Gospel Story Finder

Recorded in Church History is the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith's reaction to the need of a Church member.

Evidently, Joseph was working in his garden in Nauvoo, and several of the brethren were sitting on the rail fence surrounding the garden asking questions and listening to the Prophet teach them. Another person approached them and commented to Joseph that a certain member who lived some distance from Nauvoo had his house burn down the night before. Nearly all of the men expressed their sympathy for the man's loss. Joseph put his hand in his pocket, took out five dollars and exclaimed, "I feel sorry for this brother to the amount of five dollars: how much do you feel sorry?"[13]

The other brethren present immediately began to search their own pockets for spare money, as the Prophet had shown them by example that "action speaks louder than words."

Al and I were married in 1959. A decade later we had three children and were living in a small town in Canada. Al ran a construction business, and I was a stay-at-home mom who sometimes helped with the business. On the weekends, Al and I partied with our friends, always with alcohol. My dad had been an alcoholic, so I hated that drinking was such a big part of our lives, but it had become our way of socializing.
That year, 1969, I realized my life was going nowhere and that our children deserved better than what we were offering them. One night after another drinking party, I got down on my knees and prayed, “Dear God, if You are there, please help me change my life.” I promised Him I would never drink alcohol again, a commitment I’ve honored ever since.
That was the first memorable prayer, and it was answered quickly. My sister-in-law’s daughter, my niece, had been invited to attend Primary with a Latter-day Saint friend. As my sister-in-law learned more about the Church, she felt inspired to send me a subscription to the Church magazines, which arrived within a month after I had said that first prayer. I didn’t know what a Mormon was, but I loved the messages the magazines contained and read them cover to cover. I decided to investigate the Church and therein found my answer. I did change my life, and I was baptized on June 19, 1970.

Little did Petre realize all this festival day would bring, when he carefully laid out his dance costume on his bed that morning. First, he would be allowed to herd the family sheep to the meadows in the Romanian highlands by himself and bring them back again. Getting ready for the Shepherd’s Dance meant that the men needed to stay in town, so the task of grazing the sheep today was left to the children.
Since this was a holiday, the children were to bring the sheep back early in the afternoon so that the youngsters could join in the festivities. As Petre moved the flock from the pen, the bell on the lead ram tinkled pleasantly. Petre’s fervent dream was to have his own flock one day.
“Don’t forget, Petre,” called his friend Josif as he moved his own family’s sheep onto the road, “we bring back the sheep at one o’clock. I heard that the tourists at Sibiu are going to come over to watch the dancing.” Then with a grin he gibed, “I’m going to dance your legs off!” Josif always acted as though dancing was a contest.
Petre, who danced because he loved to, retorted, “Go ahead and try!”
Ana led her family’s sheep out after Josif’s. She didn’t have any brothers, and she claimed to be the first shepherdess in the area.
One by one the three flocks ambled down the dusty road. The blessings of spring had filled the meadows with blades of tender grass. The scent of wild flowers filled the air, and the creek sparkled with clear mountain water.
Soon the flocks reached the meadows. As they grazed, Petre sat under an oak tree and thought about the festival. The women of the village had already spent many hours preparing the special festival food. The men were now setting up long tables under a grape arbor to hold the delicacies. They were also decorating the cobblestone streets with ribbons and lanterns. During the festivities the women would wear elaborately embroidered costumes; the men would wear belted white trousers, embroidered tunics, and leggings with bells that jingled. The dancers’ shoes would be of soft leather, and the captivating Romanian folk tunes would be played by shepherds on their flutes. The dancers would cry out, slap their ankles and thighs, and leap gracefully into the air as they followed the intricate figures of the dance.
“Will one o’clock ever get here?” Petre sighed. Glancing at his flock, he noticed that a sheep had strayed. He whistled, and his dog, Tofan, quickly brought the ewe back to the group.
In Petre’s village, sons had followed their fathers as shepherds for many, many generations. As each boy was ready for the responsibility, he was given three sheep to start a flock of his own.
Petre recalled his father saying, “Son, there is more to tending sheep than watching them eat grass. You must watch for ailing sheep and recognize what caused the sickness. Ewes need special care when they are lambing. Fleece must be sheared without injury to the animal. Always know the exact number of sheep in your flock and where they are. Most of all, Son, you must realize that sheep are a gift from God and that they are only one of His many wondrous creations. Earthly rewards will never cease as long as you respect all living things as part of one large family.”
Petre was glad when the sun passed its highest point and was starting its downward track. He whistled, and Tofan started the flock toward home. From the dust cloud ahead on the road, Petre knew Josif and Ana were ahead of him. As he neared the village sheepyard, he could hear Ana insisting, “I still think I’m missing a sheep.”
“You could have miscounted,” suggested Josif.
“No, I’ve counted twice. We can’t leave one out there. Anything can happen to it.”
“We already looked for it once,” complained Josif. “We’ll have time to check again after the dance. It will still be daylight. Come on,” he urged, “or we’ll miss the dancing.”
Petre watched them run toward the village green. The music from the shepherds’ flutes was melodic and clear. Its rhythmic beat touched every muscle in his body, and he wanted to spring into a dance. But he couldn’t go and enjoy the festivities knowing that there might be a lost sheep somewhere.
“Come, Tofan,” Petre called. “Let’s see if there is a sheep out there. If we hurry, we can get back before all the dancing is over.”
The boy and the dog ran down the dusty road toward the meadows, with Tofan sniffing along the way. After searching for some time, Petre declared, “Tofan, we haven’t found it, but somehow I’m sure there is a sheep out here somewhere.”
The dog seemed to understand and went with Petre to search in the foothills. Finally, in a shallow gully hidden by tall grass, they found a ewe that had just given birth.
“We can’t go home yet, Tofan,” Petre said as he sat down by the sheep. “We must wait until they are strong enough to go.”
The dog wagged his tail, then waited patiently beside the boy.
The ewe seemed comforted by their presence. Petre was glad he had come, even though he was aching to dance. He knew he could not get back in time now.
The ewe went on licking her newborn. Finally she nudged the lamb to its feet. A kind of joy swept over Petre as he cradled the lamb in his arms. “Come, Tofan,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The dog guided the ewe in the right direction.
Not far from the village Petre saw the three fathers coming toward him. He knew that they had been at the pen to check their sheep and had realized that one was missing.
“I’m proud of you, Son,” his father greeted him.
Ana’s father stepped forward. “Petre,” he said, taking the lamb, “because of what you did, I am going to give this lamb to you as soon as it is weaned.”
Petre swallowed hard. His heart was beating so hard that it felt as though it might leap out of his chest.
“And I,” said Josif’s father, “will give you the next ewe born in my flock.”
Petre could hardly believe what he was hearing. He expected to wake up and find it was all a dream.
His father spoke up then. “And I will give you a baby ram.”
“Oh, Papa!” cried Petre. “My very own flock!”
“Come, Son,” said his father, “run on ahead of us and put on your costume. There’s still time for some dancing.”
The shepherds’ flutes were never more melodious. With the bells on his leggings jingling to his favorite Romanian tune, Petre danced until his legs ached.
That night Petre put his costume carefully away. In the morning he would wake up and remember that he soon would have a flock of his own. His dream was coming true!

