Gospel Story Finder

We live in a world that teaches the opposite of this, which is to serve self and ask openly, What’s in it for me? I am inspired by those who choose to reject the world’s message and choose to serve the Lord and others. One such example is Gino Bartali, an Italian two-time Tour De France winner and World War II survivor. Even though he did not have any knowledge of our faith or the Lord’s covenants, he felt motivated by his conscience to serve God’s children during World War II. He knew God, he was an extremely religious man, and he held fast to his beliefs. When many of his friends and neighbors were being sent to concentration camps, he could have idly stood by and not concerned himself. He and his family were safe. However, when a priest approached him about helping those that were being impacted, he accepted knowing full well he and his family could be killed if he was discovered. He used his fame and notoriety to slip past guard posts as he rode thousands of miles on his bike to deliver fake ID’s which were hidden in the seat tube of his bicycle frame. It is estimated that he saved close to 800 people through his actions. He never spoke of this to anyone, including his family. Late in life when his son asked him why he never spoke of this he simply said, “If you’re good at a sport, they attach the medals to your shirts and then they shine in some museum. That which is earned by doing good deeds is attached to the soul and shines elsewhere.” [4]

Chan Yung Fai stopped furtively at the corner of the building to flick away his cigarette in the darkness. The wind howling off the South China Sea flung the red sparks down narrow Macau Street.
Yung Fai hesitated at the church door. It’s been three years, he thought. I can’t go in now. But the ominous sound of the approaching typhoon warned otherwise. Inside the church were his mother and sister. He had to warn them.
Already the street markets were shutting down in panic. Yung Fai had hurriedly sold the last of his squawking chickens, keeping a plump red hen for the family’s dinner. Now the hen writhed in a pink plastic bag clenched firmly in his hand.
Yung Fai could vaguely hear singing inside the church. His sister, Chan Wai Fung, had talked all week about the music festival here tonight. Above the door, he read the Chinese characters for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Reluctantly, Yung Fai stepped through the doorway. The last time he had been inside this church was two weeks after he and his sister had been baptized. It was also the same day he had started smoking again. He had not dared go back—not to face broken promises and rules he could not keep.
The clear, melodic voice of his sister singing an old Chinese love song wafted through the church. Her voice is as perfect as she is, thought Yung Fai. Then he sighed. She’s always kept every rule in the book—probably even a few that aren’t there.
He edged around the corner to watch. Instantly, Wai Fung’s eyes greeted him. Her song smiled to him. Shyly, Yung Fai smiled back.
Then she sang her favorite, “How Firm a Foundation.” The audience was so enraptured they seemed oblivious to the rising wind outside.
Yung Fai watched her frail body quiver as she was named winner of the music competition. Propped in her chair, she was extraordinarily small for age 19. She lifted her crippled arms to limply clasp the hands of people crowding around to congratulate her.
Yung Fai had almost forgotten why he had come. Suddenly, he pushed forward to the pulpit and nervously cleared his throat. “There’s a big typhoon brewing outside. You need to get home.”
Stunned, the congregation for the first time heard the gushing wind. Wai Fung’s mother scooped up her daughter. The fragile, smiling girl with the lifeless legs and big, beautiful voice looked like a tiny child tucked in her mother’s arms.
Yung Fai followed them out. Rain was plopping on the rough-stoned street. Halfway down the street already, his mother was trying to shelter Wai Fung from the splashing drops.
Yung Fai had always looked upon his mother’s devotion to his sister with a mixture of guilt and amazement. On Sundays, while he was off gambling at the racetrack, his mother carried Wai Fung to church—a church his mother did not even like. Yet, every Sunday, she took Wai Fung to this Christian church and then went to her own Chinese temple to burn incense.
His mother’s irritated voice broke into his thoughts. “Yung Fai, are you coming? If we don’t hurry, the buses will stop running and we’ll be stranded on this side of the bridge.”
As he caught up with them, Wai Fung reached out to him. “That was brave of you to warn us. I would have been frightened to speak out in front of so many people I didn’t know.”
Yung Fai only shrugged and tried to keep up with his mother’s fast clip. When they reached the bus stop, people were pushing at each other to squeeze on the Taipa Island bus. A passenger immediately gave up his seat to Wai Fung and her mother. Yung Fai grabbed the overhead rail and wiggled close to them. Crammed against another passenger, his red hen began screeching loudly. His mother gazed at the squirming sack.
“What else have you got in that sack?” she snapped.
Yung Fai shrugged again. “Oh, only a pack of cigarettes.
