Gospel Story Finder

The apple went spinning to the ground. Clint was getting pretty good with his homemade slingshot. He had made it from a strong Y-shaped stick and a thick rubber band and had been practicing with it all day. Now his aim was good enough to knock an apple right out of a tree.
He saw a car coming down the road and wondered if he could hit a moving target as small as a taillight on a car. He closed one eye, pulled the rock back to his ear, and let it go. Crack! The sound of breaking plastic and glass was followed by the tinkle of pieces of glass and plastic hitting the pavement. Clint gasped. He’d actually hit the taillight of that car!
In a panic, he dropped his slingshot and scooted up the apple tree, hiding among the leaves. The car screeched to a stop, and a man jumped out. He walked around to look at his broken light, then glared straight at Clint’s hiding place.
“I know you’re up there!” he bellowed. “I saw you. You’d better get down here before I call the police!”
Clint didn’t move. He recognized the man. It was Brother Ernest, who always complained about how noisy the kids were when he went to church. Clint did not want to talk to him.
After a few minutes, Brother Ernest got back into his car and drove away. Clint waited a long time. It was nearly dark when he finally climbed down. He picked up his slingshot, pulled off the rubber band, then flung the stick into the bushes and walked slowly down the road, feeling worse with every step. By the time he got home, he was miserable, and it showed.
“What’s wrong?” Clint’s mother asked when he came into the house. Feeling that he could carry the burden no further, he blurted out everything. His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think you should do now?” she asked softly.
“I know what I need to do,” Clint said. “I just don’t want to do it.”
She nodded. “It’s hard to make things right when you’ve done wrong. But if you do your part, the Lord will take care of the rest. And you’ll feel good again. I’ll drive you to Brother Ernest’s house, if that will make it any easier.”
Without a word, Clint went out to the car. When they arrived at Brother Ernest’s house, he saw the car with its broken taillight in the driveway. He was relieved that there were no police cars.
The house was dark, and he had a glimmer of hope that maybe Brother Ernest wasn’t home. Clint slowly climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. A dog barked. The porch light suddenly came on, and the door was flung open.
There stood Brother Ernest. “Ah-ha! You’ve come to pay your dues!”
“S-sorry about your car light, B-brother Ernest,” Clint stammered. “I’ll pay you for it.”
“You bet you will! I’ll send the bill to your parents, and if you don’t pay, I’m calling the police.” He slammed the door and turned off the light, leaving Clint standing alone in the dark.
It took Clint more than three months to repay his parents. It took all his allowance, all his paper-route money, plus anything extra he earned doing chores. But at last the bill was paid in full. And Clint discovered that his mother had been right. He did feel good again. He was glad that he had done the right thing. He was particularly glad the next time he saw Brother Ernest. …
It was Clint’s first Sunday as a deacon, and he and another deacon, Dan, were assigned to collect fast offerings. He was surprised when the second house they visited was Brother Ernest’s. It was shabbier than Clint remembered. The front step was warped, and the porch light was broken. Seeing the porch light brought back all those memories about the broken car light. He wondered briefly if someone had broken the porch light with a slingshot and hadn’t repaired it. Suddenly he felt sorry for Brother Ernest.
“This one’s yours,” Dan whispered, handing Clint the fast-offering envelope. Clint took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and rang the doorbell.
There was a sound of movement within the house. Then the front door opened slowly and Brother Ernest peered out. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
Clint swallowed hard. “We’re from the Church, Brother Ernest. We’re collecting fast offerings.”
“Don’t you people ever give up?” Brother Ernest grumbled. “Go away and stop bothering me.”
Clint was turning away when the front door suddenly opened wide, and Brother Ernest stepped out onto the porch. He peered closely at Clint. “Don’t I know you, boy?”
Clint stood up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Weren’t you that boy who—”
“Who bought you a new taillight? Yes, sir, I am.”
Brother Ernest stared at him in surprise for a few moments and then did something Clint had never seen him do before. He smiled. “You’ve changed, boy,” he said.
Clint shrugged. “When we do our part, the Lord takes care of the rest.”
Brother Ernest seemed to ponder Clint’s words a moment. He nodded. “You keep your envelope. I’ll pay my offerings next week at church. And I expect to see you there, too, young man. I don’t want to find you hiding in some apple tree.”
Clint smiled. “I don’t need to hide anymore.”