I say to you what I said to the boys—avoid pornography as you would a plague. I recall an assignment some years back to restore the blessings of a man who had been excommunicated from the Church because of his sin. He came to my office with his wife. I spoke with them individually. I asked him how it all began. He held a responsible position in the Church. He was likewise a professional man with high responsibility in the community.

His trouble began, he said, when he picked up a pornographic magazine to read on a plane. It intrigued him. It appealed to him. He found himself buying more of these things. Then he sought out movies which titillated him and excited him. Knowing that his wife would be a party to none of this, he went alone. He found occasion to leave town and go to other cities where he could more easily indulge his desires. He then found excuses to stay late at his office and asked his secretary to stay with him. One thing led to another until he succumbed.

With tears rolling down his cheeks, he sat across the desk from me and cursed the day he had read that first magazine. He spoke of his love for the wife who had forgiven him and remained true to him. He spoke of his love for his children, who had been shamed and embarrassed by his actions. He told of the hell through which he had walked for some four years from the time of his excommunication. He spoke of his love for the Church and of his desire to again enjoy its full blessings.

In the presence of his wife, I placed my hands upon his head and in the authority of the holy priesthood restored his priesthood, his temple endowment, his temple sealing, and all other blessings which he had formerly held. This great, strong man sobbed like a baby under my hands while his wife, holding her hand in his, wept like a child.

At the conclusion of that blessing, they embraced one another and he asked her to forgive him. She said she had forgiven him, and that she loved him and always would.

They were happy when they left, happier than they had been in years. And I was happy, too. But I thought of the terrible price he had paid and of the price he had exacted of his family through his foolishness and transgression.

The next time we caught some tadpoles, we made sure we took the fighting fish out of the aquarium. Then the tadpoles lived just fine. One morning when we woke up, however, they were all gone; and in their places were some tiny toads. We rushed into Mom and Dad’s bedroom to tell them. They could hardly believe that the tadpoles had changed so fast.