Her black eyes flashed. “How much longer are you going to waste our money on those worthless things? You seem to forget there are seven of us to feed in our house. With you gambling and smoking, we’ll never be able to save enough money to go back and visit your father in China. You know that’s all Wai Fung has ever dreamed of.”
The bus lurched forward and picked up speed. The wind and rain whipped through the open windows, drowning out their voices and the sound of the irate chicken. Across the long bridge, above the tumultuous sea, the bus reeled with the wind and weight of its passengers.
When they finally jostled off the bus in front of the path leading to their plot of land, Wai Fung touched her brother’s sack. “I think you picked a good chicken for dinner, Yung Fai.”
After dinner, Yung Fai watched his mother clear the rice bowls off the table and roll the chicken bones up in the newspaper tablecloth. He uneasily paced the floor in their small tin/wood house. It was too quiet outside. He knew the storm would come back. Everyone in the house was waiting for the typhoon to exhale like a dragon. In the corner, his eldest sister, who preferred the English name of Lily, was listlessly threading plastic petals on a spindle. Her flower making brought a little extra money for the family.
Lily’s husband was fidgeting with the television.
“All you’re getting is static. Why don’t you turn that thing off!” Yung Fai said in exasperation.
“I’m just trying to get the Hong Kong station. They’re predicting this storm to be one of the worst ever.”
Yung Fai noticed Wai Fung shudder tensely. Wai Fung was usually so calm. Now her uncoordinated hands were fumbling aimlessly through the Book of Mormon which she read so diligently. She was always reading the Bible or Book of Mormon or one of those other scriptures.
Everyone was nervous. Only Lily’s toddler girls slept peacefully in the bunk against the far wall.
The typhoon crept back gradually as they all finally dozed in their beds. Yung Fai woke with a jerk to the wailing of the wind and whimpering of Lily’s youngest daughter. The window near her bed was rattling crazily.
At first everyone lay rigidly in the darkness, listening to the swelling storm. The dragon had returned. Its lashing tail sounded as if it would rip right through the house. They heard a thundering crack and the rushing thud of a tree falling. More trees creaked and splintered. The pitter-patter of rain had become a spewing torrent.
Yung Fai could hear the foreboding sound of rain beginning to trickle through the roof. Then the splattering of glass brought them all rolling to their feet. The wind hurled itself in one window and crashed out through another window on the opposite wall. Glass and splintered boards lay scattered on the floor.
Yung Fai was soon sweeping up water faster than glass. Water poured under the door. An unrelenting stream came through the ceiling and broken windows.
“We’ve got to save our things!” shrieked his mother, yanking open the door. She began scooping buckets of water and throwing them into the yard. The yard looked more like a river.
Suddenly, Wai Fung’s scream resounded above everything else. “Hear it! The power pole is falling. The house will cave in!”
“We must escape!” gasped Lily.
Momentarily, everyone groped in confusion. The ensuing crash seemed to come down in slow motion. Wood and tin hurtled against them. In panic, they pushed each other through the door.
Yung Fai looked back to see the entire roof collapsing under the weight of the giant pole. He could feel warm blood seeping down his face. But the rain sloshed it away, and Yung Fai imagined he was standing in a river of red. Dazed, he looked around to see that all his family had miraculously escaped.
“The animal shed!” shouted his brother-in-law. “There might be more shelter against the hillside.”
Bracing against the wind, everyone struggled through the swirling waters toward the hill. They slithered through mud and climbed over fallen trees. Once Yung Fai saw his mother fall, and he hurried to help her. She was still holding Wai Fung above the water.
When they reached the animal shed, mud and water were oozing through it. But no one cared. The storm was less violent there.
The chickens cackled noisily, and the pigs grunted in annoyance. Lily’s husband tried to kick the pigs away, but they were not about to be rousted from their secure spot.
Exhausted, everyone sank down. The pigs and people rested against each other, waiting out the typhoon.
Yung Fai dreamily kept pace with the rhythmic breathing of the pig next to him. After a while, his glazed eyes focused on his sister, Wai Fung. In her hands she gripped the satchel holding her scriptures. Even a typhoon threatening her life could not make her give them up.
Yung Fai looked slowly around. Each person was clutching something. His mother held Wai Fung closely. Lily and her husband were each cradling a daughter. Strangely, each tiny girl had managed to stay clinging to her doll.
Then Yung Fai realized he had also carried something out. He looked down to see what it was. The pink plastic bag was wound tightly around his hand. In it was his pack of cigarettes. In a sudden surge of disgust, he flung them outside into the mud.

