Gospel Story Finder

During my first Christmas as a bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to earn enough money, but often she could not.
Raising three young boys by herself was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. I remember removing them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family and wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son, who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in amount, but remarkable relative to his modest income, of which I was well aware, I knew that this gift meant a sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons.
I also agreed to honor his request that his name be kept secret.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has kept this experience in my mind had yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews when I heard a soft knock on the office door. I opened it to see, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I think is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and that they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends and that he was sorry that one of the coins was of less value than the other two, so they could not be divided evenly between the three boys.
What lessons originated in that moment! A father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child obviously without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a quarrel with the boys who would soon be receiving his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to cover my now obvious tears and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is alright so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

Example four: I have a friend named Jay Hassell who was in my Sunday School class years ago. We have kept in touch over the years. Along with the rest of the class, we hiked to the peak of Mt. Timpanogos. We went swimming down at Rockport. I attended football and basketball games he played in. I was with him when he did some amazing things in track. He was a competitor to the core. He was a high school student body president. He served a great mission in France, returned home, went to medical school, and now is an orthopedic surgeon.
A few years ago I was invited as a member of the Young Men General Presidency to attend a regional youth conference in the eastern United States. When I got off the plane, Jay and his wife were there to meet me. We were both filled with emotion. I wept. He wept. His father had passed away some time before, and I gave this sweet young friend a fatherly hug. We spent two days together. Now the years have passed, and Jay has been a great blessing in the life of my son Lawrence. Although we do not spend much time together, I love him dearly and am grateful for his interest and love. Jay has served as a bishop and is now serving in a mission presidency. Jay Hassell, I want you to know you have been a great influence in my life.

Here is an example of the kind of Christlike ministering that happens among members of the Lord’s Church. A student at Brigham Young University recently wrote:
“I was going through a really rough time. One day I was really struggling and on the verge of tears. I pleaded and prayed silently for strength to continue. In that exact moment, my roommate sent me a text expressing her love for me. She shared a scripture and bore a testimony. It brought me so much strength and comfort and hope in that moment of despair.”

I clipped an item taken from the diary of Mrs. Rebecca Riter, entered December 25, 1847. She describes that first Christmas in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake:
“The winter was cold. Christmas came and the children were hungry. I had brought a peck of wheat across the plains and hid it under a pile of wood. I thought I would cook a handful of wheat for the baby. Then I thought how we would need wheat for seed in the spring, so I left it alone.”
In our bounteous lives, we may well reflect upon the more meager Christmas seasons of our pioneer ancestors.

I have since learned that my father was born in Tiruchirappalli, Tamil Nadu, India. He was the youngest of six children. His father, Harold Norman Watts, was a railway man in the signals division. When my dad was just eighteen months old, his father Harold passed away, leaving his mother Daisy to care for their large family. Through the kindness of Christian boarding schools and Daisy’s hard work, all the children received a good education and made good their lives.
In 1972 my father, his mum and two brothers and two sisters immigrated to Australia establishing themselves in Perth, Western Australia. My father joined the Australian army in 1973, serving in various postings. He met my mother in Melbourne in 1982 and their first date was to a Stake YSA dance. Later, my mother introduced him to the missionaries. Accepting what he had been taught and with the faith and testimony the size of a mustard seed, he was baptized on 9 May 1982. A year later my parents were married and sealed in the New Zealand Temple. Together they had five children. Heavenly Father and living the Gospel have been a blessing in all our lives.
In 2011 my brother Anthony was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission. I was twelve years old and I remember him telling us how hot it was and how the electricity would always go off and you just lie in bed in a puddle of your own sweat! He would always talk about the rats he would catch in his apartment too and how he would use a bucket to go to the toilet. It all seemed so foreign and different.
Seven years later I too was preparing to serve a mission. I remember the night my call letter came, and I had all the family gathered around. Everyone had made their guesses as to where I would go. We all thought that I for sure would go to Temple Square. When I actually read my call, I was absolutely shocked! I thought, “Do they know that I am a girl!?” I knew that there were girls serving in India when my brother was on a mission, but they were Indian girls! I had no idea that they sent foreign sisters there and I wondered if I was the first one? Later I learned that I am the first sister from Australia to serve in India.
Another shock was how soon they wanted me to be prepared and ready to leave. I had just eight weeks from the time I received my call to the time I had to report to the Provo MTC. I quickly applied for my overseas Indian citizenship. It normally takes 6-8 weeks or more to arrive which meant that it would have come on the day I was supposed to leave. I knew there was a reason I was to leave so soon so I just put my faith and trust in the Lord that everything would work out. I ended up getting my visa in just five weeks! That is just one of the miracles I saw as I prepared for my mission. It was a crazy whirlwind getting ready for my mission, but it was a testimony to me that the India New Delhi Mission was where I needed to be.
Before leaving Australia for India, I was blessed to participate in the sealing of my father’s family members in the Melbourne Australia temple. Although I did not know my grandmother very well, this made me feel closer to her. And now that I am here, I am coming to understand my father better. I see his friendliness and hospitality in the Indians I meet every day and have come to know that it is part of the culture.
I am so thankful to be able to experience the joy and growth that sharing the gospel I love brings to me and to others. I know that this is the Church of Jesus Christ, restored and established once again on the earth. I know that the Saviour lives and that his Atonement is real. I have been able to feel comfortable no matter where I am in the world as I know that I will always have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and always be able to feel of my Heavenly Father’s love for me.