At Christmas time we often hear people talk about already being in the Christmas spirit or not yet. The prospect of a white Christmas, a visit to a Christmas market and preparing presents or that special Christmas feast are popular ways to summon that legendary festive cheer.
Unfortunately, the actual meaning of Christmas is often lost along the way. I was able to learn this lesson very intensively on my mission. In December 1997 my companion and I were transferred to a small town in Wales and settled in together. There was a very small, loving ward there. We enjoyed our time there and worked hard, hoping to tell people about Christ. During the second half of December we noticed how all the companionships, in a virtually competitive atmosphere, reported where and how often members invited them for dinner. It almost seemed like a sport, cramming as many Christmas dinners as possible into the two Christmas holidays. Many of the more experienced missionaries spoke about how delicious the traditional Christmas dinner was and could hardly wait for that special day to arrive. Amidst all this gladness, my companion and I realised that we had not even received a single invitation yet. Something was wrong. But we did not want to impose ourselves either and kept hoping that someone might yet invite us for dinner. Nothing happened, while Christmas was approaching fast. Just before Christmas we held a zone conference, where all the missionaries serving in Wales came together. A wonderful spirit permeated that conference. But what mattered much more to us missionaries were our packages from home that were given to us. Giddily, my companion and I returned to our flat. Defying all my parents’ rules and admonitions on the package, I opened it that same night. It contained a few small presents, a letter from my parents and Christmas sweets. I was delighted! It was a great evening, with both of us enjoying the goodies received from home. With the small caveat that it was not actually Christmas yet.
Sadly, we had not received any dinner invitation by the 24th of December. To make matters worse, the 24th happened to be a preparation day and we had planned to play football (soccer) with all the other missionaries, after which everyone would go straight to their respective dinner appointments. We were very disappointed to learn that the other elders had forgotten to give us a ride to the event. My companion and I walked the streets of our town in the rain, just to kill time. We were anything but in the Christmas mood.
Tired and disappointed, we returned home in the evening to prepare a meal. I remember vividly stepping into our flat, the heating broken yet again and the Christmas packages from our families long unpacked and consumed. Gloomily, I stood in our living room, feeling very lonely and unhappy indeed. All I could do was turn on some Christmas music. So I did. Handel’s Messiah was on and my gaze wandered to a picture of our Saviour and older brother, Jesus Christ. A picture as it can be seen in thousands of missionary flats: taped to the wall crooked, without a frame. And all of a sudden, it was Christmas! I knew why I was here. I knew what we were celebrating and what really mattered.
I have celebrated many wonderful Christmases in my life and beautiful memories abound. That Christmas in Wales in 1997, however, has probably been my most intense Christmas yet. The real gift I received that Christmas was a more intense love for my Saviour and friend, Jesus Christ.

The October dawn was cool as I helped load our belongings into the covered wagon. The weight in my 10-year-old heart was heavier than the bundles of clothes and food I carried. It just isn’t fair, I thought. I don’t want to leave our home and my friends and travel to an unknown place.
It was 1877, and our home near St. George, Utah Territory, was already far away from Salt Lake City. Now we were moving even farther away.
Mother called, “Mary Agnes, please make sure everything is cleared from the back porch before we leave.”
As I made my way around the house, I thought back to the day six months before when my father had returned from the dedication of the St. George Temple. Mother and I had stayed home because my baby brother was ill. One look at Father told us something serious had happened.
Mother spoke first. “William, what is the matter?”
Father took her in his arms, and with tears streaming down his face he said, “We must leave our beautiful home.” He could say no more.
Leave? How could we leave? After years of saving we had finally been able to buy farmland and build a comfortable home for the 10 of us. We had horses, cattle, and other farm animals. We lived near my grandmother and my cousins. I was able to attend the school in town. Who would ask us to sacrifice all this?
Later I heard my parents discussing what was happening. Families were needed to extend Church settlements farther south. President Brigham Young had asked our family to move. He counseled my father to sell all we had so we would not be tempted to return to Utah. We were needed in Arizona.
Arizona was a place where there was very little water and nothing to see. The prophet had called people there last year. Many had returned to Utah because they could not endure the hardships. Father said almost no greater sacrifice could be asked of him.
Mother’s voice brought me back to the present. “It is hard to leave, isn’t it, Mary Agnes? Do you know the real reason we are moving?”
I shook my head.
“We are going to Arizona because the prophet called us to go,” Mother explained. “Remember my telling you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with our neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship in peace.
“It was terrible to leave our home, but there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.
“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could find reasons not to go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”
Mother hugged me as she continued. “The Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by [His] own voice or by the voice of [His] servants, it is the same’ (D&C 1:38). Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago to follow the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”
The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I felt strengthened for the uncertainties ahead.
As I climbed into the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our old home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I decided I would follow the prophet—even to the last frontier.

As a mission president, my husband talked to one missionary who was really depressed and struggling. My husband felt impressed to ask him, “So, Elder, what did you have for breakfast?”

“Ice cream.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“French fries.”

“What did you have for dinner?”

“French fries and ice cream.”

“How long have you been eating just French fries and ice cream?”

“About a month.”

“Here’s your assignment: go home and eat something green—but not mint ice cream.”

Markus sat in the temple with his new family. They were all dressed in white. Now that Markus was adopted, he was so excited to be sealed to his family!
Brother Ray stood up. He was the temple sealer. “This is a big day,” he said. “Do you know why?”
“Now we can be together forever,” Markus said. He looked at his parents and his big brother, Caleb.
“That’s right,” Brother Ray said. “In the temple we seal families forever.” He looked at Caleb. He asked, “Do you know how we can do that?”
Caleb smiled. “With the priesthood,” he said.
“That’s right. Heavenly Father gives us His power. We use it to bless people in big ways and little ways.”
The family knelt down. Caleb was already sealed to his parents. He watched while Markus was sealed to them too.
The sealing ended. Dad pointed to two mirrors. They faced each other across the room. “How far can you see in that mirror?” he asked.
Markus stood up tall. He saw his family in the mirror. He saw them over and over again. “Forever and ever!” he said.
Question for You
How has Heavenly Father blessed your family?
“Our family can be forever too. Isn’t that right, Caleb?” Dad said. “Now you and Markus can be forever brothers!”
“Yeah.” Caleb put an arm around Markus. “I waited a long time for a brother. I want to keep him forever!”

