a basket of ironing to complete and return to Sister Beck. “Do you think we could count this?” she asked Sister Beck hesitantly.
When Sister Beck recounts this incident, tears come to her eyes as she asks, “How could this dear friend and dedicated visiting teacher ever feel that I had not been visit taught and watched over? This wasn’t the first time she’d stopped in to meet a need that month. How could she not realize that she was constantly ministering to me and blessing my family? Her care and concern for me are the epitome of visiting teaching. Of course, she could report that I had been visit taught!”

Many times Amelia’s adventures were shared with Muriel. One time, when the family was moving and the last load was ready to go, the family cat, Von Sol, had run off, and the family had to leave without it. At the end of the next day, when nothing had been done to find the cat, Amelia and Muriel grabbed a gunnysack, climbed over a fence, went through a back alley, and set off for their former home. It was a long walk, but they made it. There by the door sat Von Sol. When the girls tried to capture him, the cat became frightened and scrambled up a nearby birch tree. The lowest limb was ten feet above the ground. Seeing no other way to get to the cat, and not being one to give up, Amelia shinnied up a porch post to the roof of the house. From there she climbed onto a branch of the tree and up to where Von Sol was crouching. After a long discussion, Amelia coaxed the cat into the gunnysack. It was a very tiring walk home for the girls, especially with the weight of Von Sol in the gunnysack. And worry about their parents’ reaction to their adventure didn’t make the trip any easier. But Amelia was happy to have rescued Von Sol.

Jennette Evans McKay, mother of our ninth prophet, David Oman McKay, had sacrificed a great deal to make it possible for her husband to go on a mission. When the mission call arrived in the mail, Jennette and David had three living children, and a fourth—Annie—was to be born very soon. They owned a large farm that required a lot of work, and they had just saved up enough money to remodel their home and add on more bedrooms.
David was hesitant to leave his wife with so much responsibility, but Jennette said, “Of course you will go! David O. and I will manage quite nicely.”
After her husband left for Scotland, Jennette McKay had the ward priesthood quorums do her spring planting, and she spent a lot of time teaching her young children how to run the farm. They milked the cows, fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, and helped harvest their precious crops. And after swearing everyone who knew about it to secrecy, Jennette had their home remodeled without telling her husband in any of her letters to him. She made the kitchen and dining room larger and added several new bedrooms. She was especially proud of the new indoor staircase, which led to the children’s bedrooms upstairs. Now she would no longer have to wrap up warmly on cold winter nights, go outside, climb a ladder, and crawl through a window to tuck her children in bed at night.
When Jennette’s husband returned from his mission, he could not believe his eyes as he toured the home and saw the many improvements. The farm, the home, and, of course, the children had been well taken care of by Jennette McKay.