When the toads grew bigger, we let them live in our flower beds. They slept during the day and came out at night to catch insects on our lawn. In the winter they buried themselves in the ground and hibernated.

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

“It’s a beautiful sampler. They’re all beautiful.” Megan pointed to Lovina’s. “I think that one’s interesting, but the poem is so sad, and the sampler isn’t finished. Why wasn’t it finished?”
Mrs. Maybaum gently traced the stitching to where it stopped. “This was our daughter’s sampler. She was a good girl—too good to live.”
“I’m sorry.” Megan reached out and squeezed the old lady’s hand.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “She died a long time ago. We wish … well … we’re sad that there won’t be any more samplers.”
That evening Megan looked up from her position on the floor to where Grandma was working out on her walking machine. “Grandma, why does Mrs. Maybaum say ‘we’ when she talks to me? She lives alone, doesn’t she?”
Grandma paused in her walking and looked at Megan. “Yes, but I guess that she doesn’t feel alone and still includes her husband in her conversation. Does it bother you?”
“A little,” Megan admitted. “She’s the first really old, old person I’ve known.”
“And what do you think of her?”
“Well, she’s weird, but it’s a nice sort of weird. Do you think she’d mind if I visit her again?”
Grandma smiled. “I’m sure that she’d enjoy another visit.”
Megan sat up and traced the pattern in the rug with her finger. “Have you seen her samplers?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Then you’ve seen the one that isn’t finished, the one her daughter did.”
“Yes, Lovina died before she could finish it.”
“Did you know her, Grandma?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, we were friends.”
“Why did she die?”
“Lovina died because no one knew how to make her better, Megan. She was always sickly. She couldn’t go out, so I used to visit her once a week. We would make dolls—hollyhock dolls, cornhusk dolls, and paper dolls. Sometimes we had tea parties with honey taffy and lemonade for them. Lovina’s dolls looked alive, and she made the most beautiful clothes for them. She couldn’t wait to make her sampler. On her ninth birthday she got a basket and some little embroidery scissors shaped like a stork.”
“Why did Mrs. Maybaum say that there wouldn’t be any more samplers?”
“Well, she has only a son left. And he has only sons.”
“I wish that I could make her a sampler. But I guess that it wouldn’t be the same.”
“No, it wouldn’t be the same,” Grandma said, “but if you’re serious, I think that it would be very special for her.”
“Could you show me how?”
“Don’t you want her to show you?”
“I wanted to surprise her.”
“Surprises are fun, Megan,” Grandma said, sitting down by Megan and putting her arm around her, “but Mrs. Maybaum’s family weren’t just handing down stitched pictures. The art of making the pictures was the real treasure being passed on. I think that it would mean a lot to Mrs. Maybaum to pass her art on to someone.”
“Is a family treasure the same as a family tradition? That’s what she called it. Do we have any family traditions?”
“Yes, a family tradition really is a treasure—and yes, we have some family treasures.”
“What are they, Grandma?”
Grandma smiled mysteriously. All she said was, “The best treasures have to be discovered, don’t they?”
It was several days before Megan knocked at Mrs. Maybaum’s door again.
“Well, it’s Helen’s granddaughter again. Come in! Come in! We were hoping you’d come see us again.”
When they were settled in the living room, Megan blurted out, “Mrs. Maybaum, would you teach me how to do a sampler? I’m nine now, and I’ll be here five more weeks.”
Mrs. Maybaum leaned back in her chair. “Are you sure? It’s not as easy as it looks. And you’d have to do it right.”
Megan smiled eagerly. “I’m sure. And I promise to do it just like you want.”
When she talked to Grandma later, Megan said, “I’m to design my sampler before I go back. She said that it should be something that’s important to me.”
Megan was very nervous when she showed her design to Mrs. Maybaum the following week. “This is my family,” she explained to the old lady. “Mom’s in her uniform, Dad’s on his oil rig, and my two brothers—they’re visiting my other grandparents right now—are playing ball. In the middle I want it to say, ‘Home is where the heart is,’ because even though we move a lot, we love each other and take care of each other wherever we are. That’s our family tradition. What do you think?”
“We think that it’s exactly right. Now you’re ready to start.”
Mrs. Maybaum showed Megan how to trace her pattern onto the fabric, then put it in the hoop. She showed her how to hold it while she pushed the needle through.
When Megan went home that day, she was carrying a practice scrap of fabric, fabric for her sampler, and a pair of small, stork-shaped scissors in Lovina’s basket. “Mrs. Maybaum insisted that I borrow them, Grandma,” she said.
Megan’s hands were clumsy at first as she tried to make the tiny stitches, and they got tired and crampy. The thread kept knotting up, and many times Megan longed to throw the sampler away. Then she’d look at the stork scissors and the basket and try again.
After a while, the front began to look a little like her drawing. But the back was a mess! There were knots that she couldn’t get out, and big clumps and crisscrosses of thread. Mrs. Maybaum would be very disappointed.
Suddenly Mom was back from her seminar, and it was time for Megan to go home. She hurried over one last time to Mrs. Maybaum’s.
“We were afraid that you wouldn’t have time to come and say good-bye,” the old lady said. “Here’s some honey taffy for you and your mother.” She held out a parcel with a hollyhock doll for a bow. “Now, let us have a last look at your sampler.”
Megan handed her the sampler with the top side up. She thrust Lovina’s basket and scissors along with it, trying to prevent Mrs. Maybaum from turning the sampler over. “Here are Lovina’s things, Mrs. Maybaum. I took good care of them.”
“Megan, we’d like you to have them if you want them. It would please us to know that they were being used and appreciated.”
“I’d love to have them—but I just can’t take them. I don’t deserve them, Mrs. Maybaum. My sampler isn’t right.”
“It looks fine to us. What’s wrong with it?”
When Megan turned the sampler over, the old lady held it up. “It certainly is a mess,” she acknowledged. She got up and took Lovina’s off the wall, pulled the cardboard backing from it, and showed the back of it to Megan.
Megan stared in astonishment. It was every bit as messy as hers!
“Mine’s even worse,” Mrs. Maybaum laughed. “Most of them are. Samplers are for learning—you’ll do better next time.”
Megan got up and gave the old lady a big hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Maybaum. Thank you for everything.”