It’s hard to believe it was only 120 years ago when Wilbur and Orville Wright first lifted off and flew over the sands of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Four short flights on that December day changed the world and opened the door to one of the greatest inventions in the world’s history.
Flying was risky in those early days. The brothers knew this. And so did their father, Milton. In fact, he was so terrified of losing both of his sons in a flying accident that they promised him they would never fly together.
And they never did—with one exception. Seven years after that historic day at Kitty Hawk, Milton Wright finally gave his consent and watched as Wilbur and Orville flew together for the first time. After landing, Orville convinced his father to take his first and only flight and to see for himself what it was like.
As the plane lifted from the ground, the 82-year-old Milton got so caught up in the exhilaration of flight that all fear left him. Orville rejoiced as his father shouted with delight, “Higher, Orville, higher!”
This was a man after my own heart!

Dr. Kenneth MacFarland, a great, nonpartisan, national patriot, gave a speech entitled “Selling America to Americans.” He told about a young soldier who returned from Vietnam. In a very serious talk with his parents, the young soldier asked if they loved America. He asked how they felt about this great and glorious nation. Both mother and father got a little teary-eyed and said that they loved this country dearly, that it was more precious to them than their own life. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was growing up?” he said. “I never heard you once say that you loved America. You never taught me to love it. I can’t tell you what an ungrateful pup I have been. I had to go to Vietnam to find out what the United States of America is all about. I would gladly lay down my life for it. I would have given anything to know how you felt about it when I was growing up.”

When I joined the Church in 1973, the doctrine of the redemption of the dead penetrated deep into my heart. As a new member of the Church, I made a commitment to do the vicarious work for my ancestors who had died without knowledge of the gospel.
At that time I lived in Madrid, Spain, about 500 kilometers from Asturias, the little place where I was born—and where, supposedly, the greater part of my ancestors’ records were located. I used many vacations and weekends looking for these records, traveling hundreds of kilometers. Sometimes I would lock myself up for entire days in the parish offices of Catholic churches, surrounded by old, and often illegible, records.
The love I felt for my ancestors helped me overcome these inconveniences. I brushed off the dirt, mended the torn books and pages, and learned to read the many, many books that came into my hands. With the help of these parish records, as well as civil records, family records, wills, newspapers, and photographs, I began to put together a picture of my ancestors’ lives. I came to know them to some extent and to rejoice in their happiness and mourn with them in their sorrows.
But the time came when it seemed I could do no more. Too many records had been destroyed. Asturias has been one of the most embattled areas in Spain’s history, and many records had been destroyed in its conflicts. I tried to go on using family sources but met with little success.
Sometimes I was discouraged when I thought of how easy it was for some people to do family history research. I read miraculous accounts in the Liahona of others finding needed information. Why couldn’t that happen to me? The records I needed had to be somewhere.
In 1994 I decided that I would vacation in a certain area and visit the parishes there one more time. As usual, after I had finished searching, I was in exactly the same place where I had begun. I felt quite discouraged. I had used up my vacations for 20 years, had traveled thousands of kilometers, had searched through mountains of books, had spoken with hundreds of people, and had spent a great deal of money. But for what?
My wife and I packed our suitcases to return to Madrid. Then at the last moment, I decided to make one more attempt. I returned again to one of the churches I had visited so many times before.
But this time, as I was looking in a certain record, the very names and dates that I needed suddenly appeared right before my eyes! My legs went weak, and a great cry of joy came out of my mouth. Tears rushed to my eyes, blinding me.
I hadn’t found the information on any of my previous attempts because the names were incorrectly registered. But once discovered, this precious record even referred me to other records that had not been destroyed in war—records that I never knew existed. Now the temple work could be done for these ancestors!
I was able to return to Madrid feeling extremely blessed. Like Nephi, I know that our Father in Heaven loves us and that he never gives us a commandment without preparing the way for us to carry it out.

On decisions: “Decisions ought to be made in favor of our Heavenly Father. When I had an opportunity as a young woman to become a contralto with the Metropolitan Opera, I told them I’d have to pray about it. I also studied my patriarchal blessing, which promised me that my success would come in the service of the Lord. So I came home and rejoined the Tabernacle Choir.” She has the longest service record in the choir—over fifty years—making the phrase “He that hath clean hands and a pure heart” from “King of Glory” not only a sermon in song but a symbol of her life.