The missionary said the Spirit whispered that I would help him find an answer.

I remember one time when the Lord guided several people. I was serving as mission president in the Brazil Porto Alegre South Mission. One of our missionaries had a medical condition called a cleft palate, which had never been treated. When he spoke, air would go through the top of his mouth and out his nose. It was hard for others to understand him.

This young elder told me that he had prayed about his problem. He said the Spirit whispered that I would help him find an answer. His simple, determined faith inspired me. I turned to God for help in finding a solution.

A simple surgery could correct the problem, but getting the surgery was not a simple process. If we had it done privately, it would be too expensive for this missionary’s family. On the other hand, using the public health system would require several appointments and would most likely use up the remaining months of his mission.

Every time I have a difficult mission to accomplish, I count on the faith and help of my wife. I explained this missionary’s dilemma to her and asked her to talk with those at the local public hospital. Was there any way the surgery could be done at no cost and within the time frame available?

After praying for help, my wife went to the hospital. She got in a long line of people waiting to talk to an attendant. As the line advanced, my wife was able to hear how the cases in front of her were being handled. Typically, people were told to return for an appointment in six months, sometimes more.

My wife knew this would be too long for our missionary. She felt prompted to leave the line and go through another door. There she found another hospital employee. My wife identified herself and explained the need of our missionary.

The employee instructed her to talk directly with the surgeon, who was in the hospital that day performing surgery on another floor. She explained to the surgeon what missionaries do and how this missionary would be blessed if he could have surgery to repair his cleft palate.

The surgeon asked some questions. Then he said, “Can we schedule the surgery in two weeks?” He completed a hospital form that explained this surgery was in the interest of the community and that he was interested in it personally. He handed the form to his assistant and asked him to schedule the date.

Ten days later, the surgeon operated on our missionary. Soon this elder was back in the field, cheerful and speaking in a clear voice. With renewed enthusiasm, he recognized that the Lord had led him along.

This missionary’s experience is a testimony that our Father hears our prayers and leads us by the hand.

I return to the example of my missionary. He was guided to ask for help and was blessed with a surgery that now allows him to communicate clearly. He was then guided to those who were ready to receive the gospel and its blessings, including baptism. I also look at the example of my wife. Her testimony grew stronger as the Lord guided her. He then opened the windows of heaven and poured out a blessing.

I am grateful I got to work with this young missionary, who was filled with simple, powerful faith. And I am grateful that I can live eternally with my wife, who sets an example of allowing the Lord to lead her along.

The Church magazine arrived that week, and I found several articles that focused on the Sabbath. I read it from cover to cover to see what the Church leaders had said on the subject. I made an elaborate list of “don’ts” for the Sabbath and resolved I was going to keep the Sabbath holy, even if it killed me.
The next Sunday I found myself wondering what to do. I was following the letter of the law but not the spirit of the Sabbath, and something was definitely missing. The hockey episode took place near Christmas, and January had its share of Sundays, but no Sabbaths.
Then in February a new convert named Keith moved into our small branch. He had been a member for five months and had the enthusiasm of four new missionaries in one. When the college we attended announced a foster grandparent program involving a local rest home, Keith suggested that we, the only LDS students on campus, should join and be good examples. We talked about visiting two branch members who lived in the rest home, but we took no action.
Then one Sunday President Harrison gave a talk on faith. He said faith was putting your words and beliefs in action. That afternoon Keith and I decided to visit the sisters in the rest home.
Our first visit was a disaster. We visited each sister alone, and we didn’t really get beyond “How are you?” “Fine.” As we left we knew to things: first, they needed us; second, we could do better. And even though we spent much of the next Sunday afternoon driving the 150 miles home from district conference, Keith and I convinced Les Harrison, his sister LeAnn, and Portia (a nursing student) to visit the women with us.
We wheeled both sisters into a quiet corner. Keith read an article from a Church magazine, Les read a scripture, and Portia offered a beautiful prayer. We felt good about the experience, and the next Sunday we came with seven Young Adults and youth. With President Harrison’s permission, Les and Keith blessed the sacrament and passed it to the sisters. We then wheeled them into a small chapel in the rest home and sang a hymn. We took turns reading an article from the Church magazines, then a poem and a scripture. We had a closing hymn and prayer.
It was three o’clock before we left, and since we were all hungry, Les invited us to his house for soup and crackers. So that Sunday afternoon I was again in the branch president’s home—but this time it was very different from the Sunday I went there looking for someone to play ice hockey. During the week the seven of us were scattered about the town, and many of us were without families in the Church. But for two hours that Sunday afternoon, we sat around the table and talked with each other and Les’s parents, sharing jokes, stories, and the problems of being lone Latter-day Saints out in the mission field. It was truly an inspiring experience.
When I finally returned home at ten o’clock after several other meetings, I had no time left to work on my genealogy or write a letter to a missionary as I had planned. As I knelt for prayer that night, I realized there were more “dos” for the Sabbath than I could ever fit into one short day. I thanked my Heavenly Father for the special day he had set apart to bless us.