After the collapse of my father’s catering business, my family faced a serious financial situation. I remember my mother coming home with tears in her eyes, not wanting to tell us what was wrong even after I asked her what the problem was. Soon we had to move into a small one-room apartment because that was what we could afford.
Before then, the Christmas season had always been a time of intense cooking, new clothes, parties, visits to interesting places, and gifts to be shared and received. My mum had a knack for being, as we called her, “Mother Christmas.” She loved to give, and each Christmas she would enthusiastically and lovingly share with those around her. As we got older, thinking of others more than we thought of ourselves became a trait that we also tried to develop.
But that year we did not know what to do. Mum became concerned because it would be our first Christmas outside of our own home. She worried because there was nothing she could think of to share with others. However, we encouraged her because we knew that we could, in our own small way, do something to spread the spirit of Christmas.
Still, we were barely getting by, and we were also struggling to keep the peace in our new surroundings. Our landlady was not a Christian, and she was upset with us because we would wake up early to have family prayer and sing hymns. Our singing would awaken her because our room adjoined her room. Often she complained, so we tried to sing softly and not disturb her. When she saw that we weren’t going to stop having our morning family prayers, her complaints gradually ceased.
Then a thought occurred to my dad. He felt that we should sing Christmas carols to our landlady as our Christmas gift to her. Everyone was thrilled with the idea—except for me. I strongly objected, reminding my family of the complaints she had made over our family prayers. I suggested that we sing for someone who would appreciate it and not for her.
But my dad insisted, explaining that it would be an avenue for us to show her that we were her friends despite belonging to different religions. I had no choice but to join my family in choosing and practicing carols to sing for her.
On Christmas Eve we stood at her door and knocked. She did not open the door, and I was about to get angry and remind my dad of our wasted effort. But as I looked around, I saw that all the members of my family were smiling—they were happy about what we were doing. I felt a desire within me to experience that same feeling.
Eventually the landlady opened her door, and for a moment she did not know what to do. My dad quietly told her that we would love to sing for her and that, if it was all right, we would love to come inside her apartment. She stepped aside, and we went in. We sang all the Christmas songs we could remember—both the ones we had rehearsed and ones we had not. Soon there was a wonderful feeling in the room. Although we knew that she might not understand the meaning of the words, she smiled as we sang. She also told us that she had been feeling lonely and seeing us together made her long for her own family. Before leaving, we wished her a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. She thanked us, and we went back to our room.
As I was trying to fall asleep that night, I pondered on what had happened. It occurred to me that a real Christmas gift is not necessarily store bought or even homemade; it is actually the attitude and the desire we have to do what we can to make our fellow human beings happy. I realized that the greatest gift we can give at Christmastime doesn’t require a lot of money; instead, it is a gift of love.
That night I knew that my family had felt the spirit of Christmas by offering a small service to a lonely neighbor.

The Mysterious Benedict Society*, by Trenton Lee Stewart. Reynie is an orphan with a talent for solving problems. When he discovers an ad in the newspaper for gifted children looking for special opportunities, he goes to apply. After a series of interesting tests, he and three other children begin a dangerous and unusual secret mission to save the world—but they’ll need each other to finish the task.

Rambo, who adopted her unique English name several years ago, also credits her sister’s influence in her own conversion. “Belle has been a great example to me in my life,” she explains.
Because Rambo is the youngest Wong daughter, her parents were hesitant at first to allow her to join the Church. “When I was younger, I began going to church each Sunday even though I hadn’t been baptized,” she recalls. “At first, my parents didn’t want me to join the Church. So I would go with Belle every Sunday, but I wouldn’t take the sacrament.”
This is where the story takes on an ironic twist.
“A lot of members of the ward would look at me and think I was a member,” she continues. “They would ask me to be a fellowshipper for the missionaries’ investigators even though I was still an investigator myself. As I got older, my testimony began to develop and I learned more about the Church.”
When Rambo was finally baptized in 1990, she joined Belle in teaching gospel principles to older sisters Mandy, May, Angela, and Agnes, as well as to Simon. She also continued “officially” fellowshipping other investigators at church each Sunday. “When I was a kid, I liked to play and have fun. But when I got older, I received a testimony—a true testimony—and I wanted to share it,” Rambo says.

