Gospel Story Finder

My father and mother were sheep farmers in New Zealand. They enjoyed their life. As a young married couple, they were blessed with three little girls. The youngest of these was named Ann. One day while they were on holiday together at a lake, 17-month-old Ann toddled off. After minutes of desperate searching, she was found lifeless in the water.
This nightmare caused unspeakable sorrow. Dad wrote years later that some of the laughter went out of their lives forever. It also caused a yearning for answers to life’s most important questions: What will become of our precious Ann? Will we ever see her again? How can our family ever be happy again?
Some years after this tragedy, two young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to our farm. They began teaching the truths found in the Book of Mormon and the Bible. These truths include the assurance that Ann now lives in the spirit world. Because of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, she too will be resurrected. They taught that the Church of Jesus Christ has once again been restored on earth with a living prophet and twelve Apostles. And they taught the unique and remarkable doctrine that families can be bound together forever by the same priesthood authority Jesus Christ gave His chief Apostle, Peter.
Mum instantly recognized truth and received a witness of the Spirit. Dad, however, wrestled for the next year between doubts and spiritual nudges. Also, he was reluctant to change his way of life. One morning following a sleepless night, while pacing the floor, he turned to Mum and said, “I will be baptized today or never.”
Mum told the missionaries what had happened, and they immediately recognized the flicker of faith in my father that would now be either lit or extinguished.
That very morning our family traveled to the nearest beach. Unaware of what was happening, we children had a picnic on the sand dunes while Elders Boyd Green and Gary Sheffield led my parents into the ocean and baptized them. In a further act of faith, Dad privately committed to the Lord that come what may, he would be true all his life to the promises he was making.
One year later a temple was dedicated in Hamilton, New Zealand. Shortly thereafter our family, with someone representing Ann, knelt around the altar in that sacred house of the Lord. There, by the authority of the priesthood, we were united as an eternal family in a simple and beautiful ordinance. This brought great peace and joy.
Many years later Dad told me that if not for Ann’s tragic death, he would never have been humble enough to accept the restored gospel. Yet the Spirit of the Lord instilled hope that what the missionaries taught was true. My parents’ faith continued to grow until they each burned with the fire of testimony that quietly and humbly guided their every decision in life.
I will always be thankful for my parents’ example to future generations. It is impossible to measure the number of lives forever changed because of their acts of faith in response to profound sorrow.
I invite all who feel sorrow, all who wrestle with doubt, all who wonder what happens after we die, to place your faith in Christ. I promise that if you desire to believe, then act in faith and follow the whisperings of the Spirit, you will find joy in this life and in the world to come.
How I look forward to the day I will meet my sister Ann. I look forward to a joyful reunion with my father, who died over 30 years ago. I testify of the joy to be found in living by faith, believing without seeing, but knowing by the power of the Holy Ghost that Jesus Christ lives. With all my heart and soul, I choose to follow Jesus Christ and His restored gospel. This blesses every aspect of my life. I know that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, our Savior and our Redeemer. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Receiving my mission call to the Philippines Cebu Mission was a momentous occasion in my life. I had been preparing for quite some time, and I was ready to serve. Entering the missionary training center was a great experience. It struck me that the first thing that they do there is give you a name tag. But this is no ordinary name tag—it has two names. One is the missionary’s name and the other is the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Putting on that name tag was the start of a new understanding for me of what it really meant to be a representative of Jesus Christ.

At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!