Pray. When Chad, our new baby, started taking more and more of my wife’s time, I sensed a feeling of resentment. With Chad came new financial responsibilities, and the pressures on me mounted. Often I felt my wife did not understand me. The need to feel understood left me wanting to look outside our marriage for friendship and emotional support. Then I remembered the feeling I had when I took my sweet wife by the hand in the sealing room of the Boise Idaho Temple. There the Spirit of the Lord bore pure testimony to me of the sanctity of our marriage. I will never forget that moment.
I was asked once if we pray for a successful marriage. We do now. At the end of each day we kneel with our son and have family prayer. The gospel is full of tools to help a marriage. Having a strong relationship with our Heavenly Father has become the backbone of our marriage.—Scott A. Carlson

Well, Dad had not taught us one thing to impress his latest guest, and Mom hadn’t explained why we had to wear Sunday clothes. In fact, they wouldn’t even tell us who was coming.
Mom had fresh flowers, candles, and her very best lace cloth on the table. She made us work to clean every inch of the house. She even got her hair done at the beauty shop.
I said, “Hey, Mom, please tell me. Who is coming? If he’s such an important person, how could he have time to come to dinner with us?” She just smiled and asked me to refill the ice cube trays.
Soon the house was ready, the food was ready, all five of us children were bathed and dressed and ready in our Sunday clothes. There was soft music playing. Mom and Dad seemed happy and peaceful, not nervous like when our other guests were coming. It was 6 o’clock. The guest would soon be here.
At 6:30, the guest hadn’t come. At 6:45 we were still waiting. We were all hungry. “Who is this most important person, anyway?” I asked impatiently.
Just then Dad and Mom called us to the table, and Mom lit the candles. “Let’s begin,” said Dad.
“How can we begin? We can’t start without our guest! We’ve gone to too much work. Who are we waiting for anyway? The president of the United States?” I said.
“Sit down, all of you, and we’ll give you some clues to see if you can guess who our guest will be,” said Mom.
“This person is more important than the president of the United States. But even though he is so important, he knows you very well,” said Dad.
“Is this a trick?” I asked.
“Not a trick,” Dad answered.
Dad continued. “This person is smarter than my boss or the senator. He is more spiritual than the missionary or the bishop. Yet, as important as he is, I didn’t even have to make an appointment with him.”
“Let’s kneel down and have family prayer to begin our dinner and home evening,” said Mom.
Suddenly, as we knelt around the table and Dad began to pray, I got this special feeling. Then I knew. Dad and Mom had gone to all this work to teach us about Heavenly Father. He is much more important than anyone else, and we don’t have to make an appointment to talk to him.
Everyone else must have figured it out too because after the prayer we ate in silence for a long time.
Finally, Dad said, “I hope you will invite Heavenly Father to be your guest in everything you do.”