Wilford Woodruff traveled across the United States several times as a leader in the Church. One time he stayed overnight in Indiana on his way to meet with the Saints in Boston, Massachusetts.
Wilford: I think we should sleep here tonight. I know of some brethren who will let us stay with them.
Wilford, his wife, and one of their children decided to sleep in the carriage.
Wife: It looks like all of the other children are settled down in the house for the night. Good night, Wilford.
Wilford: Good night.
Not long after getting in bed, Wilford heard a voice tell him to move his carriage.
Wilford: I have to move the carriage.
Wife: What for?
Wilford: I do not know. But I do recognize the voice of the Spirit, and it’s telling me to move.
Wilford moved the carriage forward. About 30 minutes later a sudden whirlwind blew a nearby oak tree over. The huge tree was snapped into pieces and crushed two fences.
When the Woodruffs’ hosts and children came out to look at the damage, they noticed that the tree had landed right where Wilford’s carriage was parked before he moved it.
In the morning the Woodruffs were able to safely continue their journey, and they went on their way rejoicing.
Wilford: By obeying the revelation of the Spirit of God to me, I saved my life as well as the lives of my wife and child.

After the teacher dismissed the class, Karen gathered up her books. She smiled at Sue across the aisle and said, “Thanksgiving vacation is finally here.”
Sue frowned. “I suppose everyone’s thankful for a vacation from school.”
Karen laughed. “I’m thankful, and I’m looking forward to a great holiday.”
As they left school, Karen said, “I can hardly wait for tomorrow. My grandparents and Aunt Emily and Uncle Joe’s family are coming. And my cousin Marilyn gets to stay until Sunday.”
Sue glanced at her soberly. “You’ll sure be busy all weekend.”
“I’ll say. Marilyn’s a lot of fun. It’s great to have a girl cousin my age.”
“I wish I had a cousin any age,” Sue said.
“Our family gets together every Thanksgiving—” Karen stopped, suddenly realizing Sue wasn’t excited at all about the holiday. “What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked cautiously.
“Not much.”
“Does your mother have to work on Thanksgiving Day?” Karen asked.
“Uh-huh. Thanksgiving is a very busy day at most restaurants.”
“Oh,” said Karen, “then where will you be having Thanksgiving dinner?”
“I’ll eat at the restaurant with Mom when her shift ends.”
Karen was silent. She felt almost guilty for the busy, fun-packed Thanksgiving holiday she was expecting to have, while Sue would have to spend most of the day alone. But telling Sue she was sorry would probably make her friend feel worse, she decided. When they paused in front of Sue’s house, Karen just smiled and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Sue tried to smile. “The same to you,” she mumbled and hurried up the walk.
As Karen hurried on home, a sadness came over her. Sue’s already lonely, she thought. Maybe I should have just said, “See you Monday.” But lots of people have to work on Thanksgiving—doctors, nurses, bus drivers, firemen, policemen, cooks, waitresses. Maybe Sue’s used to being alone on Thanksgiving.
“I’m glad you’re home, Karen,” Mother greeted her. “Will you get out our best silver and polish and wash it for tomorrow?”
“Ummmmm!” Karen paused to savor the aroma. “The smell of mince pies baking makes me hungry.”
By the time she had finished the silver, Mother had a pie ready for her to take to the Carvers. Karen felt content as she carried the warm pie to the elderly couple who lived on the corner.
“Happy Thanksgiving from our family,” Karen greeted Mrs. Carver.
“A home-baked pie!” Mrs. Carver exclaimed, her face glowing. “Thank you so much. Being remembered makes Thanksgiving very special.”
“Do I smell mince pie?” Mr. Carver asked, getting up from his chair.
Karen smiled. “Hot from the oven.”
“Warm mince pie’s my favorite.” Mr. Carver’s eyes twinkled. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a piece right now.”
As Karen left the Carvers, she thought about what Mrs. Carver had said about being remembered. Then she thought of Sue.
When she arrived home, holiday preparations again dominated her thoughts. And by the time she’d straightened her dresser and made room in her closet for Marilyn’s clothes, she was almost too tired to think. “I can hardly wait for morning, though,” she told her reflection in the mirror just before she said her prayers and crawled into bed. “Marilyn will be here for the whole weekend!”
But with the lights out, Sue’s loneliness again intruded into Karen’s thoughts. “I wish I could give her a happy Thanksgiving,” she murmured to herself, her troubled thoughts keeping her awake. Somehow, such a wish seemed like asking Heavenly Father to help the poor while selfishly refusing to help them yourself. Then, smiling suddenly to herself, Karen turned on her lamp and set her alarm.
Karen was already in the kitchen the next morning when Mother got up.
“Karen!” Mother said, looking surprised. “Are you up early to help me stuff the turkey?”
“Whatever you want me to do,” Karen replied. “But I’ll need some time off this morning.”
“Time off? On Thanksgiving?”
Karen told her mother about Sue and about the plan she’d made last night.
Mother gave Karen a big hug. “I think your plan will make Thanksgiving more meaningful for all of us.”
Karen telephoned Sue’s mother and told her about the plan.
“Thanks so much, Karen,” responded Mrs. Anderson. “You have no idea what it means to me to know that Sue won’t be spending most of Thanksgiving alone.”
As soon as breakfast was over and Karen had the dishes washed, she put on her coat.
“With all the work to do around here,” her brother Bill protested, “where are you going?”
Karen grinned. “I’m going after an extra pair of hands.”
Karen rang the bell three times before Sue, still in her bathrobe, answered the door.
“Aren’t you ready?” Karen asked.
“Thank you for your invitation, Karen, but I couldn’t intrude on your family, especially on Thanksgiving.”
“You’re my friend. You won’t be intruding.”
“Thanksgiving is a family day,” Sue insisted.
“On the first Thanksgiving, the Indians weren’t members of the Pilgrims’ families,” Karen pointed out. “Thanksgiving is a day of friendliness and thankfulness.”
“Maybe it was—a long time ago,” Sue said. “But holidays change like everything else. Besides, your cousin’s coming.”
“Marilyn is my friend as well as my cousin. You two will like each other.”
“You haven’t planned for me.”
“When there are sixteen people, there’s always room for one more.” With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Karen looked as grim as she could as she added, “I should warn you, though, we’ve been assigned the dishwashing detail.”
Sue laughed at that, relaxing a little. “Sounds more fun than frightening.”
“After the last dish is done and put away, you and Marilyn and I can plan what to do Friday and Saturday—that is, if we have any strength left.”
Sue’s eyes began to sparkle. “Don’t make it sound so gruesome. You know you’ll love every minute of it.”
“Only if you’re helping,” Karen said. “Knowing you were here alone would spoil my day.”
Sue’s enthusiasm suddenly evaporated. “But I forgot—I want to be with Mom today too. She only has a short time when we can celebrate Thanksgiving together.”
“We’re eating at noon. You’ll be ready to eat again by the time your mother gets off work.”
Excitement danced again in Sue’s eyes. “I’ll be ready in a wink.”
“Good,” Karen said. “I promised my brother I’d bring back an extra pair of helping hands.”