Much of Brother Bollbach’s service has been as a missionary in the land of his birth. In 1969, six weeks after Fritz had opened the workshop, Fritz and Elli’s bishop called them into his office and asked them a question. The bishop had to repeat the question three times: “Fritz, the Lord wants you and your wife to serve together in the mission field. What do you think about that?”
“I was shocked,” Brother Bollbach remembers. “I could say nothing.”
Unable to answer the bishop’s question, he asked Elli, “Well, Mama, what do you think?”
She glanced at Fritz and said, “The decision is yours. I will be your eyes.”
He turned back to the bishop and replied, “Bishop, we will go where the Lord wants us to go.”
The Bollbachs were soon serving in the Germany Central Mission. Their main responsibility was to help bring people back to church. “Many of them did not want to pray because they said they had nothing to be grateful for or they just didn’t need anything,” Sister Bollbach explains. “However, Fritz inspired them and helped them to be grateful for life and for God’s blessings.”
One of his first assignments was to serve as branch president in Gelsenkirchen. At first Brother Bollbach was hesitant when the mission president called him to the position. “But you know that I’m blind,” Brother Bollbach told him.
“Yes, of course I know that,” the mission president replied. “God knows it as well.”
Brother Bollbach labored as branch president there until he had a mild heart attack a year later. “I wondered if I should go home after that,” he recalls. “But the doctor examined me and said it was all right for me to stay. So we stayed.”
After they returned from the mission field in 1971, Elli went back to working in the Salt Lake Temple, and Fritz reopened the workshop and put his wood pieces on display. As people flocked to see Brother Bollbach’s carvings, many thought it impossible that a blind man had done such splendid work. “Unbelievable, but not impossible,” he told them. “You must have faith in the Lord and confidence in yourself. All people—no matter what race or creed—are children of God and brought talents with them to earth. It depends upon the individual to discover and realize those talents through diligent effort.”
In 1975, the Bollbachs were surprised by another mission call, this time to the Germany Frankfurt Mission. About the same time, Elli discovered she had cancer. “No one can imagine the fear we felt,” Fritz explains. “Within one week, she underwent three operations. The curious thing was the blessing the bishop gave her. He said to her, ‘Elli, you will recover, and you will again go into the mission field with Fritz to serve God.’ We wondered how he could say such a thing.”
Sister Bollbach recuperated from the operations, and they served an eighteen-month mission in Pirmasens, Germany, near the French border.
Less than a year after returning home, the Bollbachs locked up their house and workshop a third time to serve in the Germany Munich Mission, where Brother Bollbach was called to be branch president in Nürnberg. Although the branch had more than 450 people on its records, only about 20 members attended regularly.
The Bollbachs knew they had challenges, but they also knew how to overcome them. With faith, prayer, obedience, and diligence, they concentrated on visiting less-active members. “A miracle happened,” Brother Bollbach exclaims. “The branch grew. Several months later, the branch was divided into three branches—Feucht, Fürth, and Nürnberg. I know it was the blessing and help of God. We were just the instruments in his hands.”
After coming home, the Bollbachs served as Sunday School teachers for about ten years. Because Fritz could not read the lessons, Elli recorded the lesson manual and passages of scripture onto a tape. Fritz would then listen to the tape several times and would study with Elli for up to eight hours. “I searched out the questions and had them put on tape,” he says. “Then I learned them by heart so we could teach the class together.” They finally were released when Brother Bollbach became too sick to continue the weekly assignment.
The Bollbachs say all their Church assignments have made them happy. “We used our time only for the Church and for God and for learning,” Brother Bollbach comments, “and we were glad. But it was not ourselves, but the power of prayer and the help of God that allowed us to do the work. Without God and Elli, I could not have made it. Without His help, I could not see spiritually with my heart.”

What goes on there? The usual joking around, making plans for after school, keeping track of friends, and a fair amount of sharing the gospel and fellowshipping. Susan Benefield can tell you about that.

Susan noticed the LDS youth at Lathrop and liked what she saw. “One thing I noticed when I first met these students is that they all smile. It’s like they know something you don’t. They walk through the halls with a smile on their faces, most of them. It makes you kind of wonder, why are they so happy all the time?”

Susan began to find her answer when Courtney Hull, Susan’s best friend, invited her to early-morning seminary. “It was just a going-with-my-friend sort of thing,” Susan explains. “Then I started going to Young Women and to church and everything else, and everyone was really friendly. Then I started listening to the things the teachers were teaching. And one day it just came to me that this is the thing I needed to do.” So she was baptized.

“I still have my friends that I had before I joined the Church,” Susan goes on, “and I have a lot of friends that aren’t in the Church. But I know when I’m with the LDS youth that there’s no peer pressure, no gossiping going on, no name calling, no drinking.” Now Susan knows why the LDS students seem so happy all the time: “I guess the gospel kind of does that to you.”

My dad is not a member of the Church, so when I decided to be baptized I talked with him and told him why I wanted very much to be baptized and become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Eventually he talked to the missionaries and gave his consent, and I was baptized on 8 June 1997.
I am glad I was able to talk to my dad about why I wanted to be baptized. I am glad my mom talked to me about going to church and encouraged me to attend.