Illustrations by Tuesday Mourning
I never considered myself someone who compromised her standards. I didn’t wear immodest clothing or miss church on Sunday. I went to early-morning seminary every day, and being tempted to use bad language was never a problem for me. But dating was different.
Jonathan* and I first met at a summer youth camp. I was friendly, sure, but not really interested in him. Throughout the weeklong camp, we became little more than acquaintances and, at the end of the week, we got each other’s contact information. The camp was outside the state I lived in, so when I learned that he lived not only in the same state but also in a neighboring stake, I was kind of surprised. I was even more surprised when I received an email from him a few months later.
We began exchanging emails. I didn’t see him very often because he lived an hour and a half away, but we maintained a steady friendship for months. Neither he nor I was 16 yet, so going on dates wasn’t even on our minds.
Several months later, we saw each other again at the same summer youth camp. By that time, we were both 16. Our friendship progressed, and by the end of the camp, I was sad to see him leave. After we got home, we began talking even more frequently, and a few months later, we were officially dating.
At first, everything was fine. We would take turns driving to see each other twice a month. I became very close to his family, and he with mine. We spent hours talking on the phone or on the Internet every night.
I justified our dating: we were both 16, we lived an hour and a half apart so nothing bad would happen, and even though For the Strength of Youth says to “avoid going on frequent dates with the same person” ([2011], 4), it didn’t seem like a big deal.
Though we maintained a physical distance, we quickly became emotionally close. After over a year of dating, I felt like we’d grown too close, and I broke it off. I later learned that this had nearly destroyed him emotionally.
We didn’t talk to each other much for almost a year. But when we both started attending the same college, it wasn’t long until we were talking again. I soon realized how much I missed him, and I regretted my decision to break up with him.
Soon we were dating again. And because we had dated steadily in high school despite the counsel not to, our relationship progressed even faster than it had before. We saw each other every day, and I became emotionally captivated. We talked seriously about marriage and a future life together. After just a few months, I was certain that I would wait for him while he was on his mission and that we would get married after.
A few weeks before he received his mission call, I visited him in his hometown. I had just gone through one of the worst weekends of my life, and I looked forward to seeing him. When I got to his house, I noticed he was acting a little strange, but I didn’t think much of it. He wanted to go for a drive, which wasn’t unusual, but I felt uneasy. After driving for a little bit, we stopped.
“I don’t think we should date anymore,” he said.
I was stunned.
He went on. He told me he didn’t love me anymore and that he didn’t want to marry me when he got back from his mission—he didn’t even want to date me.
I left feeling angry, upset, frustrated, but mostly just heartbroken. I cried the entire way home, angry with myself for investing two years in someone who ended up not loving me.
For months I didn’t let go. I held onto the idea that he would change—that suddenly he would love me again, just as suddenly as he had decided that he didn’t. I couldn’t concentrate on classes. I wouldn’t let myself have fun. I constantly felt hurt and depressed.
During that time, I studied the scriptures more than I ever had before and prayed fervently every day asking for help through this trial. I desperately wanted the Lord to take away my pain. It didn’t go away all at once, but my pain did start to lessen. I began to let the Savior heal my broken heart. And I began to see what I had done wrong.
When we first started dating in high school, I didn’t immediately see the negative consequences of not following the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth. Life actually seemed pretty great. I was doing well in my classes, and Jonathan and I were having fun. But after we broke up, I realized what I had missed out on. I sacrificed better relationships with my family and friends because I was so focused on my relationship with Jonathan. I caused myself a lot of pain because I was too emotionally involved too young. And even though my decision to steady date as a youth hadn’t led me to violate the law of chastity, I left the relationship emotionally hurt. Had I followed the standard instead of thinking I was an exception to the rule, I could have avoided these trials.
After this experience, I learned a very valuable lesson. The Lord gives us standards not to prevent us from progressing but to guide us safely through this difficult life. I know that when we follow the standards, even if we don’t understand why they’re there, we will be protected.