Eliza was hungry. Her stomach churned and rumbled so loudly she was certain everyone at the table could hear it. But no one paid any attention. They were all too busy pushing the small portion of greens around on their plates, and waiting for their mother to sit down so they could say the blessing.
It had been a long winter, and the growing season in their small farming town had been too short, leaving little money for food and supplies. Now the Forsyth family was going hungry. For the past three weeks, all they’d had to eat was pigweed. Eliza didn’t want to complain, but pigweed was yucky and she didn’t want to eat it anymore.
“Do we have to eat this again?” she asked, poking at the stringy greens with her fork.
“Count your blessings, Eliza,” Father said in a quiet voice. “Be thankful that you have something warm to fill your stomach. It’s more than a lot of people have right now.”
Eliza hoped she hadn’t made her father feel bad. He worked so hard to take care of their family. It wasn’t his fault that they were having hard times.
“Soup’s on,” Mother said, carrying a large pot to the table. “Move your elbows and pass your bowls.”
Eliza’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. Her mother made the best soup in town, and she couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into a sweet carrot or meaty potato.
But as she watched her mother fill the bowls with hot, steaming liquid, Eliza’s heart sank. There were no carrots in sight. No potatoes. No beans. No meat of any kind. Just rocks. There were rocks in her soup!
At the sight of the stones in the bottom of her bowl, her eyes filled with tears and she groaned. “I’m hungry, Mother. Don’t we have anything else to eat?”
“Yuck,” said Eliza’s sister Agnes as she plucked a large brown chunk from her bowl. “What’s this?”
“That’s part of Uncle George’s saddle,” Mother said, looking around the table at the faces of her unbelieving family. “He doesn’t need it anymore, so I cut it up and boiled it to give the soup some flavor. Just set it aside. It’s not for eating.”
“What are the rocks for?” asked Neal, scrunching up his face as he pushed the rocks around with his spoon.
Mother smiled. “Those are just for fun. Now please fold your arms. Eliza, will you bless the food?”
Eliza didn’t want to. She wasn’t grateful for weeds and rocks and boiled saddles.
“Don’t forget to thank Heavenly Father for keeping us safe, and for giving us so many blessings,” Mother said.
Eliza looked into her bowl of rock soup, then around her at the bowed heads of her family. Despite the long, cold winter they had endured, all of them were safe and healthy. They had a house to live in, clothes to wear, and plenty of firewood to keep them warm. And in spite of their suffering, they were kind to their neighbors and each other. Mother was right. They really did have much to be thankful for.
“Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for the food our mother has prepared,” Eliza prayed.
She thanked Him for the pigweed that grew plentifully on the farm.
She thanked Him for the rocks that covered the west pasture, because without them, they wouldn’t be having rock soup.
And she thanked Him for her family and the love they shared.
When Eliza finished her prayer, she had a warm feeling and knew that Heavenly Father loved her.
When dinner was over, the aching emptiness of her stomach was filled with the best soup Eliza had eaten in a long time.

After I graduated from high school, I went to BYU. In my freshman English class I was assigned to write an essay about a time when I overcame a conflict. I chose to write about my relationship with Bruce. It was a very difficult paper to write, but after I did, I felt better.

A few months later I was asked to give a talk in my ward on repentance. I decided to share the story I had written. My mother and Bruce weren’t going to be able to make it. I was actually quite relieved to find out they weren’t going to be there. Then just before I was supposed to give my talk, my mother and Bruce slipped into the back of the chapel. My heart started to beat wildly. I felt like I was going to cry. I had to pull it together. What was I going to do?

After a few minutes into my talk, I began to read my story, and as I did, tears came streaming down my face. I paused, took a deep breath, and continued to cry throughout the rest of my talk. When I finished, I looked over at my mom and Bruce. They were both teary-eyed and sniffling. After church Bruce came up to me and told me he was so sorry. He said he hadn’t realized what I had been going through. He told me that he was sorry, whereas I was the one who had done all of the terrible things. I quickly told him that I was sorry and that I hoped he could forgive me. The beautiful part was that he had already forgiven me. I didn’t even have to ask.

Another couple from northern California served their mission in Bolivia. In one small Indian community the people had to carry water from a spring high on a slope some 1,400 meters away. It was very laborious to carry water so far day after day, and it presented serious sanitation problems.

The missionary couple was assigned to supervise a project to pipe water from the spring. The elder engineered the project and organized the members and nonmembers into work groups. Within weeks the community had dug a trench across the rocky Altiplano soil. Plastic pipe was then placed in the trench, connecting the spring to a simple water faucet in the center of the village—the only faucet in the entire community.

The whole community turned out for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The nonmembers were very friendly toward the Church and grateful for the opportunity and resources to progress. And the missionary couple, who lost themselves in the work, commented, “This is the highlight of our mission.”