Sally had a problem. Her sister, Meg, a high school junior, recently placed second in the state gymnastic tournament. Meg looked like a butterfly as she flew through her routine. And fourth-grade, freckle-faced Timmy, Sally’s younger brother, could make a violin sing. His teacher said that Timmy had a great future.
Meg and Timmy had special talents, and Sally didn’t have any. That was her problem.
One day Sally overheard a new neighbor say, “I understand that you have two talented children—one a violinist, the other a gymnast. What does your other child do?”
“I couldn’t get along without Sally,” Mom replied. “She’s a great organizer and my responsible helper.”
Though no one saw her, Sally felt her face burn. So I’m only an organizer, she thought. That’s no special talent. Grandma would often say, “Sally will find herself one of these days. You’ll see.” But Sally didn’t want to wait to see.
However, now that Mom was working, Sally didn’t have much time to worry about being talented. Every day after school she did some of the housework and started dinner. Tim and Meg had either lessons or practice. Sometimes when Sally felt annoyed at them, Mom would say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and some of the hurt would go away. Anyway, Meg and Timmy did have to do the dinner dishes.
At first, Sally had problems with her cooking. Underdone, lumpy potatoes and burned carrots were only two of several disasters. But Mom helped her learn a little each time she cooked dinner.
Now when Dad came home, he said, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’,” and gave Sally a hug. Then she felt loved and happy.
One day toward the end of May, Meg called Sally and Timmy to her room and said, “Father’s Day is next week. Let’s have a party for him. What can we give for a present?”
Sally suggested that they each do something special … maybe have a program. Timmy looked at Sally and asked, “What would you do?”
Sally slumped down and fussed with her fingernails. Then she had an idea—but she wouldn’t tell. She’d surprise everybody. So she shrugged and said, “I’ll think of something.”
“I’ll bet,” Timmy teased.
“Timmy, that’s not nice,” Meg told him. “Just be sure that your violin’s in tune.”
To change the subject, Sally suggested that they invite Grandpa and Grandma.
The next afternoon Sally hurried home and told Mom her plan and asked for her help. Mom thought that Sally’s idea was terrific, and Sally suggested that they get Mrs. Jensen, their next-door neighbor, to help.
For several days Sally spent extra time after school at Mrs. Jensen’s, working on her project. Then, on Father’s Day, she hurried home from church to work on dinner. Meg and Timmy had assumed that the special dinner was Sally’s part of the program, and she just let them think so. It would be fun to surprise them too.
Mom came home from choir practice in time to help with the last-minute preparations. “Dad will be so pleased,” she said.
Dad was indeed pleased as well as surprised. Everything tasted delicious.
When fruit gelatin with whipped cream was served for dessert, Timmy asked, puzzled, “No cake for the party?”
Dad said, “This gelatin is my favorite.”
Grandpa said, “Young lady, I didn’t know that you’d learned how to cook like this.”
“We’ll have to invite you over more often,” Dad told him.
After dinner Meg and Timmy presented their program. Since they had no gymnastic bars, Meg did a floor exercise to music played on the tape recorder.
As soon as Timmy started to play the first of his two violin solos, Sally slipped out and hurried next door. Then Mrs. Jensen walked her home so that Sally wouldn’t stumble with her precious project. Sally re-entered the living room while the family were noisily applauding Timmy’s performance. Sally nodded to Mom, who announced, “Now we would like you to come back into the dining room for Sally’s special treat for Dad and Grandpa.”
“You mean there’s more?” everyone asked.
Indeed there was more! In the middle of the table sat a five-layer cake. Thick chocolate frosting dripped down the sides. Ruffled chocolate edging circled three yellow frosting roses with green leaves on the cream-colored top. Chocolate frosting spelled out, “Happy Father’s Day.”
The family oohed and ahhed as they examined the masterpiece. Then everyone talked at once. Mother stood with her arm around Sally, who grinned so hard that her face hurt.
Timmy asked suspiciously, “Where’d you get that?”
Before Sally could answer, Mom said, “She made it.”
“Mrs. Jensen is a cake decorator,” Sally explained, “and she taught me how.”
Meg said, “Oh, Sally, teach me. Would you, please?”
Grandma said, “If you’re giving classes, may I come too? Your cake is beautiful.”
“Do we get to eat it,” Grandpa asked, “or is it just to look at?”
“I hope not,” Timmy said. “It looks yummy to me!”
Dad looked at Timmy. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t want any. That would leave more pieces for me and Grandpa.”
Meg sighed. “Sally, that’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen!”
Sally, so happy that she couldn’t speak, handed Dad the cake knife.
He laid it on the table, cupped his hands around his mouth and called in a loud voice, “Look out, chefs of the world! Someone is coming to give you a run for your money.”
Grandma smiled and winked at Sally while taking a piece of cake.