Not long ago, our youngest daughter, Christie, was getting ready for a party when I heard this horrible sound. It was somewhere between a scream and a groan. Fearing she had burned herself with the curling iron that had been left on for an hour (with five daughters, Rex has spent the past fifteen years running around our house unplugging curling irons—that’s how he trained for marathons), I rushed into her bathroom. There she sat on the counter with her feet in the sink and her face two inches away from the mirror.

“Gross,” she kept repeating. “Gross! I am so ugly, I can’t believe I would even go out of this house!” I stepped closer to see what was so gross, but it escaped me.

“Look at this,” she said, turning her face toward me. “Did you ever see anything so gross?”

“What? Where?” was my honest response. “You look wonderful to me!”

“Oh, you’re just saying that because you’re my mother. If you can’t see this red thing on my face then you are blind. It makes me look so ugly.”

As she turned into the light, I finally saw the object of her distress, but just barely. It was a tiny bit pink and vaguely visible. In no way did it render her whole person ugly. I stood there by her side, the two of us looking at her reflection in the mirror. She saw only one thing, yet I could see so much more. I saw a beautiful young girl and could envision her beyond the beginning of her teens and see what she would become. She could see only the moment of anguish. I could see the loving heart and caring spirit. She could see only the blemish, a magnification of what was wrong, and it became the whole of her. No amount of talking on my part could convince her that my image of her was the clear one.

I thought to myself, “How can she not see who she really is? How can she complain when she has been given so much? How can one little blemish diminish her image of herself? Why can’t she see the total picture of who she is and who she can be?”

And then I had a humbling thought. Aren’t we all at times a little like Christie? How often do we fail to see things in their eternal perspective? How often do we let one flaw, one mistake, one bad grade, one disappointment, or even many disappointments loom so large before our eyes that we fail to see circumstances as they really are?

Let me tell you about Alice. She is trained as a pediatrician. She is happily married and the mother of six children. She has served in many ways in the Church, including serving in a Relief Society presidency, and now she is the Cub Scout leader. She sews Halloween costumes and volunteers at the elementary school in the science lab.

Right now Alice is a full-time mother. Undoubtedly she will return to her medical practice when her children are raised, but that doesn’t mean that she isn’t using her medical education. Teenagers from the neighborhood have been known to appear on her porch with all kinds of symptoms.

One dramatic event occurred when a vacationing mother telephoned Alice. Her daughter’s baby-sitter had reported that the little girl was coughing and seemed sick. After apologizing for bothering her, the mother asked Alice for a favor. Could she please find time during the afternoon to check on her little girl, who appeared to have croup? For some reason, Alice immediately put aside what she was doing and went right down. She found the girl not breathing and in full cardiac arrest. She applied CPR. By the time the paramedics arrived, the little girl was breathing again. Alice’s education and her skills saved the child’s life.

Australian Corey Karaka knows that each challenge, change, or opportunity can help you grow.
Corey Karaka grew up in a suburb of Sydney, Australia, where, as the oldest of six brothers, he grew up like many typical Australian boys. He played rugby, soccer, basketball, and learned to swim. In fact, he quickly became a good enough swimmer to make it to the national swimming championships at the age of 12, qualifying a year early. As a boy, Corey thought he actually might want to make swimming his career, but then a whole world full of choices started coming his way, and he began taking advantage of some great opportunities.
First was his short opera career.
Opera? Why would a boy who loved sports want anything to do with opera? But Sydney, after all, has one of the most famous opera houses in the world. And Corey just happened to have a grandmother who had been an opera singer. She taught her grandson (in fact, she teaches music lessons to all her grandchildren) to sing while he was still a boy soprano. Corey auditioned and was hired to sing with Opera Australia. He remembers it as a fun time, going to rehearsals and dressing up in makeup and costumes. Corey says, “It wasn’t an intense experience for children. There are scenes where you come in as part of the chorus. It’s a shame that my voice broke, but it was a good experience.” Plus, his mother, Caragh, says, “He put away the money he earned for a mission and university.”