I first experienced the blessings of someone fasting in my behalf when I was a young single adult investigating the Church. At that time, I was strongly against the Church and argued a lot when I discussed with the missionaries. I thought that was a way for me to avoid being indoctrinated. I was obviously not the golden investigator and did not progress at all. A few weeks later, a series of miraculous events I could not explain happened in my life and made me humble myself and receive a testimony from the Holy Ghost. I later learned that my member friend, who introduced me to the missionaries, had prayed and fasted for me.

Several years ago we had four little girls in our home. One evening at dinner one of them said, “I wish we had a baby. A baby would be so much fun. Could we have one?”
We all wanted a baby, so I suggested, “Let’s ask our Heavenly Father if we can have a new little spirit come to our home. Let’s tell Him how we would love a baby and how glad we would be to take care of one.”
Everyone agreed that would be a good idea, and so in our family prayers and in our own secret prayers we prayed that we might have a baby to love in our home.
Seven years went by and sometimes we were a little discouraged, but we never gave up praying for a baby. Then one evening as we were eating dinner, we told our girls that at last our prayers were going to be answered and we would soon have a baby in our home.
We had no boys in our family and so we thought a baby boy would be especially nice. But when I came home from the hospital after the baby was born, I took a big piece of paper and wrote:
5 girls
on it and put it across the front of our house so everyone could see.
The night we brought our baby home we all sat around looking at her even though she was fast asleep. She was a miracle to us—we had waited and prayed seven years for her.

One young man, Michael, fulfilled this duty by helping his friend Jose.
One day, Jose asked him, “Michael, why are you always happy?”
Michael said, “It’s because I serve.”
“Why do you serve?”
“Because I hold the priesthood and it’s my duty,” came the reply.
Jose said, “I would like to know more about the priesthood.”
Michael invited Jose to Church activities and later to Church meetings. Eventually Jose and his family were taught by the missionaries and were baptized. Jose said, “Missionary work is the base of our Church. If we will be just and righteous in our daily dealings, then those around us will take notice and inquire of us like I did. Michael is a vessel in God’s great plan.”

Tamma Miner’s first husband, Albert, died in January of 1848 when their youngest child was not yet two years old and their oldest only fifteen years of age. Tamma’s father, Edmond, was murdered by a mob at Nauvoo, Illinois, when Tamma was 32 and expecting her ninth child. Their daughter Melissa died during the persecution era at seven months; their son Orson died of a fever at seventeen; and another daughter, Sylvia, died at age two. Tamma, with her five remaining boys and two girls, started the journey to Salt Lake City across the plains on June 10, 1850. Tamma’s writings include this wonderful declaration:
“I have passed through all the hardships and drivings and burnings and mobbings and threatenings and have been with the Saints in all their persecutions from Huron county to Kirtland and from Kirtland to Missouri back to Illinois and then across the desert. I write this that my children may have a little idea of what their parents passed through. I hope my children will appreciate these lines for I do feel highly honored to be numbered with the Latter-day Saints” (in Our Pioneer Heritage, 2:323).

One Sunday I noticed a little girl my age in sacrament meeting. She was new and seemed scared to go to Primary. I decided to ask her to come with me to Primary and be my friend. After church the little girl’s aunt told my parents that her niece was so happy to go to Primary with her new friend. I tried to be like Jesus by being a good friend and helping someone in need.
Reagan V., age 5, Colorado, USA

During a trip to South America a few years ago, I spoke with a stake president whose stake had experienced over 50 percent unemployment during the previous three years. I knew the stake had received less than $200 from the Area office during that period. I asked him how the members had been able to survive without a large infusion of outside help. His answer was the families had helped each other—not just father, mother, sons, and daughters, but uncles, aunts, and cousins. When a cousin got a job, the money earned went to benefit everyone. In addition, ward members looked after each other and shared what they had, however so meager. With tears in his eyes he explained how close his stake members were to each other and to the Lord. Their spirituality had increased manyfold. Did they have the welfare program? Yes—and in its purest form.