It was at the beginning of seventh grade that I first met Randa. She was assigned to the desk right behind mine.
Her family had just moved into the area. She was the oldest child and only girl in a family with six children. Her family was neither rich nor poor. They fit right in with everyone else. In fact, the only thing unusual about the family was Randa.
Randa had been born with a serious malformation of the face. The first thing I noticed about her was a long, purple scar down her cheek. It was a result of one of many corrective surgeries. There would be many more surgeries in her future. The left lens in her eyeglasses was frosted to help conceal an artificial eye.
Now, I used to have a case of acne that I thought was terminal. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I would think, “Someday I’m going to grow out of this.” Whenever Randa looked in the mirror, she knew she was not going to grow out of it.
Still, Randa and I ended up talking about everything during class. I teased her unmercifully, and she would tease me right back, with a measure added. We developed a friendship and began to share things besides sharp retorts with each other.
One of the subjects we talked about frequently was her dream of her wedding reception. Randa described the flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music. She had indomitable optimism. I would quietly listen to her and think, “Randa, why do you do this? There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Her physical problems created some tough social situations. I admit that my classmates and I were not as sensitive as we should have been. We made all sorts of comments about her—not all nice. I’m embarrassed to say that I made my share of “funny” remarks at her expense.
During our high school years she ran for cheerleader. I suppose she was hoping that a success would win her some social acceptance. But Randa’s dreams were ravaged by the electoral process.
Dances weren’t easy for Randa either. One night, at a church dance, one of the brighter guys made a proposition. You could show real courage by asking the “ugliest” girl there for a dance. Better yet, you could stay for a second dance just to prove your courage had staying power. That was followed by a lot of laughter, and a lot of “I will if you will” promises.
Suddenly one of the guys broke away from the group and asked Randa for a dance. Then he stayed for a second. When he returned to our group, he said, “Okay guys, you promised.” One by one, they asked Randa to dance, and stayed for a second. Randa danced 16 times that night. She had the time of her life—only to learn later that she was the object of a cruel joke.
But Randa did have a date to all the formal dances—with her father. She always had a nice formal and a corsage, just like the other girls. Her father would be dressed in a nice Sunday suit, just like the other guys. Randa and her father would dance a few dances and sit out a few, just like the rest of us. At about 10:00 P.M., Randa and her father would go home, not like the rest of us. We would go to a late dinner or party.
But life was not bad for Randa. She was blessed with a lot of spunk and a great attitude. She had a beautiful singing voice and sang whenever she was asked. She had a wonderful sense of humor, too. In spite of her painful experiences, she was not introverted. She pursued her dreams boldly. Randa was determined to live life as it came.
After high school, our paths parted. I went to college and served a mission while Randa pursued higher education as well.
A short time after returning from my mission, I received an invitation to what I considered an amazing social function. It was Randa’s wedding reception! I stepped into the cultural hall of her ward and looked around with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music were exactly as she had described them all those years before. In the reception line I met Randa’s husband, who was tall, dark, and handsome. He knew who he was and what is important in life. I was very impressed.
Years later, at a class reunion, I was happy to find that Randa was still reaching for the stars with her usual enthusiasm. She’d made some outstanding achievements. She had seven healthy children. She had served as campaign manager for a successful candidate for the U.S. Congress. She had been elected to the school board in her community. And while juggling all these demands, Randa went back to college and completed a bachelor’s degree so she could qualify to teach the handicapped.
It took me many years to learn how well Heavenly Father knows and loves each one of us. And when I finally had a better idea of this, I realized I had some sore repenting to do for the offenses I had caused Randa.
I called her and asked her forgiveness for all the unkind things I had said and done at her expense. She could only remember one time I was cruel. Her memory had been much kinder to me than mine was. She freely forgave me.
I hope that in the future I’ll have the courage to behave the way I believe. If I had done that in seventh grade and all the grades that followed, life could have been more gratifying for Randa. It’s such a little thing—to ask to be treated with kindness. It’s really only a little thing to be kind. I realize, though, that the little things, done consistently, make a very big difference.

“I remember one experience I had as a little boy that had to do with my going to the grocery store. When I came back, I was eating an apple. Mother asked me where I got the apple. I said, ‘I found it.’ She asked where I found it, and I said, ‘At the store.’ She said, ‘You found it before it got lost.’ I had partly eaten the apple, but she made me take it back anyway. I can still remember crying all the way to the store. Mr. Goddard, who ran the store, said, ‘I saw you take it, but I didn’t say anything because I knew your mother would make you bring it back.’ I have thought of that experience many times and know that I learned the true value of honesty through that incident.

A few years ago I had been assigned with other General Authorities to attend a series of area conferences in New Zealand and Australia. Initially, the leader of our group was to have been President Spencer W. Kimball. However, because of the need for some emergency surgery, he could not travel with us, so President N. Eldon Tanner led the group in his place.
Each day during the trip President Tanner telephoned President Kimball in his hospital room to get a report on his condition and to give a brief report of the conferences in which we were participating. After the daily call to Salt Lake City, President Tanner would always give us a report on the President’s condition. We were anxious and appreciated these brief messages.
Once, after we had been out for five or six days, President Tanner made his usual call to the hospital in Salt Lake City. However, this day he had no report for us. When we asked if he had talked to the President, he told us he had tried, but President Kimball wasn’t in his room. “Where was he?” we asked. “They weren’t sure; they couldn’t find him,” President Tanner said. “They thought he might have gone down to the next floor of the hospital to visit the sick.”
To paraphrase a statement made by Wendell Phillips, it may be accurately said, “How prudently most men sink into nameless graves, while now and then a few forget themselves into immortality.” (As quoted by William Jennings Bryan, The Prince of Peace, Independence: Zion’s Printing and Publishing Co., 1925.)

Nearly 28 years ago I desired to attend a general conference of the Church and drove 14 hours to be in Salt Lake City for the conference. I entered Temple Square at 8:00 a.m., where the line outside door number 10 was all the way across Temple Square and halfway down the south side of the Assembly Hall. I was nearly 300 feet from my goal. The usher called out that the Tabernacle was full. People dropped out of line, and I inched forward.

At five minutes before 10:00 I was the only person standing in front of my chosen door. The door opened, and the usher said, “Are you still here?” He closed the door, and my heart sank. As the choir began to sing the opening hymn at 10:00 sharp, the door opened one more time, and the usher beckoned me inside. He placed me on half a seat and behind a post, but a welcome seat it was! I was able to sustain the Lord’s chosen leaders and hear their counsel that special day, just as we have done here this afternoon.