Finally, the fourth item—the bank. It is a symbol of our financial well-being. I learned a great lesson early in my business career. My boss called me into his office. I could tell he had something on his mind. He said, “Give me a definition of interest.” Of course, I reached back in my training and gave him a definition I had learned from a textbook. He said, “No, no, no, that’s not the one I want. You listen and remember this one: Thems that understands it, earns it; and thems that don’t, pays it.”

As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson.
In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.
Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David H. Cannon.
As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”
With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life. (See Andrew Karl Larson, Red Hills of November, 1957, 311–13.)

“It started with a feeling that the Liahona could do more to reach the increasingly diverse membership of the Church,” said Val Johnson, managing editor of the Liahona. “We knew we could do a better job of meeting the needs of the worldwide Church.”

“We know readers love the current Liahona,” said Jenifer Greenwood, assistant managing editor of the Liahona. “We’re hoping to take what is good and add to it.”

While teaching his son about the original Liahona, Alma stated that “the Lord prepared it” (Alma 37:38). Members of the team that helped build the new magazine wanted to be able to say the same thing.
“Coming up with the innovations and new design has been a revelatory process,” said Sister Greenwood. “We have seen the Lord’s hand in it all along the way.”

The project began in July 2008 after Elder Jay E. Jensen, then Executive Director of the Curriculum Department and editor of Church magazines, approved the creation of a team to create a prototype for a new Liahona that would better meet the needs of its diverse readership.
Six months of brainstorming, writing, designing, and testing produced a proposal that was approved by the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in January 2009.
“It was an intense experience,” said Adam Olson, an assistant managing editor at the Liahona, “because at the same time we had to carry on with the work required to produce the magazines each month. There was no way we could do both without looking to the Lord for help.”
With the Liahona normally planned one year in advance, the newly approved changes were implemented immediately in order to unveil the changes with the January 2010 issue.
“We can testify of those moments when we had a ‘stupor of thought’ (D&C 9:9) and then those flashes of insight that definitely didn’t come from us,” Brother Johnson said. “The Lord really helped us.”

In the fall when I returned to BYU I decided I wanted my dad to be there when I was baptized, so my baptismal date was arranged at a time when he would be in town to see one of our games. I’ll never forget my baptism. It was the happiest day of my life. Bob baptized me, and Coach LaVell Edwards confirmed me. And then, with tears running down his cheeks, my dad put his arm around me and said, “I’m really proud of you, son. I love you.”

James Henry Rollins, a refugee from the mobs in Missouri, moved his family to Nauvoo and sought the Prophet’s help: “I went with him to his store and he asked Newell K. Whitney if he had any work for me to do. He replied nothing that he knew of then, that he had sufficient help at present. Joseph said to me, ‘I have work for you’ and he took me through in the back of the store and showed me about the cords of hickory wood. He asked me if I were a good hand with the axe. I laughed and said, ‘Well, some little.’ He said the clerks here were too lazy to cut their own wood. I asked him if he had a sharp axe. He turned to Lorin Walker and said, ‘Get the axe for him. I want him to chop up this wood,’ which I did and piled it up the same day. The next day he came to the store and unbarred the outside cellar door. When the doors were opened [he] asked me if I thought I could [rearrange the supplies] and I told him I would try and see what I could do.
“He was pleased with the change I had made with the appearance of the cellar. …
“… At this time a good deal of work was being done on the Temple which the workmen received [requisitions] for their labor on the store.
“It was very much crowded for two or three days, and as I stood in the counting room door looking at the faces in the house, there were a great many very familiar with me, and they came to me as they were waiting for their pay, asked me if I could wait on them. Joseph being in the store at the time said to me, ‘Why don’t you wait on these people.’ I told him when I was ordered I would do so with pleasure. He then said, ‘go and wait on them.’ I then went to work behind the counter on the grocery side and payed off many orders this day and the next, the store being crowded constantly and at least 50 to 100 people to be waited on from morning until night and being so very close with so many present was very oppressive to us all.
“When Joseph came in, and saw us looking tired and pale, he told us to shut up the store that night and not open again for two or three days, which we did until we got rested. Then opened again for business” (“A Sketch of the Life of James Henry Rollins,” Church Archives.)