One day in August 1989, I was doing my chores when my mother asked me to join her in listening to a message from two sister missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Even though I was only 12 years old, I was interested in what they said. The missionaries asked me to pray about the Book of Mormon and the principles they had taught us. I said I would.
When the sisters returned to give another lesson, my mother had lost interest. But with her permission, I continued to listen to them. The sisters always reminded me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if the things they were teaching me were true. I took this seriously and prayed constantly, but nothing happened.
I attended church twice and liked it very much, but I was still not sure of its truthfulness. I told the sisters I could not be baptized because I had not received an answer of any kind. The sisters merely repeated their invitation to be baptized and asked me to pray with greater fervor.
Again I accepted their challenge and prayed fervently for an entire week. Perhaps because I was so young, I expected to receive a glorious manifestation, such as a dream or a visitation from an angel. Nothing like this happened. Sunday came, and I told myself this was the last time I would go to church.
That day I attended all three meetings, starting with priesthood meeting. Then I went to Gospel Essentials class and finally to sacrament meeting. Right in the middle of sacrament meeting, something indescribably wonderful happened. Something began to burn inside my heart, and I was overcome by a feeling of certainty unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a simple feeling, but it was clear and sure. It reached deep into my soul and penetrated my whole being. By the end of the meeting, I was a different person. I went to tell the sisters I was ready to be baptized.
I know Heavenly Father hears our prayers when we pray with real intent. He knows us individually, and He knows when the time is right to answer our prayers.

Recently our son who is serving as a Bishop received a late night call requesting that he visit a man who was in deep trouble. The man had recently made some serious errors in judgment that had precipitated trouble with the law and now he was in the hospital seeking help. Though our son had known the man for sometime, he had not seen him for several months. When our son approached the hospital bed he saw a man whose countenance had changed. He had lost the light he once enjoyed. As they talked together our son asked, "When you made the choices that have caused you to be in this sad situation were you praying each day? "No," he sadly answered. "When did you last read your scriptures?" With downcast eyes he said, "I guess I haven't read them in over a year." "Have you been attending church?" "No, I have been much too busy."

My dear brothers and sisters, can we be too busy to do the things that will keep our testimony alive and well?

During the sixty years that Mary was with the Salt Lake Tabernacle Choir and the fifty-eight years she was pouring out her love for children and Primary workers through the pages of The Children’s Friend, she was also spending part of her time with crippled and ill boys and girls who were being cared for in the Primary Children’s Hospital.
Mary helped in the planning with Sister Felt and Sister Anderson when the original hospital was opened in 1922. It was housed in an old home on North Temple Street that was given to the Primary for a convalescent home and equipped by the Church. There they welcomed boys and girls who needed only limited medical help, but their dream was to be able to provide a shining new fireproof hospital where all medical services could be given.
A project was launched to secure funds for such a building. While the Church, friends of the Primary, and others who loved children contributed amounts both large and small for a new building, much of the money for it was given through the efforts of Primary children. Each boy and girl was asked to buy one brick for a dime, and the children contributed more than $18,000 to the brick project. Many children, excited by the joy that comes through sharing, asked friends and family to give money for the hospital instead of buying birthday and Christmas gifts. The smallest contribution received from a child was two pennies, but that, too, was accepted with gratitude.
In order to properly handle all the funds, the Primary sisters were advised to select a board of trustees and incorporate the Primary Children’s Hospital. It was Mary R. Jack who signed those articles of incorporation and remained as secretary of the board until her release in 1970.