When I was a young mother with my first baby, my husband was still in college. We both worked part time to make ends meet.
Looking forward to a day off work, I had planned to watch an old movie on television. This was before DVDs or streaming services.
The movie would begin at the perfect time—10:00 a.m.—when our son would be napping. It starred Cary Grant, one of my favorite American movie stars.
The night before my anticipated day off, the ward Relief Society president called. A sister in our ward had suffered a mild stroke and needed care the next day until her son returned from work.
“I would do this myself, but I have company,” the Relief Society president said. She explained that she had no one else to ask and offered to watch our son while I cared for the sister. I reluctantly agreed.
The next morning, I dropped off our son and went to visit the sister. Her name was Louise, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for her. She was old enough to be my grandmother, who had recently died.
I helped Louise dress and then prepared her breakfast. She eased into a chair and turned on the television. Soon it was 10:00 a.m. As she flipped through the channels with the remote, she said, “This television has nothing to offer.”
I hesitated and then said, “There’s a Cary Grant movie on channel 11.”
“Really?” she asked. “I love Cary Grant!”
We watched the movie and thoroughly enjoyed it. Afterward, she shared things about her life when she was my age. She told me about her son, and I told her about mine. She talked about the Church and how she missed it.
When her son returned, I promised to return. I told the Relief Society president to call me first if Louise ever needed anyone.
Sometime during the next two weeks, Louise suffered another stroke and passed away before I had a chance to see her again. We had shared only nine hours and a movie, but she became a dear friend. I think of her often.
I am thankful I didn’t lose the chance to help a sister who needed me—and whom I needed, though I didn’t realize it.

Last week I boarded a plane to attend a stake conference in the East. My spirit was sagging and my mood less than desirable. I took my assigned seat, opened my briefcase, and began to work on some materials which were quite pressing. The seat adjacent to mine was vacant, and I found myself hoping that it would not be taken. I wanted to travel undisturbed by conversation and other distractions.
Just before the boarding gate was closed, a very hairy and unkempt young man rushed through the door and took the only remaining seat—the one next to mine. I must admit that this annoyed me. He appeared worldly, smelled worldly, and seemed eager for conversation.
I ignored him and continued with my writing. A short distance into the air, my unwelcomed traveling companion turned to me and said, “I feel that I offend you, and I want to make an explanation.” He continued, “I’m from Canada, and I’ve been attending a mechanics seminar in Utah. The seminar concluded with a workshop, and I’ve been deep in grease and grime all day. And as you can see and smell, I didn’t have time to shower or change clothes before catching the plane. I hope you will forgive me.”
Oh, how ashamed I was! Ashamed that I had been so selfish; ashamed that I had prejudged.
I repented of my feelings and apologized for my thoughts. Then, after a brief introduction, a beautiful gospel conversation ensued. Before we landed in Chicago, we were reading the scriptures together and conversing like old friends. We parted with a warm handshake and the promise that he would receive our missionaries.