Our family—my parents, my brother, and me—prepared for a long time so that my brother could serve a mission. Whenever we would talk about him being a missionary, I would joke with him, saying I wouldn’t miss him and that I would be glad to be alone.
The day finally came for him to send in his missionary papers. He had tried to do well in school, and we had all worked hard to save money for his mission.
One day the stake president called us and said the call had arrived. My brother opened the letter at home after dinner. He was called to serve in the Mexico City East Mission.
Not long after that, we dropped him off at the airport and said goodbye. On the way home my mother could not stop her tears, but I did not cry. But only two hours later, when I was in the room I used to share with my brother, I suddenly realized that I would not see him again for a long time. Then I was the one who could not stop my tears, and I let myself cry and cry. My parents hugged and comforted me, and we all felt great joy and great sadness at the same time.
Since that day, I pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to take care of my brother as he serves.
My brother taught me that I must also prepare for a mission. I must be worthy to receive the priesthood, attend seminary, and achieve the goals in Fulfilling My Duty to God. He taught me to work and save money, read the scriptures, and obey my leaders.
I want to serve a mission too so that other people can have the blessings of the gospel and know that it is true.

Several boys were kneeling in a circle on the sidewalk in front of David’s house, laughing and shouting. He watched them through the window. New in the neighborhood, he thought that this would be a good time to go out and make some friends. When the screen banged shut behind him, the boys looked up.
“Hi.” David combed his brown hair to one side with his fingers. “My name’s David. I just moved in. What are you doing?”
“We’re playing Grasshopper Gladiators,” a boy with reddish hair and freckles told him.
“I’ve never heard of that before,” David said. “How do you play?”
“You have to catch a grasshopper first,” said another boy. David had seen most of them at school, but he hadn’t been there long enough to learn their names. And right now they were more interested in their game than they were in him.
There were a lot of weeds around his new house. It had stood empty for quite a while before his parents bought it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a grasshopper in all these weeds. He walked slowly through them till he heard a low buzzing sound to his right. Perched on a tall blade of grass was a brown grasshopper at least an inch long. David stopped and moved his cupped hands slowly toward it. When they were about three inches from it, he snatched at it. He felt it hit against the inside of his hands and then stand motionless. Experience had taught him that if he wasn’t very careful, when he opened his hands to look at his catch, it would be gone in a flash.
He waited a few more seconds. When he didn’t feel it jump again, he moved his left thumb, making a small opening. Then he tipped his hands until the warm afternoon sun entered the opening and made it easier for him to see the small creature.
He had read that grasshoppers have two hard lips and sharp biting jaws to help them tear off bits of plants for food. It’s a good thing it’s so much smaller than I am, he thought. Otherwise I might be in for a good bite.
David remembered the night his family had been reading about John the Baptist in Mark 3 in the New Testament. John had grown up eating locusts and honey. Mom had explained that locusts were a type of grasshopper. She had been told by someone who had eaten them that they tasted something like shrimp.
I like shrimp a lot, David thought, but I don’t know if I could eat a grasshopper. The grasshopper hopped toward the opening. David moved his left thumb quickly to keep it from jumping out. Its feet tickled. “I caught one,” he yelled as he approached the boys on the sidewalk.
“Good,” said the redhead. “Mark needs a challenger.” He nodded his head toward the boy who had told David to catch one.
The boys opened up to let David into the ring. What he saw made his stomach knot. In the center of the boys’ circle were grasshopper legs, wings, heads, and bodies. Two grasshoppers were still alive but had been stripped of their back two sets of legs and wings. They struggled helplessly before the laughing boys.
“What are you doing?” David choked out.
“What does it look like we’re doing?” the redhead retorted. “We’re making Roman gladiators out of them. We take turns pulling something off the other guy’s grasshopper. The guy whose grasshopper lives the longest wins.”
David watched in horror as one of the struggling grasshoppers stopped moving.
“I’m the winner!” the redhead chortled.
“That gives Jerry a score of six,” Mark said, marking a line under the initial J. S. on the sidewalk with chalk. “Is the new kid going to challenge me next?”
“No!” David shouted. “That’s mean.”
“You mean, mean boys,” Mark mimicked in a whiny voice. “Now you’ve gone and upset the new boy. How could you be so mean?”
“Oh, go away and leave us alone,” said Jerry, rising to his feet. He was a good head taller than David and was scowling at him. “What are you, anyway—a grasshopper lover? Come on, Mark, Steve will challenge you. You have a hopper left, haven’t you, Steve?”
A slightly built boy with blond hair answered. “Yeah, I have one. Hey, David, they’re only grasshoppers. It isn’t like we’re really hurting anything.”
“No.” David freed his grasshopper. “It isn’t right.”
He turned his back on the other boys and walked toward his house. He wanted to run from the jeering that followed him but forced himself to walk slowly. He didn’t want them to think that he was afraid of them.
Mom came into the living room from the kitchen. “Did you meet some of the neighbor boys?” she called cheerfully.
“I wish we’d never moved here,” he muttered.
“Why? What happened?”
“See those boys on the sidewalk?” His mother nodded. “They’re making a game out of tearing grasshoppers apart.”
“Oh, no!” His mother hesitated. “Do you want me to ask them to stop?”
David shook his head. “I already did. They just laughed at me and called me a grasshopper lover.”
“It isn’t a good way to get introduced into the neighborhood, is it?” Mom asked understandingly.
“I don’t care if they don’t like me,” David told her. “Who wants to be friends with guys like that.”
He went down the hall to his room and threw himself across his bed. The truth was, he did care. He wanted to have friends. But he couldn’t stand by and watch those boys destroy small, helpless creatures.
Mom had never let him kill even a spider. She had insisted that spiders are good and had a place in God’s world. She helped him catch them in paper cups and set them free outside. The same was true with bees and wasps.
Together they had watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon. Its wings looked damp and crumpled at first. Then, ever so slowly, they unfolded and the butterfly pumped them up with fluid and fanned them slowly. Finally it flew away.