“In one week,” recalls Dave Nielsen, 19, “I contracted Bell’s palsy, I blew out my knee, and two of my friends died. I was feeling really low.” Dave decided to go to the temple. “It was like taking a breather from the trials of life,” he says. “Doing temple work pulled me out of the dark feeling that had come over me. There’s a power in the temple. It helps you see what’s really important in life.”

Not even a week until Christmas and still no sign of snow. But that was the least of my worries. My mom and dad had separated, and divorce was looming in the wings. I suspected they would announce it as soon as the tinsel was put away so as not to put a damper on the holidays.
Too late.
And now my mom had informed me that I would have to make some heavy revisions to my Christmas wish list. My brothers and sister and I would get only a few presents.
I was sulking over my list when Mrs. Rollins [names have been changed] and her four children appeared on our doorstep. Why were they standing on our porch? They were in our ward but had never been to church. We were mere acquaintances.
The oldest boy, Gary, and I were in the same grade, but I carefully avoided him and his tough-guy buddies. He didn’t look so tough now as he stared at his shoelaces. Brett and Allison, both in elementary school, didn’t make eye contact with me either. But Robbie, four, looked straight at me with wide, clear eyes.
“We ran away,” he said.
I ushered them in, and the suspense and drama unfolded right in my living room. Mrs. Rollins had snatched up her kids and left her husband, vowing she’d never let him lay a hand on them again. Her firm jaw testified of her resolve, though her eyes brimmed with tears.
By this time, my mom and brothers and sister were standing at attention in the living room. Mrs. Rollins told my mom that she didn’t know where else to go and didn’t think her husband would find her and the children at our house. She pleaded with my mom to let her stay for a few days until she could figure something out, but her pleading was unnecessary because already we were caught up in something much bigger than ourselves.
While we played games and ate popcorn with the kids, my mom made some phone calls. She contacted the bishop and the Relief Society president. Meals were brought in, and a deposit and first month’s rent were paid on a small rental house in our ward boundaries. The only catch was that the house needed some work.
“Some work!” I gasped, when I saw the house a few days later with my brothers. The whole place was grimy and filthy. For three days my mom loaded us up with cleansers, disinfectants, and scrubbing brushes. Together with Mrs. Rollins’s four children, we scrubbed toilets, floors, windows, and walls. But we also laughed as we worked. And we marveled as ward members poured in bearing food and secondhand furniture and clothing.
On December 23, we were just finishing our cleaning when we heard screams of delight from the living room. We all rushed in to find Allison’s nose pressed against the living room window. Outside three men were lifting a Christmas tree from the back of a truck. Their wives followed them into the house with decorations for the tree.
“I didn’t think we were going to get a Christmas tree this year,” Allison beamed.
Back at our house that night we spread sleeping bags and pillows all around the lighted Christmas tree in the family room. For our last night together, we watched the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. Mrs. Rollins’s family had never seen it.
Mrs. Rollins kept thanking my mom for all we had done and saying the Lord must have sent her to us. I remember thinking that we hadn’t done much. It was the whole ward who had given of their time and money and belongings. And then I thought of what Mrs. Rollins and her children had given all of us. A purpose. A sense of unity and usefulness. They had helped us forget our own problems and focus outside ourselves. Maybe the Lord had sent them to us.
Before we dropped off to sleep, my mom gathered us together and asked if we would be willing to give up half our Christmas money so Mrs. Rollins and her children would have gifts to open on Christmas morning. None of us had to think twice. We gave Mom our re-revised lists and set out shopping with her the next day. My mom wandered off looking for our gifts, while my siblings and I scattered throughout the store to find just the right presents for our new friends. It was amazing to witness my younger brothers and sister hunting down gifts and comparing prices, asking each other for opinions. How had this happened? Weren’t we supposed to be complaining and moping about how unfortunate we were?
That night was Christmas Eve. With our ward, we filled small paper bags with sand and lighted candles and placed them along the sidewalks of our neighborhood, illuminating the dark, nippy night with a toasty glow. To me that Christmas was outlined with that same warm glow. It should have been impossible. My parents were on the verge of divorce, and I received so few gifts. And yet it didn’t bother me at all when I returned to school after Christmas vacation wearing the same old clothes. I’ll always remember what I received for Christmas that year. It’s something I now put on my Christmas wish list every year—the spirit of Christmas.