“Oh dear! It looks like I’ll have to go to the store,” Aunt Mabel suddenly announced as she closed the refrigerator door.
“But it’s snowing, and the wind is howling,” Annie said. She’d just been looking out the window of Aunt Mabel’s cozy farmhouse.
“But I must go—my refrigerator and cupboards are bare.” Aunt Mabel sounded determined.
Annie was spending a few weeks on Aunt Mabel’s farm. The early snowstorm had been sudden and unexpected. The snow was being whipped around by a wind that sounded quite fierce! It was hard to see anything but snow out the window. Annie got a worried expression on her face.
“We’ll just get all bundled up and make our way through the storm—like the pioneers did. On a farm, one has to keep the pioneer spirit alive,” Aunt Mabel continued as she helped Annie put on her jacket and boots.
The pioneer spirit? Annie’s face took on a look of determination. If Aunt Mabel had the pioneer spirit, she would have it too. “Are we going in your pickup truck?” Annie asked as they headed out the door.
“No, sweetie. We’ll walk.”
Walk? Annie thought. Walking will require a lot of pioneer spirit. “I’m ready if you are, Aunt Mabel.”
“You’re a brave girl. Just for that we’ll bring back an extra special dessert,” Aunt Mabel promised, opening the door.
The snow swirled in the wind. Though it was freezing cold, Annie couldn’t help noticing how beautiful it looked.
Aunt Mabel walked around the side of the house. Annie followed, fighting the strong wind that seemed determined to rip her scarf right off her neck!
Aunt Mabel pulled open a large door in the ground.
Annie stared. What was she doing?
“Come on, sweetie. Follow me to my store. Watch these steps—they’re a bit steep,” Aunt Mabel cautioned. Annie held on to the railing as she followed. At the bottom of the stairs Aunt Mabel pulled a string. A light came on.
“Wow!” Annie exclaimed. “A store right in your yard!” There were rows upon rows of shelves bulging with rows upon rows of jars! Jars filled with colorful fruits and vegetables—green beans, corn, peas, pickles, jams, peaches, pears, applesauce, and more.
On the dirt floor were boxes filled with carrots, potatoes, onions, cabbages, and apples. Practically any kind of food one could find in a grocery store was right there in Aunt Mabel’s cellar!
“All summer, while my garden is producing, I work hard stocking my store. Then when winter arrives, I can relax with a good book—or with my favorite niece—and enjoy it,” Aunt Mabel said.
“Are those watermelons in the corner?” Annie asked in amazement.
“They certainly are. Those are the last melons from my garden. I coated them with paraffin, which is like candle wax. That way, if I’m lucky, they’ll keep into early winter.”
They filled two boxes with both canned and fresh fruits and vegetables and carried them up to the house. Annie’s box had potatoes, carrots, and apples in it. Aunt Mabel took jars of other fruits and vegetables. Then Aunt Mabel rushed out to the cellar again and came back up with a watermelon in her arms. “Our special dessert,” she said, smiling at Annie.
Back in the cozy, warm kitchen, Aunt Mabel and Annie soon filled the refrigerator and cupboards.
A pair of headlights shone through the kitchen window. Angie looked out. “Someone in a blue truck is here.”
A man came to the door. “Come in, John,” Aunt Mabel told him.
“I’m on my way to town. I just stopped to see if you might need something. You know that my truck has four-wheel drive. It’ll make it through anything.”
“Thank you, John. I certainly do appreciate your stopping by, but we don’t need a thing. In fact, I just brought up a watermelon from my store. It’s too big for the two of us—this is my niece Annie, who’s visiting me from the city—so won’t you take some home with you?”
“What a treat! Thank you.” He turned and smiled at Annie. “Hello there, young lady. It looks like you’re getting a taste of our country winter.”
“Yes, but I’m not worried about it. We have Aunt Mabel’s store, right in the cellar. And we have the pioneer spirit. We can make it through anything.”

It was with awe that our children first heard the story about a family who gave away their entire Christmas—tree, food, and gifts. It all began when their neighbor’s home burned early on the morning of Christmas Eve. When the children heard of their friends’ situation, a family meeting was called and they all agreed, without exception, that they would share their Christmas.
The day’s activities soon centered around switching name tags on gifts and boxing up Christmas goodies, turkey and all. And at the last minute, they even took the tree! When they gathered back home after delivering their project in secret, they had feelings of excitement and love. (See Leon R. Hartshorn, Memorable Christmas Stories, p. 41.)

At first, I was embarrassed and ashamed.
I mean, how would you like it if you were always the object of the ward service projects? I came from a single-parent home, and we were considered “underprivileged.” All that service was a little hard to accept.
But when I started noticing the joy in the faces of the kids in my ward, my feelings began to change. It wasn’t right for me to deny them the joy of service just because I was a little ashamed. They weren’t there to embarrass me and my family. They were there because they loved us and were aware of my mom’s struggles, and wanted to offer their time and labor.
And would you believe that participating in a ward service project at my own house made one of the best days of my life? The youth of the ward came to spend an entire Saturday sanding and painting our house. The brushes were set out; paint had been bought; razor blades, sandpaper, and ladders were all ready for action. Before we knew it, there was paint everywhere, with extra amounts splattered on the advisers.
By the end of the day, we were all tired and thirsty, but no one could wipe the smiles off our faces or wipe away the friendships we had just cemented. My heart filled with warmth and my eyes stung from the oncoming tears as I looked at the newly painted house that was our little home.
Now, every time I look at our house the memory of hitting the advisers with paint brings on a smile, but I also see something else. One of the deacons walked across the roof with paint on the bottom of his shoes. It was the funniest thing to look up and see white footprints across the roof.
With time, the footprints have faded, but what the youth and the ward have done will never fade. The love they extended to us through service means so much to me, and my mom said that she will always be grateful to those who have taken time out for us.
So my advice to you, if you ever get the chance to be charitable, is to enjoy it. The blessings will be great. But if you get the chance to receive, do it, knowing that people’s motives are pure. They love you and want to serve you.