Mario Moro
Mario Moro could not understand why he was drawn to buy that unusual book in a bookstore in 1973. But it fascinated him. He carried it everywhere to read.
The two Latter-day Saint missionaries who came to his office one day nudged each other whey they saw the Book of Mormon on his desk. What they taught him about the book was not new; he had already read it through once and had started over. But even though he felt good about everything they taught him, he struggled for almost a month with their baptismal challenge.
Then one day he closed his office door and knelt in prayer to ask what to do. The answer was strong. He went immediately to the missionaries—he doesn’t remember being aware of anything around him until he arrived—and they baptized him in the font they had kept filled for days, awaiting his decision. As soon as he was dry, Brother Moro was off to do member-missionary work with the elders that afternoon.
He is now second counselor in the presidency of the Sardinia District, Italy Rome Mission, and mission leader in the Sassari Branch.

Before my thirtieth year I was called to be the bishop of an 850-member ward in Honolulu, Hawaii. Two weeks prior, I had cofounded a company that had just hired and was responsible for many new employees. At the time, Diane and I had three active children, ages one to seven. The daunting responsibilities to properly care for my young family and the Saints entrusted to my stewardship, all in the midst of creating a viable business, seemed impossible. Would I know how to allocate my time when any one of these three important and complex aspects of life could become all-consuming? Was it possible to achieve a balance?

The answer I found as a young bishop, and which has served me in the ensuing years, was simply that we must thoroughly understand the guiding doctrine and then do our best each day. We organize, prioritize, and live worthy of the spiritual guidance required when ­making difficult decisions. Often we seek counsel from those closest to us. From time to time we may be out of balance for a brief period as the immediate needs of one portion of our life take temporary precedence. When this occurs, we knowingly work through the issue and seek to stabilize ourselves as soon as possible, before the short-term need becomes a long-term trait.

With the spring of 1666 came the second wave of the Black Death, the bubonic plague, to the English village of Eyam in Derbyshire. A few years before, the first onslaught of the plague had scattered residents about the countryside in a frantic effort to escape. But this time, the minister of the village church, William Mompesson, told his faithful flock that they should not run away, in case they infected others. “Stay in Eyam,” he pleaded, “to save the rest of Derbyshire.”
The minister must have been a persuasive man, for the townspeople heeded his request. A circle of stones was laid around the town as a warning boundary, and food for the villagers was left at the perimeter by outsides anxious to avoid contact.
Months went by, and the frightful disease took its toll. By the time the scourge had passed, 259 of the 350 faithful villagers were dead, including the minister’s wife. But the plague had not spread; Derbyshire was saved.