Dad had read him the story in Moses 7 in the Pearl of Great Price about Enoch hearing the earth cry out because of the wickedness of the people. And when they worked in the flower garden together, his mother sometimes said, “I hope that this little corner of the earth is feeling joy because of our efforts.”
In a family home evening he had learned the story in Matthew 21 [Matt. 21], Luke 19, and John 12 in the New Testament of Jesus entering Jerusalem riding on the colt. The people greeted Him with branches of palm trees and called out “Hosanna.” The Pharisees told Him to make the people stop. But Jesus said that “the stones would immediately cry out” hosannas if the people were silenced.
Dad had said that in some ways the earth’s spirit was like ours. Its body needs proper care if its spirit is to be happy. And all the creatures of the earth have spirits and can experience joy. David had even been afraid to pick flowers at one time. But then he’d realized that the joy plants experience must be connected to their service to man.
He loved to read stories about Native Americans. They gave a prayer of thanksgiving to the spirit of an animal after they killed it for food. And they thanked it for its gift of life.
Who needs friends like Mark and Jerry and those other boys, David thought again. I’d rather be alone.
“Come on, David, it’s time to get up,” Mom called from his bedroom doorway Sunday morning.
Oh, great! David thought. Church! It had been bad enough the past few days at school with Mark and Jerry and their gang calling him “grasshopper lover” during recess. No one had dared to pay any attention to him, at least not in a friendly way. Jerry and Mark seemed to lead the whole sixth grade. He could find some remote corner during recess and lunch most of the time. Walking home from school was the hardest. With a bunch of other kids, they usually waited and teased him all the way home. And he’d learned that Mark, Jerry, and Steve were in his ward at church. He pulled the pillow over his head.
“David,” Mom called a few minutes later. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
“I’m not hungry,” David called. “Eat without me.”
He knew better than to think that that would keep Mom away. Less than a minute later she was back in his doorway. “What’s the matter, David?” she asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
It would be easy to tell her I’m sick, he thought, but that wouldn’t be true. Besides, I like church. I’m not going to let a few tough guys keep me from going. Aloud, he said, “I’m coming, Mom. I’ll be all right once I get going.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the Valiants sat. Jerry and Mark sat together at one end of the row, glaring at him. He sat on the opposite end. Steve came in during the opening song. There were only two seats left. One was in the middle of the girls. One was by him. David watched Steve’s look of bewilderment with slight amusement. Which would he be hassled the most for—sitting by the girls or by a grasshopper lover?
Steve only hesitated for a moment before slipping in next to David. “Hi,” he whispered under his breath, then joined in the song while Mark and Jerry talked and pointed their way.
When they were dismissed to class, Jerry and Mark elbowed their way to the chairs on the back row. They tipped their chairs against the back wall and called to Steve to join them. He looked at them and then at David sitting on the front row. He surprised David by sitting by him. “I’m glad you like grasshoppers,” he whispered. “I wish I’d stood up to those guys like you did.”
David felt a glow inside. He turned and gave Steve a grin. “It’s easier to stand up to people you don’t know.”
After she introduced herself and the rest of the class members to David, Sister Newell said, “Today I want to talk about the story of Korihor from the Book of Mormon. Who can tell me something about Korihor.”
“He was an antichrist,” one of the girls behind David volunteered.
“That’s right, Mary,” Sister Newell replied. “He was an antichrist. What does that mean?”
“It means that he didn’t believe that Jesus Christ was real,” Mary answered.
“Thank you, Mary. Does anyone besides Mary remember something about Korihor?”
David loved that story. He knew it by heart. But he didn’t want to look like a know-it-all or a show-off his first day of Primary.
The rest of the class was silent, too. Then Jerry blurted out from the back row. “Hey, wasn’t he the guy that got stomped to death?”
“Yes,” Sister Newell answered. “He was trampled to death. Open your Book of Mormon to Alma 30. Skim through the chapter if you need to, and find why Korihor was struck dumb.”
David stopped worrying about looking like a know-it-all. He loved this story and wanted to share what he had learned from it with others. Maybe Jerry and Mark would listen to Alma’s words, even if they wouldn’t listen to his. He raised his hand.
“David,” Sister Newell called.
David jabbed his finger along the pages in his Book of Mormon as he answered. “Starting in verse 37, Alma asks Korihor if he believes in God. Korihor tells him, ‘No.’ Alma testifies that there is a God and a Christ and tells Korihor that evidence that God lives is all around him. Korihor tells Alma that if there is a God, He should give a sign that He has power. Verse 44 reads, ‘But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.’
“Then Alma told Korihor that because he would not accept the testimonies of other people and of all creation around him, he would be struck dumb.”
“That’s right, David. Thank you. What can we learn from this story?”
Steve raised his hand. “I think that it’s teaching us the importance of listening to the testimonies of other people. We should also treat everything around us on earth like it is a testimony of God and Christ. Even grasshoppers.”
The fidgeting on the back row stopped. There was a thud as the front legs of Jerry’s and Mark’s chairs hit the floor.
“You mean Korihor became dumb and was trampled to death because he didn’t respect bugs?” Jerry snorted.
“I’m not sure what bugs and grasshoppers have to do with the story of Korihor,” Sister Newell answered, “but I do know that he didn’t accept that these kinds of things bore testimony of the Savior and our Heavenly Father. You’ll notice in verse 59 that Korihor was trampled by the Zoramites. These were Nephites who lost the companionship of the Holy Ghost. Loss of the Holy Ghost takes away our respect for all forms of life. Otherwise they would not have trampled him.”
Then the bell rang for Sharing Time. Jerry and Mark didn’t push their way past everyone else this time. They even asked David and Steve if they could sit by them in the Primary room.
After church, Jerry, Mark, and Steve waited for David in the foyer. “Do you want to walk home with us?” Jerry asked him.
“Is it all right?” David asked his parents.
“Sure,” Dad said. “We’ll see you in a little while.”
No one said anything for the first block. Then Jerry broke the silence. “I guess Grasshopper Gladiators is a pretty mean game,” he said. “I’m not going to play it anymore.”
“Me either,” Mark agreed. “I just never thought of bugs and things as being a testimony of Jesus before.”
“I’d sure hate to end up like Korihor or those Zoramites,” Jerry added.
“Me, too,” Mark agreed. “Maybe grasshopper lover isn’t such a bad nickname, after all—but I think I’ll just call you David now.”