Someone gave me a copy of my high school yearbook the other day. It seems that when people get tired of old books, they send them to me.
I spent an hour thumbing through it, looking at the pictures of my friends of 73 years ago, my high school class of 1928.
Most of those in that yearbook have now lived their lives and gone beyond. Some seem to have lived almost without purpose, while others lived with great achievements.
I looked at the faces of the boys who were my friends and associates. Once they were youthful and bright and energetic. Now those who are left are wrinkled and slow in their walk. Their lives still have meaning, but they are not as vital as they once were. I looked in that old yearbook at the faces of the girls I knew. Many of them have passed on, and the remainder live in the shadows of life. But they are still beautiful and fascinating.
My thoughts go back to those young men and women of my youth, back to where you are today. By and large, we were a happy lot. We enjoyed life. I think we were ambitious. The dark and terrible Depression which swept over the earth would not come for another year. Nineteen twenty-eight was a season of high hopes and splendid dreams.
In our quieter moments we were all dreamers. The boys dreamed of mountains yet to climb and careers yet to be lived. The girls dreamed of becoming the kind of woman that most of them saw in their mothers.
As I have thought of this, I have concluded to title my talk for tonight “How Can I Become the Woman of Whom I Dream?”
Some months ago I spoke to you and the young men of the Church. I suggested six B’s that you ought to pursue. Do you think we could name them together? Let’s try: Be Grateful. Be Smart. Be Clean. Be True. Be Humble. Be Prayerful.
I have not the slightest doubt that these patterns of behavior will yield success and happiness and peace. I recommend them to you again, with a promise that if you will follow them your lives will be fruitful of great good. I believe you will be successful in your endeavors. As you grow old, I am satisfied that you will look back with appreciation for the manner in which you chose to live.
Tonight, in speaking to you young women, I may touch on some of these same things without repeating the same language. They are worthy of repetition, and I again commend them to you.
In the yearbook of which I have spoken is the picture of a young woman. She was bright and effervescent and beautiful. She was a charmer. Life for her could be summed up in one short word—fun. She dated the boys and danced away the days and nights, studying a little but not too much, just enough to get grades that would take her through graduation. She married a boy of her own kind. Alcohol took possession of her life. She could not leave it alone. She was a slave to it. Her body succumbed to its treacherous grip. Sadly, her life faded without achievement.
There is a picture of another girl in that yearbook. She was not particularly beautiful. But she had a wholesome look about her, a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile on her face. She knew why she was in school. She was there to learn. She dreamed of the kind of woman she wanted to be and patterned her life accordingly.
She also knew how to have fun, but knew when to stop and put her mind on other things.
There was a boy in school at the time. He had come from a small rural town. He had very little money. He brought lunch in a brown paper bag. He looked a little like the farm from which he had come. There was nothing especially handsome or dashing about him. He was a good student. He had set a goal for himself. It was lofty and, at times, appeared almost impossible of attainment.
These two fell in love. People said, “What does he see in her?” Or, “What does she see in him?” They each saw something wonderful which no one else saw.
Upon graduating from the university, they married. They scrimped and worked. Money was hard to come by. He went on to graduate school. She continued to work for a time, and then their children came. She gave her attention to them.
A few years ago, I was riding a plane home from the East. It was late at night. I walked down the aisle in the semidarkness. I saw a woman asleep with her head on the shoulder of her husband. She awakened as I approached. I immediately recognized the girl I had known in high school so long before. I recognized the boy I had also known. They were now approaching old age. As we talked, she explained that their children were grown, that they were grandparents. She proudly told me that they were returning from the East, where he had gone to deliver a paper. There at a great convention he had been honored by his peers from across the nation.
I learned that they had been active in the Church, serving in whatever capacity they were asked to serve. By every measure, they were successful. They had accomplished the goals which they had set for themselves. They had been honored and respected and had made a tremendous contribution to the society of which they were a part. She had become the woman of whom she had dreamed. She had exceeded that dream.
As I returned to my seat on the plane, I thought of those two girls of whom I have spoken to you tonight. The life of the one had been spelled out in a three-letter word: F–U–N. It had been lived aimlessly, without stability, without contribution to society, without ambition. It had ended in misery and pain and early death.
The life of the other had been difficult. It had meant scrimping and saving. It had meant working and struggling to keep going. It had meant simple food and plain clothing and a very modest apartment in the years of her husband’s initial effort to get started in his profession. But out of that seemingly sterile soil there had grown a plant, yes, two plants, side by side, that blossomed and bloomed in a beautiful and wonderful way.
Those beautiful blossoms spoke of service to fellowmen, of unselfishness one to another, of love and respect and faith in one’s companion, of happiness as they met the needs of others in the various activities which they pursued.
As I pondered the conversation with these two, I determined within myself to do a little better, to be a little more dedicated, to set my sights a little higher, to love my wife a little more dearly, to help her and treasure her and look after her.

One day Sister Maria Willems of the Antwerp Belgium District read about a course in helping the elderly. She had joined the Church several years before and been repeatedly impressed with the idea of compassionate service taught in the Relief Society lessons. Her patriarchal blessing had also stressed the importance of this kind of service.
She followed her impulse and took the course. Ever since, she has been actively involved with the elderly in her neighborhood. She takes care of them, cleans their houses, and occasionally cooks for them and does their shopping. When her work is done, she sits down to chat with them. Her main goal is to make them happy. She tries not to “mother” them, but to show respect for their experience in life. “You can discuss things with elderly people you can’t discuss with anyone else,” says Sister Willems. She considers herself blessed to be able to associate with them.
This kind of serving has its heartaches. “When a friend you cared for and cared about dies, it always leaves an empty space. When you grow to love people, it’s hard to say goodbye.”
Recently, while studying a nursery manual, Sister Willems came across some examples of sign language. The first phrase she learned to sign was “I love you.” She realized that learning sign language would allow her to help a woman who lives nearby and her brother, both of whom have poor hearing. When she completes a sign language course, she hopes to help many people with hearing problems.
Sister Willems feels grateful to the Church for helping her see all the opportunities for compassionate service right around her.