Shonesty came into the family in a very special way, About a year before she was born, Brother Johnson had a strong feeling while in the temple that there was to be a little girl in the family, He felt so sure that he went home and wrote about her in his journal. When he and Sister Johnson heard that Shonesty was available for adoption, they knew that she was the girl. She was sealed to them in December 1985 in the Atlanta Georgia Temple, a wonderful Christmas gift for the whole family.

“Have any of you ever broken a bone?” Blake asked members of his priests quorum. He gave each person a chance to respond. Then he told the story about breaking his leg during the state high school cross-country championships and how his teammate Sean picked him up and carried him to the finish line.
“Just like Sean helped me to do something I couldn’t do for myself,” Blake explained, “the Savior has done something for each of us that we could not do for ourselves.”
Then he showed a video, “Mountains to Climb,” where President Henry B. Eyring of the First Presidency bears testimony of the Savior’s Atonement.

Although I had not found what I was looking for, we took the time to visit all the places my mother talked about. I was able to get a feel for what life must have been like in the early days of the twentieth century living in a sugar cane industry town. This gave me renewed faith in continuing my search for more information.

As I continued to search further back through my grandparents’ lines, I found many wonderful treasures. I found that my family line in Puerto Rico dates to early explorers in the Caribbean. Some had served as governors in the Dominican Republic. Some were sea captains, farmers, and businessmen. Some were maids, seamstresses, and some of nobility. I was able to do the temple work for many there in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple where we volunteered as ordinance workers once a week. I was beginning to feel a closeness to my ancestors that I thought I would never experience. My excitement and joy in the work I was doing carried me through times of disappointments. I knew that if I kept looking, I would be able to find many more, and I did.

Thank you for publishing the article “Ten Things to Know Before You Go” (July 2002). I am currently dating someone who will be serving a mission in less than six months. He is very prepared spiritually but not in other areas. For example, his mom still does his laundry and cooks all his meals. He relies on her for many things. He knows he will have to learn how to do the laundry etc. for his mission, but he procrastinates learning to do so. When I read him the article, it hit him that it is essential to learn soon. Thank you for helping me with this problem and for helping others realize what to prepare for.
Name WithheldProvo, Utah (via e-mail)

When he was a mission president, age 32, in Toronto, Canada, he woke one morning and felt a strong impression to visit a small branch up north. It was a change of plans and a quite a drive so he had to hurry. He arrived just after the meeting started and went in and sat down on the backbench. The branch president said to the congregation, we have a surprise, President Monson is with us today. We are going to ask him to come sit on the stand. So he began the walk to the front.
Unknown to him was the plight of one of his missionaries assigned to the branch. He had been out only a few months and was so discouraged he had decided to go home. In his mind, he and his companion had no investigators, no one was listening to them, the members were not helping; no one cared about him or even knew he was there. He had determined it was pointless to stay. He had packed his bag, slipped it under his bed intending to leave just after church and catch the train west.
So Mission President Monson is walking up to the front and feels impressed to stop—just for a second—and pat that new elder on the back. Then he leaned over and whispered in his ear, “The Lord loves you. He loves you for how hard you are trying and so do I.” And then he went up and sat on the stand.
That young elder didn’t go home. He stayed and became a great missionary. “I knew that he loved me,” the missionary has said. “That’s what I needed.” And he points to that moment when President Monson, prompted by the spirit—as he always is—had heard the voice of the spirit say, “Stop, say something.” And he did.