As years passed and my life experiences piled up, I began to see evidence of God’s love for everyone around me, but I did not always expect or recognize His love for myself. I questioned my worth as an individual.
In July of 2008, I felt strongly impressed to leave a job that was no longer good for me. I didn’t have another job, but it was early in my career and options seemed limitless. Also, because of my prompting, I was confident that Heavenly Father would help me find the right opportunity.
Weeks later, the world entered a financial crisis and unemployment rates soared. As weeks and then months passed, I began to panic. I heard heartbreaking stories of fathers and mothers losing their jobs. I was single and had no one depending on me, so I wondered if others needed and deserved employment more than me.
One night, I took my concerns to the Lord. I told Him I needed a job to take care of myself but that I could see there were families in greater need. It was as if I were imagining everyone getting in line to receive the blessings of the Lord, and because I was single, I was expected to allow families to cut in front of me.
As I prayed, the Spirit taught me that this was not what was expected of me. There is no line to get to our Heavenly Father. He invites all of His children to come to Him because “all are alike unto [Him]” (2 Nephi 26:33). The thought came very clearly to my mind that Heavenly Father is not limited by any circumstance of our world and that He will help every individual who comes to Him and Jesus Christ.
In that moment, I was reminded that there is no class system among Heavenly Father’s children. He blesses us as we choose to make and keep covenants with Him and Jesus Christ. We are all loved and important to Him, regardless of where we are on the covenant path.
Shortly after that, I was offered a job that put my career on the path it is on now.

For many years I practiced law with a fine Christian gentleman who was not of our faith. He was a man of humble origins whose family had not long been in the United States. By hard work and faith, he worked his way through school and became successful and wealthy. But he never lost his interest and compassion for the poor of all faiths. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, he would take his family, load up the car with turkeys and groceries of all kinds, and go to the poorer sections of the city, where he would personally deliver food to the poor.
He would enlist my help in contacting bishops who lived in the less-affluent areas to identify people of our own faith who might be in need. Year after year he did this without any thought of recognition. He literally fulfilled the Lord’s admonition in the Doctrine and Covenants to “remember in all things the poor and the needy, the sick and the afflicted,” for, as that verse continues, “he that doeth not these things, the same is not my disciple” (D&C 52:40).