As a very young boy, I was intrigued with oil paintings. I spent many hours not only enjoying, but carefully examining the brush strokes still visible in the hardened paint. I was especially fascinated with the way the colors were mixed and placed one beside another.
It was exciting. Finally, upon growing older, I could restrain myself no longer. I just had to try it!
I obtained a few supplies, and then one night, after all the rest of the family was sound asleep, I ventured to paint.
My first attempt was to copy a painting of a beautiful landscape. Carefully I painted the sky—all of it—in all its detail. I even tried to make my brush strokes look like the ones I saw on the original. When the sky was finished, I painted that magnificent mountain; every stroke of it! Then, the trees—one at a time, of course; and then, the lake. On and on, I moved downward until finally that final blade of grass was placed in the only small white space remaining at the very bottom of the canvas.
Nothing could have kept me from awaking my father and mother to show them the “masterpiece.”
Actually, considering all that I had not yet learned, the painting was not too bad. At that stage in my development, I didn’t notice that the colors reflected by the lake were not very consistent with the colors from which those reflections came, or that perspective lines and size relationships were terribly distorted.
It was not until I enrolled in college art classes that I came to realize that great artists do not produce a finished product by starting at the top of the canvas and by moving systematically to the bottom. Instead, they clearly envision the entire image they wish to portray and then proceed to develop all parts of that image somewhat simultaneously.
By adding one line here and another there, and by applying paint, here a little and there a little, a balanced and coordinated composition finally emerges into reality.

Where there were branches, we met in lodge halls, and it was the duty of the elders to go early on Sunday morning to clean up the cigar and cigarette butts and other leftovers from the regular Saturday night parties. Oh yes, part of that cleaning up was emptying the spitoons. By opening all the windows we were able to clear out some of the stench and make the place more fitting as a place for the Saints to meet.

In August 1852, my fourth-great-grandfather, William Holmes Walker, who was married with children at the time, was informed that a mission call for him had been announced in a special Church conference with instructions to depart as soon as possible to Cape Town, South Africa. He and his companions, Jesse C. Haven and Leonard I. Smith, would be the first missionaries to serve in Africa. He served almost five years on that mission.

Elder Walker left his family, traveling for three months by horse and wagon to New York City and then sailing for eighteen days to England. Preparations in England to go to Africa took two months. Boarding a boat in Liverpool, he sailed another sixty-six days for Cape Coast, Africa. From the time he departed Salt Lake to the time he arrived in Africa was 216 days! Today that seven-month journey takes about twenty-five hours by plane. Aren’t we grateful for the example of the early missionaries of this dispensation and for their considerable sacrifice for the work?

Steven (8) and Douglas (11) Brown, and Kevin (8) and Kimball (11) Galbraith were neighbors in Sugar City, Idaho. On Saturday, June 5, 1976, they were planning to go fishing at their secret spot on the Teton River after Steven and Douglas had finished mowing their lawn.
Ordinarily the boys used a power mower but for some reason that day they used the hand mower even though it took longer. Word about the dam breaking came before they finished the lawn.
Doug said, “If we had used the power mower we’d have been at the Teton River and Dad doesn’t think that he could have gotten us out and we probably would have drowned.”
One month later Steven, Douglas, Kevin, Kimball, and Paul went back to see their homes. (see photographs)—

On a recent assignment in the Philippines, I met Karen, who shared an experience she had as a Laurel while studying for a bachelor’s degree in hotel and restaurant management. A teacher required that every student learn to make and taste the variety of drinks that would be served in their restaurants. Some of the drinks contained alcohol, and Karen knew it was against the Lord’s commandments for her to taste them. In the face of serious consequences, Karen found courage to arise and shine forth, and she did not partake of the drinks.

Karen explained: “My teacher approached me and asked me why I was not drinking. He said, ‘Miss Karen, how will you know the flavor and pass this important subject if you do not at least taste the drinks?’ I told him that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and as members, we do not drink things that are harmful to us. Whatever he expected of me, even if it meant receiving a failing grade, I would understand, but I would not fail to live my personal standards.”

Weeks passed, and nothing more was said about that day. At the end of the semester, Karen knew her final grade would reflect her refusal to taste the drinks. She hesitated to look at her grade, but when she did, she discovered that she had received the highest grade in the class.

She said: “I learned through this experience that God … will surely bless us when we follow Him. I also know that even if I had received a failing grade, I would not regret what I had done. I know that I will never fail in the Lord’s sight when I choose to do what I know to be the right thing.”15

Mary’s boy Joseph was born at a time when her husband was snatched away by the mob militia then terrorizing Far West. Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were taken to Liberty, Missouri, where they were imprisoned. Under the compulsion of Governor Lilburn W. Boggs’s extermination order, she left Missouri with the stepchildren for whom she had taken responsibility, as well as her own son. Her sister Mercy placed Mary, who was seriously ill, on a bed in a wagon box with her infant boy cradled at her side.

In February 1839, when winter was still upon the land, they traveled east across the state and then across the Mississippi to Quincy, Illinois, bumping along in a springless wagon where every jolt brought pain.