My usual spot in ninth-grade seminary was in the back row, where I could talk and joke around with my friend. I had only signed up for seminary because there was an open space in my schedule. Seminary was offered during the school day where I lived, and a school counselor suggested I take it since I’m a Latter-day Saint. I knew the teacher’s name, but that was about all I had learned from class.
Then my friend was gone one day, so I ran into a problem: I had no one to joke with. How would I pass the time? In a panic, I went with the only other option—I listened. It was the first time I paid any attention to the teacher.
As I look back, I don’t remember a word he said that day, but I do remember being captivated. My friend was back the next day, but instead of joking around, I listened and was again pulled in.
I eventually moved from the back of the room and sat on the front row, where I could pay better attention. Not a class went by in which I didn’t feel a strong interest in the lesson or in the students who were sharing their testimonies.
I enjoyed seminary so much that I signed up for it again the next year. I had been baptized at eight years old but had never really gone to church. But something changed one day in December right before the Christmas break. The teacher invited us to come to the front of the room and say what gift we would give Christ that year.
“No one will do this,” I thought. But, to my surprise, one by one the students walked to the front of the class. Some shed tears, others shared goals they had set, and some told stories. I couldn’t believe it.
Time was ticking. I was the only one who hadn’t gone. Before I knew it, I was on my feet. I had no idea what I was going to say. Then, with a shaky voice, I said, “This year for Christ’s birthday, I’m going to start going to church.”
From that day forward, I started going to church as my gift to the Savior. The ironic part was that I was the one who received the gift. Going back to church changed my life, and it all started the day I stopped talking long enough to listen and allow the Spirit to touch my heart.
The Spirit still speaks to me. All I have to do is stop to listen—and then follow.

I met the angel who would become my wife at an institute party the second night I was home from my mission. Although Shelley and I grew up in Canada several hundred miles apart and had never met before, we got to know each other well over the following months. When I had proposed three times and been turned down because she was committed to serving a mission, she finally accepted my proposal after I promised her that we would serve missions together after raising a family. She accepted an engagement ring on December 22, 1976.

During the Christmas season of 1995, when I was 13 years old, my family talked about creating a new Christmas tradition. For a long time, we looked for the right idea in our neighborhood in Manaus-Amazonas, Brazil. But the season continued to pass, and we had not yet put any of our ideas into practice.
Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and, as usual, Mama prepared roast chicken for dinner. It never felt like Sunday if we didn’t have roast chicken. But on this special Sunday, Mama prepared three chickens instead of the usual two. She wrapped the extra chicken in aluminum foil and put it in a sack. Then she picked up one of the 300 cakes she had made to sell.
“These are presents,” she told us. “Do you know who they are for?”
We guessed the names of our friends, neighbors, and ward members. None of our guesses was correct.
Then she said, “They are for Banel.”
We fell silent. Banel was a boy about my age who lived with his grandmother in a humble little house. He was also the terror of the streets. He got into cars if they were not locked. He stole the wallet of one of our friends and tore up the papers inside. He threw rocks at dogs and threatened children at play. The neighbors wanted to file a complaint against him to get him off the streets.
But after we had recovered from our surprise, we agreed. My father, my eight-year-old brother, and I took the chicken and cake and went to visit Banel. He was at home and came out when we asked for him.
He looked distrustful. He thought we had come to complain about something. “What is it? What is it?” he kept asking.
My father just smiled and handed him the packages. Banel was very surprised. “For me?” he asked. His countenance changed, and he became friendly and courteous. He was very grateful for the presents.
Since that day, Banel has not bothered the neighborhood children. Sometimes he even plays with them. He smiles and speaks to the neighbors when he sees them on the street.
Our family learned something important that day. We learned that a friendly gesture, however small, has the power to change people, even people who seem as unreachable as Banel.
We also started a practice that we hope will become more than just a Christmas tradition—taking the time to show love and kindness to those who need it most.