I would like to share an incident which took place during the Vietnam War. There were some who were convinced that the United States was engaged in a noble and justifiable war. However, public opinion was changing, and there was opposition which argued that the U.S. should pull out of Vietnam.
President Harold B. Lee was the President of the Church at the time. While at an area conference in another country he was interviewed by reporters from the international news services. One reporter asked President Lee, “What is your church’s position on the Vietnam War?” Some recognized the question as a trap—one which could not be answered without a very real risk of being misunderstood or misinterpreted. If the prophet answered, “We are against the war,” the international media could state, “How strange—a religious leader who is against the position of the country he is obliged to sustain in his own church’s Articles of Faith.” On the other hand, if President Lee answered, “We are in favor of the war,” the media could question, “How strange—a religious leader in favor of war?” Either way, the answer could result in serious problems regarding public opinion both inside and outside the Church.
President Lee, with great inspiration and wisdom, answered as would a man who knows the Savior: “We, together with the whole Christian world, abhor war. But the Savior said, ‘In me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation’” (John 16:33). President Lee then explained, “The Savior was not talking about the peace that can be achieved between nations, by military force or by negotiation in the halls of parliaments. Rather, he was speaking of the peace we can each have in our own lives when we live the commandments and come unto Christ with broken hearts and contrite spirits” (see Ensign, Nov. 1982, p. 70).

Sue Ellen sniffed the acrid smell of burning leaves and felt the wind blowing her curls. She looked up through the gold and red leaves still on the maple trees in her backyard and thought she’d never seen the sky so blue. Today was Saturday and she was restless. “Mom,” she asked, “what’ll I do?”
Her mother laughed. “Why, Sue Ellen, on a nice October day like this, I’d make a house of leaves.”
“Oh, Mom,” Sue Ellen said, “how can anyone do that?”
“It’s easy and lots of fun,” her mother said. “Get your little rake from the toolshed and rake up a big pile of leaves. Then when you get tired of jumping into them, let me know and I’ll show you how to make a house.”
Sue Ellen’s best friend Linda lived next door. She couldn’t think of anything to do either until she saw Sue Ellen raking an enormous pile of leaves.
“Can I help, Sue Ellen?” she called.
“Sure, Linda. After we make a big pile, Mother’s going to show me how to make a house of leaves.”
Soon their pile of leaves was higher than both of the girls.
“Let’s run and jump right in the middle!” Sue Ellen shouted.
“Let’s!” agreed Linda.
They ran and jumped plunk into the middle. When they got up, there were leaves in their hair, down their necks, in their shoes, and some were even sticking out of their ears. And they laughed and laughed. “How do you make a house of leaves?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know, but Mother will show us,” Sue Ellen replied.
Sue Ellen’s mother came out with the big rake. “Now then, how many rooms will your house have?” she asked.
Sue Ellen said, “We’ll want a kitchen so we can make gingerbread men and a dining room—”
“And we need a living room and two bedrooms, one for Sue Ellen and one for me,” Linda interjected.
Sue Ellen’s mother raked a square of leaves. Then she said, “We need a door to the porch and one to the dining room and lots of windows.” Then she raked away some of the leaves for the doors and windows.
“Oh, oh, I see!” cried Sue Ellen. “Come on, Linda, let’s make the rest of the rooms.” And soon they had a kitchen and a dining room and a living room and two bedrooms and a porch.
When their house was finished, Sue Ellen said, “Now we need some furniture for our house.”
“I know!” declared Linda, clapping her hands. “Let’s get our dolls and doll furniture and play house.”
After the girls had everything arranged, it was time for lunch and their nap. When their naps were over, Sue Ellen and Linda decided to make a different house. So they raked their leaves up into a pile again and made an even grander house.
About three o’clock Sue Ellen’s mother came out and said, “Knock, knock. May I come in?”
“Oh, Mrs. Anderson, how nice to see you,” Sue Ellen answered. “Do come in.”
“Please have a chair,” Linda said.
“Thank you, I will,” Mrs. Anderson replied. And she sat on a little pile of leaves in the living room.
“I came over to ask if you ladies would take tiffin with me.”
“Oh, yes, we’d love to!” they both answered, giggling.
“I have it all ready, and I thought we could have it at your house. I’ll be back in just a minute.” And faster than you can say one, two, three, she was back with a tray of hot chocolate and hot gingerbread men.
After they finished eating, and when Mrs. Anderson was leaving, she said, “What a lovely house you have!”
“We think so,” Sue Ellen and Linda answered. “Thank you very much for tiffin, and do come again tomorrow.”