When her husband and the Prophet escaped from Liberty Jail and came to Quincy, life again improved. The Saints moved to what became Nauvoo and established their beautiful city on the Mississippi. But their peace was short-lived. Her little boy was less than six years old when a knock came at night on her window and a man said, “Sister Smith, your husband has been killed!”
Joseph F. never forgot his mother’s weeping through the night.
Her world was shattered. She was on her own now with a large family to care for. In the summer of 1846, they bade their comfortable home good-bye and rode a flatboat across the Mississippi. Taking matters into her own hands, she was able to trade, borrow, and barter for ox teams and wagons.
While living in Winter Quarters, she and her brother went down the Missouri River to purchase provisions and clothing. They had two wagons, each having two yoke of oxen. Camping for the night, they discovered in the morning that their two best oxen were gone. Young Joseph and his uncle spent the entire morning looking for the lost animals. They found nothing. Disheartened, he returned to tell his mother. Their situation was desperate, terribly so. As he approached, he saw her on her knees praying fervently, speaking with the Lord about their problem. When she arose to her feet, there was a smile on her face. She told her son and her brother to get their breakfast and she would look around. Following a little stream of water, and disregarding the words of a man who was in the area, she went directly along the bank of the river.
Pausing, she called to her son and brother. She pointed to their oxen, which had been tied to a clump of willows growing in the bottom of a deep gulch. The thief, who had tried to misdirect her, lost his prize and they were saved.
Mary’s faith imprinted itself in her son’s boyish heart. He never forgot it. He never doubted her closeness to the Lord.
All of you are familiar with her experience when one of her oxen, exhausted and worn, lay down to die while they were en route to these valleys in the West. In a mixture of utter desperation and simple faith, she secured consecrated oil and asked her brother and an associate to administer to the ox. They did so. It rose to its feet with a renewal of strength and carried them for the remainder of their long journey.
Such was the faith, sweet and simple and beautiful, which graced this woman’s life. She walked in the light of the Lord. She lived by that light. It guided her in all of her actions. It became the lodestar of her life. She exemplified the tremendous faith of the women of this Church—the women of the Relief Society, who today on a thousand fronts carry on the dedicated work of this remarkable organization.

Cindy looked at the clock above the door of the playground building. The hour had gone so fast she couldn’t believe it was nearly one o’clock.
She lifted her tennis racket and tossed the ball for her last serve. Donna was ready with a fast cross-court return that caught Cindy unprepared.
“I win!” Donna called. “I beat you for once!”
Cindy smiled as she wiped the back of her hand across her damp face. Then she began picking up the tennis balls.
“Let’s have another game,” Donna invited. “That last one was really an accident. You could easily win this time.”
“I can’t,” Cindy replied. “There’s just time for me to run home and shower before I go to the hospital to help Mrs. Holt with the story and craft activities.”
“Oh, nuts!” Donna scoffed, pulling a face. “That’s some way to spend the summer! Two afternoons a week with sick kids.”
“Those children have to spend a long time in the hospital. They do get awfully lonely, and I promised,” Cindy began.
“Well, just this once I’d think you could play another game,” Donna insisted. “It’s not like you were really that important. You said yourself that you don’t do very much.”
Cindy had thought this a number of times. All she ever did was pass out paper and crayons or scissors or whatever supplies were needed. And she also helped the children with their wheelchairs and crutches.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be missed,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ve been building up the importance of what I’m doing because I want to feel I’m helping someone.”
“Come on, Cindy, and serve,” Donna said impatiently.
Cindy rolled the ball across her racket a few times, but then she shook her head. “Donna, I can’t. I really did promise, and it wouldn’t be fair!”
Cindy knew that Donna thought she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help that—even if Donna found someone else to play with the rest of the summer.
Cindy hurried to shower and get ready to go to the hospital. She was afraid she would be late, so she ran most of the eight blocks from her home to the hospital.
Her legs ached as she hurried up the hospital steps and down the long corridor toward the room where the children were waiting. As she opened the door, Cindy paused a moment to catch her breath.
“Mrs. Holt hasn’t started the stories yet,” she said to herself. “So maybe I’m not as late as it seemed.”
“Cindy’s here!” Dennis called as he caught sight of her. Dennis was in a cast from his hips down, but he wouldn’t think of missing the stories.
The others turned too. “Cindy! Cindy!” they called. It was almost like a chorus.
Mrs. Holt smiled, but Cindy saw that something was wrong with the gray-haired woman who was usually laughing with the children.
“Don’t you feel well?” Cindy asked quietly.
Mrs. Holt shook her head. “I’ve been a bit dizzy all day. I didn’t know if I could wait until you came. But now that you’re here, I know everything will be all right.”
Cindy felt her face grow warm, remembering how tempted she had been when Donna coaxed her to stay and play another game of tennis.
“I don’t like to leave you, Cindy,” Mrs. Holt sighed. “But all the children love you so much that I can go home and not worry. It’s good to know I can depend on you. Since you’ll be alone today, maybe you could read some stories.”
A shiver of doubt ran through Cindy, but she nodded. “I—I’ll do my best.”
Reluctantly Cindy watched Mrs. Holt walk away. At the door the older woman turned back. “I hope I’ll feel better by Friday, but if not I’ll depend on you again.”
Cindy had never read stories to the children before. At first her voice sounded shaky and small to her, but gradually her confidence grew.
“You read good,” Dennis announced. “Good as anybody!”
Cindy laughed and patted the little boy’s arm. “That’s because you’re all my friends.”
The afternoon went quickly—almost too quickly.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Dennis asked as Cindy was leaving. “You said we were friends,” he added wistfully.
Cindy went back and gave him a hug. “We are friends. And I’ll come back—I promise.”
As Cindy left the hospital, she knew she would keep her promise—just as often as she was needed.