Harriet stared at the picture of Papa on the wall. It had been eight months since he died. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She missed him so much.
Knock, knock, knock.
Harriet opened the door of their little apartment. Two young men stood outside.
“Guten Tag! Hello! We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We’d love to talk to your family about Jesus Christ.”
Harriet smiled. Something about what they said made her feel good inside. “I’ll ask Mutti (Mom).”
Harriet found Mutti. “Missionaries are at the door,” she said. “They want to talk to us about Jesus.”
Mutti frowned. “Tell them we don’t have time.”
“But they seem so nice,” Harriet said. “It won’t take long.”
Mutti glanced at the clock. “All right. For a few minutes.”
The missionaries came in and talked to Mutti, Harriet, and Harriet‘s sister, Carmen. They told them about Jesus and a book called das Buch Mormon, the Book of Mormon. Then they gave Harriet’s family a copy to read.
“I guess we can read a few pages,” Mutti said, opening the book. Over the next few days, Mutti kept reading and reading. She read parts out loud to Harriet and Carmen.
I wish Papa could read this. He would love it, Harriet thought.
When the missionaries came back, they taught about God’s plan. “We lived with God before we were born. We came to earth to learn and become like Him. When we die, we can be with Him again.”
What about Papa? Harriet wondered.
The missionary looked at Harriet. “Because Jesus died and lived again, we can be with our families forever. Even with loved ones who have died.”
Harriet felt a rush of hope. She could be with Papa again! Mutti had a big smile too—the first in a long time.
Harriet, Mutti, and Carmen kept learning from the missionaries. They went to church. Harriet became friends with a nice boy named Dieter.
Now Harriet’s apartment felt like there was sunshine in every room. Soon Harriet and her family decided to be baptized.
The night before their baptism, Harriet knelt with Mutti and Carmen to pray. “Heavenly Father,” Harriet said, “we are so grateful for the missionaries, the gospel, and our family. We can’t wait to be baptized.”
When Harriet opened her eyes, she looked at the picture of Papa and smiled. She couldn’t wait to see him again someday.
When Harriet grew up, she married the nice boy named Dieter.
Dieter is now one of the Apostles—Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf!
Elder Uchtdorf says Harriet is “the sunshine of [his] life.”

A Young Women teacher had a blind girl in her class whose participation was limited because she could not study in the usual way. The teacher would go to the girl’s home and read out loud while the girl translated her Personal Progress book into braille. The work took two years. The teacher also encouraged the other girls in the class to help. Under her direction, they went to the blind girl’s home and read to her from the manual until it was translated into braille.
The Master’s touch through that teacher reached out and blessed not only this girl but many others who are blind, because the braille translation was made available at the general offices of the Young Women organization.

At Sunday meetings in the Kirtland Temple, many people were criticizing the Prophet when he wasn’t there. Although a visitor and a new member, John Taylor asked for permission to speak at the meeting.
May I say a few words, Brother?
John was given permission to speak, and he bore testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
If the spirit which the Prophet is showing us does not bring blessings, I am very much afraid that the spirit shown by those who have spoken against him will not be very likely to bring them.

I especially loved the peaceful feeling when I stepped inside the Sacred Grove. It is truly a place where God and Jesus Christ have been. The peace there is much like the peace that a temple or Church building brings. It is truly the Spirit.
In the Sacred Grove we split into small groups and went off with our leaders. They taught us about the First Vision, and we each found a quiet spot to pray. I felt a real peace when I prayed. I felt reconfirmation that the Church is true.