Brad wasn’t the only sixth grader who made life miserable for us younger students at school, but he was probably the biggest bully in the school. Once, he and some of his buddies grabbed my best friend, Trek, and stuffed him headfirst into a garbage can. I helped pull him out, of course. And Jesse had his lunch money stolen by Brad.
I tried to stay away from Brad and his gang, but one day during morning recess, I slipped up by going to the rest room. I tried to be smart about it, though. Before I took one step inside the rest room, I checked to see if it was empty. It was, so I figured I was in the clear. Then, as I was drying my hands and getting ready to sprint for the door, I heard a bunch of guys coming. I could tell by the way they were laughing and talking and bragging that they were sixth graders. Before I could move, the rest room door banged open and in walked Brad and three of his friends.
I knew the last thing I should do was act scared and worried, so I finished drying my hands and tossed the wadded-up paper towel into the trash barrel, ducked my head, and charged for the door, pretending that the sixth graders weren’t even there.
“Where’re you headed, kid?” Brad growled, stepping in front of me. His buddies started to laugh and lined up in front of the door so that there was no way I could get out. “What’s the idea, using the sixth grade rest room?”
“Huh?” I grunted, looking up and feeling my stomach twitch. “I didn’t know this was just for sixth—”
“Well, it is,” Brad growled, cutting me off. “This here’s just for sixth graders. Are you in sixth grade, kid?”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt as though it was filled with powder. “I’m in Miss Winder’s fifth grade class,” I managed to squeak just above a whisper. “But this is the only rest room anybody can use during recess,” I pointed out pleadingly.
“Well, if you use it,” Brad complained, “then don’t leave it in such a mess. You fifth graders are always trashing our rest room.”
“I didn’t mess anything up,” I croaked.
Ignoring me, Brad turned to his buddies, who were grinning and giggling. “Didn’t he leave this place trashed?”
“He sure did,” William said. He was a big, redheaded guy who always hung around with Brad. “Just look at all the trash on the floor.” He went to the trash barrel, reached in, pulled out a handful of soggy paper towels and threw them on the floor. The other two guys grabbed the trash barrel, tipped it upside down, and dumped everything onto the floor. Then all four of them kicked and scattered the trash about the rest room.
“Look at the huge mess this kid made,” Brad shouted. “In our rest room!” He turned to me. “Clean this place up, kid, before we tell the principal that you’re trashing the rest room. Now, get to work.”
For a moment I stood there with my mouth hanging open, not sure what I should do. I took a quick glance toward the door, wondering if I could make it out of there before Brad and his buddies caught me.
“Don’t even think about running, kid,” Brad threatened. “Even if you did get away, we’d catch you later.”
There wasn’t anything for me to do but clean the place up. The bell rang just as I threw the last handful of trash back into the barrel. Brad grabbed me by the front of my shirt, jerked me toward him, and muttered, “Don’t tell anybody about this, or you’ll be one real sorry kid—understand?” I quickly nodded. “Next time we won’t be so easy on you.” He gave me a quick, hard shove as he left with his buddies.
That afternoon as I made a sandwich in the kitchen with my younger brother, Lance, I muttered angrily, “I hate Brad! I wish I were about a foot taller and thirty pounds bigger—I’d bust him in the nose. He’d never bother me again, that’s for sure.” I shook my head and growled again, “Boy, I hate him!”
“Jay!” Mom came into the kitchen, frowning, “Is that any way to talk about someone?”
I whipped around, surprised. I hadn’t counted on Mom hearing what I was saying. She had a puzzled look on her face. “What could possibly make you say something like that about another person? You know that in our family we don’t say that we hate people.”
I ducked my head and stared at the butter knife I was holding. Then, remembering what had happened that morning in the rest room, I became angry all over again. “Well, as far as I’m concerned,” I snapped, “Brad isn’t anything but a big bully and a jerk, and I figure it’s OK to hate jerks and bullies.”
“Jay! I don’t know what this Brad did, but it still doesn’t give you any right to talk about him the way you are.”
It was hard to do, but I described for Mom and Lance everything that had happened to me that morning in the rest room.
Mom was quiet for a moment. Then she said firmly, “I think that I should give the principal a call.”
“No!” I shouted, feeling my stomach twist in knots. “Not the principal! Then everybody will think that I’m a big snitch. That would be worse than anything Brad could do to me. And Brad will do plenty more to me if he finds out you talked to Mr. Tanner.”
“Well, we need to do something. Meanwhile, I don’t want you saying that you hate Brad.”
“All right,” I muttered. “I won’t say it.” To myself, I added quietly, “I’ll just think it—because it’s the truth.”
Mom sat down at the table and clasped her hands. “What would the Savior want you to do, Jay?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, Mom,” I groaned. “What would Jesus want Brad to do? Does He want him to be a big bully?”
“Right now I’m worried more about you being full of hate and anger than I am about Brad being a bully.”
“Mom, I haven’t done anything to Brad,” I growled. “Why are you trying to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong?”
“Jay, if you have bad thoughts about this boy, some of that badness rubs off on you. The more you let yourself have hate and anger, the more you become angry and hateful.”
“So what do you expect me to do—forget that he’s a jerk?”
“Can you remember that Brad is a child of God too?”
“He’s not a very good one,” I snorted.
“When men were unkind to the Savior,” Mom asked, “what did He do? Did He hate them, call them names, and say that He wished He could bust them in the nose?”
I ducked my head, knowing that Mom was right, but I wasn’t in the mood to admit it, even to myself. I just wanted to get back at Brad some way.
“I think Jesus would try to forgive Brad.”
“Forgive him!” I almost choked. “If Brad wants me to forgive him, maybe he should at least come around and say he’s sorry. And I know that that’s never going to happen. He doesn’t feel sorry for anything he’s done to me or anyone else.”
“The soldiers who nailed Jesus to the cross didn’t say they were sorry for what they were doing. But Jesus still forgave them.”
I had no arguments left, but I was still angry.
I didn’t tell Mom that I was going to forgive Brad, because I didn’t plan to. I didn’t say that I hated him anymore, but I thought it plenty. Every time I saw him at school, I’d get angry all over again. In fact, I’d get so angry that my stomach would churn.
A few days later during lunch hour, I saw some kids writing with a bright red marker on one of the walls in the hall. They ran when they saw me. That afternoon Mr. Tanner called me down to his office.
When I got there, Brad was sitting outside it, scowling. He glared at me as I walked past him into the principal’s office. Mr. Tanner closed his door and sat behind his desk.
“Jay,” he began, leaning forward in his chair, “there was some vandalism done in the hall today at noon, and one of the teachers thought you might know something about it.”
I swallowed and nodded. “But I didn’t do it,” I added quickly.
Mr. Tanner smiled. “I believe you, Jay. I didn’t call you down here because I thought you were guilty. But I was wondering if you could help us find out who is.”
I twisted uneasily in my chair. “They were down the hall from me,” I explained slowly, “and they had their backs to me most of the time. I’m pretty sure they were sixth graders, but I don’t know all the sixth graders. I really don’t know who they were, Mr. Tanner.”
“Do you know some of the sixth graders, Jay? Do you know Bradford—I believe everybody calls him Brad.”
So that was why Brad was waiting in the office. Mr. Tanner figured he was one of the vandals. “Yeah, I know him.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
I shook my head. “Definitely not!” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.
“Have you had trouble with Brad before?”
I nodded.
Mr. Tanner took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “This is the kind of thing Brad has done before, Jay. I think he was in on this vandalism. I need you to tell me whether he was one of the boys in the hall today.”
Suddenly I thought of what had happened in the rest room a few days before. This was my chance to get even with Brad. Then I thought of what Mom had asked me: “What would Jesus want you to do?”
I shifted in my chair and looked across the desk at Mr. Tanner. “Brad wasn’t one of them,” I said quietly.
Mr. Tanner studied me a moment before speaking. “Are you sure, Jay? You don’t have to be afraid of him. I can make sure that he doesn’t bother you.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Tanner. I’d recognize Brad anyplace, even from behind. He wasn’t one of the guys there this afternoon.”
Mr. Tanner seemed a little disappointed. He had hoped that I could pin the vandalism on Brad. But I knew that I had done the right thing. As I walked past Brad to go back to class, he glared at me again. But somehow I didn’t feel angry anymore. It was as if a cold, hard lump had been pried from my insides and thrown away.
As I was getting ready to board my bus that afternoon, someone came up behind me and grabbed my arm. It was Brad. He didn’t have his buddies with him. “Mr. Tanner told me what you said,” he muttered.
“I just told the truth.”
He nodded. “Well, thanks.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “You don’t have to worry about anything happening in the rest room anymore.”
As I climbed onto the bus, I smiled. Brad was still the biggest bully at school, but I didn’t hate him anymore, and deep inside I felt better than I’d felt in a long time. I guess that’s what happens when you learn to forgive.