“Hurry up, Mom!” five-year-old Jackson shouted. He grabbed the Book of Mormon story book and sat down on the bright blue chair.
Four-year-old Michelle climbed up beside him. “Story time!” she cried, eagerly clapping her hands.
Mother squeezed between them on the chair and opened the book. “Let’s see. … Yesterday, we were reading about the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, weren’t we?”
Jackson nodded.
“They were Lamanites. And they’d been converted to the gospel, remember?”
“And they were really wicked!” Michelle declared emphatically.
“Yes, they were really wicked. But when they were converted, they wanted to repent,” said Mother. “They promised the Lord that they would never fight again. In fact, they buried all their weapons of war in a big pit—see,” she said, pointing to the picture.
“Wow!” Jackson cried excitedly. “Look at all those weapons. Swords and bows and arrows and all kinds of things!”
“That looks fun!” exclaimed Michelle. “Let’s bury our weapons, too, Jackson!”
Jackson giggled. “Oh, Michelle, don’t be silly. We don’t have any weapons.”
“Hmmm,” Mother said thoughtfully. “You may not use swords and bows and arrows, but sometimes the things that come out of your mouths hurt too.”
Michelle looked puzzled. “What comes out of our mouths?” she asked.
“Words,” said Mother.
“You mean words like stupid and dumb, don’t you?” Jackson asked.
“Right,” said Mother. “Sometimes words hurt as much as a punch on the arm.”
“Then we must bury our bad words,” Michelle urged, “and never use them again!”
“I know what,” said Mother. “You tell me some words that hurt other people’s feelings, and I’ll write them down on slips of paper. Then you can dig a big hole and bury all those bad words, just like the Lamanites buried their weapons.”
“Great idea!” Jackson exclaimed. They found some paper and tore it into pieces. Then they thought of all the unkind words that they knew. Mother wrote them down.
“Come on, Michelle, let’s go dig that pit now,” Jackson called enthusiastically. They took their dad’s shovel out of the shed and hurried to an area behind the house where they could dig.
Jackson dug the shovel tip into the dark, rocky soil. He pushed as hard as he could, but the ground was so hard that he loosened only a small clump of dirt.
“Wow! You’re not very strong,” Michelle teased.
“Well, you’re pretty weak yourself,” he growled back. Then he stopped. “Hey, wait a minute. We’re supposed to be burying those kinds of words! Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Michelle told him sincerely. “How about trying this?” she suggested, handing him a garden trowel that they used in their sandpile.
Jackson took it and chipped at the dirt while Michelle dug with a stick.
Soon they were covered with dust and dirt, but the hole was dug. They put all the papers with the unkind words written on them into the hole. Then they pushed the dirt back.
“Are you finished yet?” Mother called from the kitchen window. “I’ve made some hot muffins for my two hungry Anti-Nephi-Lehies.”
“Yes,” answered Jackson. “Our weapons are finally buried!”
“And,” Michelle solemnly declared, “we won’t ever use them again!”