Eight-year-old Maggie stretched forward to better talk to her parents in the front seat of the car. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Mom, do I have to go to Aunt Alice’s house?”
Maggie’s parents had been planning this temple trip for weeks. They had arranged for Maggie to stay with her great-aunt, who lived in the same town as the temple. Aunt Alice was quite old and lived alone.
Mom turned in her seat to ask, “Don’t you want to go to Aunt Alice’s house? She’s very kind and will take good care of you.”
“I know. It’s just that, well, what if there’s nothing to do? Sitting around all day could get really boring. Maybe I should have stayed home and spent the night at Anna’s house.” Anna was Maggie’s best friend.
Mother looked deeply into Maggie’s worried eyes. “It’s true, we could have left you at Anna’s house, but Dad and I wanted this to be a special trip for the whole family. We have been preparing Grandma and Grandpa McCallister’s records for a long time so that we could do their temple work. You never knew Grandma, but you’re like her in many ways. We thought this trip would be a good chance for you to feel close to her.”
Grandma McCallister had passed away when Maggie was only a baby, and Grandpa had died just last summer. Maggie knew that Mom was anxious to have their temple work done so that they could be a part of her family forever. Maggie slumped back in her seat. She knew that this day was important. She just wasn’t sure about spending it with Aunt Alice.
When they stopped in front of a small brick home several hours later, butterflies fluttered around in Maggie’s stomach.
“Grab your bag, sweetie—this is it,” Mom said.
Maggie picked up her backpack and slowly climbed out of the car. Her legs were stiff from the long trip, and she dragged them reluctantly up the front walk.
“Come on, honey. Dad and I have to get going.” Mom stopped at the front door and put her arms around Maggie’s drooping shoulders. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine. You might even enjoy yourself.” Mom smiled.
It was comforting to see the familiar twinkle in Mom’s eyes. Maggie perked up and smiled back.
Just then the front door opened, and the familiar aroma of chocolate chip cookies met Maggie’s nose.
“Well, look who’s here!” Aunt Alice exclaimed. “Maggie Magpie! I haven’t seen you since you were a baby!”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Maggie Magpie?”
“Oh, that’s what we used to call your grandma when she was a girl. Her name is Margaret, too, you know.”
Maggie barely heard her mother’s good-bye as she stepped into the house with Aunt Alice.
“Come and have some cookies while we get reacquainted, Maggie Magpie.”
Maggie looked around as she walked through the front room toward the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks when her eyes came to rest on a tall display cabinet full of fancy porcelain dolls. “Wow! Do you collect dolls?”
“Sure do. Do you like dolls?”
“I do! I have a collection, too. Well, it’s not as big or fancy as yours, but I really like dolls.”
“You know, your Grandma McCallister liked dolls, too. In fact, I may have something of hers that you can take home with you.”
Maggie followed Aunt Alice into the kitchen, wondering what she might have for her. Aunt Alice poured Maggie a glass of milk and set out some cookies. “Help yourself, honey. I’ll be right back.” She climbed a creaky flight of narrow wooden stairs to the attic. A few minutes later, she returned with an old shoe box.
“Just before your grandma died, she gave me this box. She asked me to keep it for you until you were old enough to take care of what’s inside.” A smile filled Aunt Alice’s face. “I think you’re old enough now. Want to see?”
Maggie nodded eagerly.
Aunt Alice took off several rubber bands, then carefully lifted the cardboard lid. Very gently she peeled back layers of faded tissue paper. Maggie leaned forward to see what lay inside. Beneath the folds of paper lay the most beautiful doll Maggie had ever seen. The eyes blinked open in the pale porcelain face as Aunt Alice lifted the doll out of the box. “Do you want to hold it?”
Maggie could barely breathe as she carefully took the doll into her arms and rocked it tenderly.
“Your grandma called her Bessie, or sometimes Miss Bess. She has the same beautiful dark red hair that you have and that your grandmother had.”
As Maggie gently smoothed the pale blue dress and white lace pinafore and patted the shining curly hair, she imagined another little redheaded girl holding this very doll a long time ago. She felt a new love for Grandma and began to believe that maybe she knew her a little bit after all.
An unexpected tear slid down Maggie’s cheek as she looked into Aunt Alice’s beaming face. “Thank you, Aunt Alice. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
“I know you will, Maggie Magpie,” Aunt Alice said. “You’re a lot like your grandma, you know.”
Maggie smiled lovingly at Grandma’s doll. She was glad that she was a lot like Grandma. And she was grateful that her parents were at the temple doing Grandma and Grandpa’s temple work. She wanted them all to be a family forever.