These are the squares. They enjoy living all by themselves in Square City.
These are the circles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Circle Center.
These are the triangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Triangle Town.
Here are the rectangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Rectangle Ranch.
Each group of shapes thought the other groups were very strange and not as good as themselves. After all, they thought, anyone who was different couldn’t possibly be as interesting and beautiful as themselves. The squares felt that in order for your shape to be the best, you had to have all four of your sides look just alike, the way all of the squares did. If you didn’t, you certainly couldn’t do as many wonderful things as a square could – or so thought all the squares in Square City.
The circles, however, felt that you must be perfectly round–like them–so you could roll all around. If you were pointy or square or only had straight lines, you were boring and certainly not as nice - looking as the circles were - or so thought the circles of Circle Center.
The rectangles felt that to be really important and nice looking, you must have two short sides exactly alike and two long sides exactly alike. If not, you must be most confusing to look at – or so thought the rectangles of Rectangle Ranch.
The triangles, on the other hand, felt that the only group to be a part of was one where everyone had nice sharp points and only three sides. After all, what could you possibly need four sides for – and rolling all around was just plain silly – or so thought the triangles of Triangle Town.
The squares didn’t like the circles. The circles did not like the triangles. The triangles certainly didn’t like the rectangles. And the rectangles didn’t like any of the squares. Each group of shapes didn’t want to play with any shapes that were different from themselves. In fact, if any other shape came near their group, they would make fun of it and chase it away!
One beautiful summer day, the little squares and the little circles and the little triangles and the little rectangles went outside to play – but NOT together! While they were playing a strange thing happened.
The little circles were playing on top of the hill. Some of them rolled a bit too far and before they could stop, they had rolled right down the hill and smack into the middle of the game that the little squares were playing. The little squares were very upset. Not only was their game ruined, but they were mad about having the circles come rolling into THEIR playground. The squares yelled and made faces at the circles trying to chase them away. The circles were very frightened and tried to roll away, but they became confused and kept bumping into the little squares.
The rectangles and triangles heard all the yelling and the crying. They all stopped their playing and hurried as fast as they could to see what was happening. Soon everyone was hollering at everyone else. It was a terrible commotion! Suddenly, a few of the little circles became so frightened, that they leaped up into the air and came right down on top of some of the little triangles! Oh, wonder of wonders! Everyone was absolutely quiet. No one moved, even an inch. They just looked and looked at what had happened. The little circles and the little triangles had made some ice cream cones – beautiful, big ice cream cones!
Some of the circles rushed over to get a closer look at the ice cream cones. They didn’t even notice that they had rolled right next to a big rectangle. But then everyone began to cheer and clap because the circles and the rectangle had made a very nice wagon! Then everyone became very excited about their new discovery. Because there were so many different shapes, they were able to make all kinds of new things. Everyone wanted to help, and they all had to work together to create the special shape pictures. The squares and the circles made a train. A little rectangle made the smokestack, and some tiny circles made the puffs of smoke. Soon they were all working together to make a sailboat and many other fun things. Everyone was happy and enjoyed working together. They had discovered that each shape, because it was different, added just what was needed to make special things they could all enjoy.
When playtime was over, all the shapes were very glad the little circles had accidentally rolled down the hill. It gave them all a chance to get to know each other, and to see how much more fun it can be to play with those who seem different from yourself. They worked together to make a lovely new house and many pretty things to go with it. Now that all the shapes had all become friends, they didn’t want to live apart from each other, so all of the shapes moved their little groups into their lovely new house where they could all live together, happily ever after. They often went sailing on their new sailing ship and even renamed their new home the Friendship Farm.

While in graduate school, Sister Neeleman and I, like many of you today, had to make do on a very meager income—so meager, in fact, that I could not see how we could pay our tithing and stay in school. Sister Neeleman, alarmed by my faithless attitude, insisted that we counsel with the bishop. The bishop, after listening patiently to my rationalizations, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “Pay your tithing each month, and if you don’t have enough to meet your other obligations, I’ll personally make up the shortfall.” I readily agreed to the bishop’s generous terms. But then he administered the coup de grâce: “Brother Neeleman, why are you so willing to trust me to meet your needs and so unwilling to trust the Lord?”

His words struck hard, knocking me firmly onto the path to a lifetime of tithing faithfulness. I have since learned that Bishop Goodsell’s ploy did not originate with him and is commonly used by bishops to encourage reluctant tithe payers. It nevertheless serves as a constant reminder to me that paying tithing is a matter of faith and trust and has priority over all other expenditures.

Twins Vince and Wayne Watson of Anchorage, Alaska, saw the wheels of big government really roll on a recent visit to “Washington Workshops.” The brothers’ trip, sponsored by four area banks and the local Teamsters Union, gave them the opportunity to spend two weeks touring historic landmarks, sitting in on legislative sessions, and enjoying the spectacular beauty of the nation’s capital. While in Washington the two also visited the temple and did baptisms for the dead.
Vince and Wayne have long been interested in government and leadership. For four years they alternated as class president and vice president; this past year Vince served as senior class president and Wayne as student body head at Bartlett High School in Anchorage. Both attended the .American Legion Boy’s State, earned Duty to God Awards, hold the rank of Eagle, and have participated in Church and school dramas and musicals, including Saturday’s Warrior.
Vince and Wayne have also completed four years of seminary, which in Alaska means getting up at 4:30 A.M., while holding down 20-hour-a-week jobs.

“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!”