1 Heber Jeddy Grant was a tall, thin boy, and he wasn’t very strong. When the neighborhood boys played baseball, he played with the younger, slower boys because he couldn’t even throw the ball from one base to another.
2 Jeddy really wanted to play ball with the boys his own age, so he decided to do something about it. He spent many hours in his mother’s boardinghouse, shining the boarders’ boots so that he could earn enough money to buy a baseball.
3 When Jeddy had earned a dollar, he bought a baseball. Then he practiced countless hours throwing it against his neighbor’s barn.
4 Finally Jeddy’s skill improved. The boys his own age were impressed with how well he could throw a ball, and they let him play baseball with them.
5 Eventually Jeddy’s baseball team became the territory champions; they went on to beat the championship teams of California, Colorado, and Wyoming.
6 Heber Jeddy Grant learned the importance of setting a goal and then working hard until it was achieved. Many years later this ability helped him greatly when he became the seventh President of the Church.

I was in New York some time ago. I told the Saints I met with there that the president asked them all to be missionaries. I said, “Now, won’t you all stop and think for a minute of someone you know who isn’t a member of the Church—someone you work with, your neighbor, your friend, or a relative—someone you can bring to a knowledge of the truth? They will love you for it throughout the eternities. It would be worth more to them than if you would give them a million dollars.”

Not long after that I received a letter from a young man in Houston, Texas. He had been in New York attending a convention in his particular field and had attended our meeting. The letter went like this. He said, “Brother Richards, I heard you invite each one of us to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord in bringing someone to the knowledge of the truth. I wrote a letter to my wife and told her that I had a proposition to make to her when I came home.” When he got home he told her what I had said. He said, “There is a young man who works in the office with me. He knows I’m a Mormon, but I have never told him why. I would like to invite him over, with his wife, for supper some night. After supper we will have something to talk about.”

To make this story short, he wrote me a two-page letter telling me the joy he had in leading this man and his wife into the waters of baptism. I have since met them down in Houston. I believe he is now the stake Sunday School President.