This leads me to my final personal story in the trilogy of knives. I was a seminary student and a junior or senior in high school--and still without a knife. By this time my desire for a good pocket knife was long past. One day in seminary my teacher announced that there would be a combined seminary-class scripture chase near the end of the school year. To the winner would go a beautiful, and huge, hunting knife, complete with leather satchel. When I saw the prize I just knew I had to win it. However, I still remembered the stinging pocket knife lessons learned earlier as a young scout. I knew I could only obtain the hunting knife with honor and with integrity. I also knew that there would be many faster at scripture chasing than me participating in the combined seminary-classes. After thinking about this for several days, I determined that there was only one way I could, with integrity, win--I'd have to memorize every seminary scripture and reference. I began memorizing the scriptures.

In time, the school year drew to an end and the day of the scripture chase finally came. I remember walking into the room where students from the combined classes all sat. On the table before each of the students were their seminary scriptures. Some had painstakingly inserted neatly organized little tabs with the scripture reference written on them. Others had inserted paperclips to each page that held a seminary scripture. Others had calculated that a new set of seminar scriptures would cost much less than the hunting knife. Therefore, they crumpled-up each page containing a seminary scripture. Then there were those few who were really serious about winning. They had implemented all three of these techniques. Their scriptures, when closed, had expanded to about twice their normal size.

I very slowly and deliberately laid my unmarked scriptures down in front of me. It was with my fair share of unrighteous pride that I slowly looked at each student. They glanced at my unmarked book, and then at me. I could sense, although unstated, that I was quickly labeled a non-contender, or in the vernacular of today, a LOSER. The chase soon began and after a few quick wins someone protested that I hadn't opened the book, therefore, I was not technically scripture chasing. To this I responded that not only was I quoting the verse word-perfect, but I was giving the reference, hence, there was no need to open the book. But, to assure fairness, I invited anyone participating in the scripture chase to do the same. With that, the teacher's judgment was in my favor and I won, with integrity, the beautiful hunting knife. Through the passing years, each time I've looked at that knife, it seems to have gotten smaller than it was when I first won it. However, the significance of the learned lessons of honest desire, hard work, integrity and perseverance, which it represents to me, seem to have increased. I learned from this experience that it is acceptable to have and pursue righteous desires through honest and noble means.

I’m tired of counting cows and license plates. It’s my turn to read the new Friend.
Not till I finish reading Sister Simon’s Saints.
Simple Simon’s Saints is dumb. I want to do the Funstuf.
Mom, Dad—Matt’s being rude! He called Sister Simon’s Saints “Simple Simon’s Saints.”
Dad, Mom—make her give me the Friend. It’s my turn.
What do you think Jesus would do?
OK, keep it then.
No, you take it.
Isn’t there a way you can both be happy?
Hey what if we read Sister Simon’s Saints together, and then did a puzzle?
OK!