House Build C:
In this family are Roberto (father), Micaela (mother), Gloria (daughter, 13), Esther (daughter, 10), and Abraham (son, 8). Roberto works as a cook six days a week. Micaela raises her children and makes foam flowers to sell to stores and schools.
Two years ago, Roberto started going back to church with his family. He felt God’s love and felt the need to serve and love others, so each Friday he would bring hundreds of burritos and flavored water to migrant groups from Central America. He feels that God always blesses him for his service and that his new home is one such blessing. But he was even more excited about the incredible gratitude, love, and unity he felt among the youth.

President Smith then married Jessie Evans, former contralto and soloist with the Salt Lake Tabernacle Choir, on April 12, 1938. A born entertainer with a vivacious and cheerful nature, she was at the president’s side for thirty-three years, buoying him up and caring for him with a love and devotion that was truly beautiful. She lived to see him become president of the Church and traveled extensively with him on his many Church assignments, sharing not only his rigorous schedule but also the loving reception of the Saints of many lands. When she succumbed to a heart ailment on August 3, 1971, millions shared President Smith’s loneliness and sorrow. On seeing the compassion and concern extended to him at this time by President Harold B. Lee, President Smith assured his counselor that the Lord would give him strength to continue in his duties. “I’ve been through this before, you know,” he said.

In 1982, I was finishing my associate’s degree in topography at a technical school.
At the end of the year, a classmate invited me to have a conversation. I remember that we left the other members of the class and went to an area beside a sports court. When we got there, he spoke to me about his religious convictions, and not only did he show me a book, but he gave me the book. Honestly, I do not remember all the words that he said, but I remember that moment very well and the way I felt when he said, “I want to bear my testimony to you that this book is true and that the gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored.”
After our conversation, I went home, turned a few pages in the book, and placed it on a shelf. Because we were at the end of the year and it was the last year of my topography degree, I did not really pay much attention to the book or to my classmate who had shared it with me. The name of the book you can already guess. Yes, it was the Book of Mormon.
Five months later, the missionaries came into my house; they were leaving just as I was coming home from work. I invited them back in. We sat down in the little patio in front of my house, and they taught me.
In my search for the truth, I asked them which church was true and how I could find it. The missionaries taught me that I could obtain that answer for myself. With great expectation and desire, I accepted their challenge to read several chapters from the Book of Mormon. I prayed with a sincere heart and with real intent (see Moroni 10:4–5). The answer to my question was clear, and several days later—more precisely on May 1, 1983—I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Today, when I think about the sequence of events that occurred, I see clearly how important the courage of my classmate was when he bore his testimony about the restored truth and presented me with tangible proof of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, even the Book of Mormon. That simple act, but of profound significance to me, created a connection between me and the missionaries when I met them.
The truth had been presented to me, and after my baptism, I became a disciple of Jesus Christ. During the following years, and with the help of very special people such as leaders, teachers, and friends, and also through my own personal study, I learned that when I decided to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, I had accepted the task of not only defending the truth but also proclaiming it.

“We get to hear the prophet speak today!” Chase said to his little sister, Amelie.
Amelie was excited too. They had learned about prophets in family home evening just last Monday. A prophet is a person who has been called by God and speaks for Him. The prophet receives commandments and revelations from God and then shares them with Heavenly Father’s children. Mom had shown Chase and Amelie pictures of President Monson. They decided to draw their own pictures of the prophet too.
Now Chase and Amelie were going to a devotional to hear President Thomas S. Monson speak to them.
“Let’s bring our pictures,” Chase said.
Chase and Amelie took their pictures of President Monson off the refrigerator door.
“This is going to be more fun than the circus or the zoo!” Chase said.
When they got to the devotional, Chase and Amelie stared at all the people in the huge stadium. Almost all of the seats were filled. Chase and Amelie had to sit behind the stand. All they could see was the back of President Monson’s head.
President Monson spoke about prophets God had called in the latter days. The prophets were righteous men who followed God.
After the closing prayer, President Monson turned to leave the stadium. He headed right toward Chase and Amelie! They excitedly held up their pictures so President Monson could see them.
President Monson smiled when he saw Chase and Amelie’s pictures.
“Oh, how nice,” he said. “How about a high five?” President Monson held up his hand to Chase and Amelie.
Chase and Amelie each gave President Monson a high five. They were so happy to meet the prophet. They truly knew that he was a prophet of God.

During her campaign to be elected as the student president, Sue introduced a theme, “Seek for the highest that is in you.” As high school students will do, some started making fun of the theme. But Sue persevered, using the theme for all the school activities throughout the year, and the ridicule died down. The school principal said, “There are always those who will take something positive and try to make fun of it. Sue was able to overcome that just by her pleasant attitude and by not taking herself too seriously or getting defensive when people would make fun of the theme. The theme became the accepted motto for the students that year.”