Gospel Story Finder

When April’s family moved to a farm, there was lots to love about their new home. There were ponds to swim in and meadows to explore. And there was always something that needed to be done! The whole family—Mom, Dad, and eight kids—learned to milk cows, pick corn, and fill jars with homemade applesauce.
For April, the hardest part of the move was making new friends. None of her siblings went to her school, and most of her classmates had grown up together. It was tough to fit in, especially when some classmates made fun of her hand-me-down clothes and worn-out backpack.
And worst of all, April didn’t have a bike.
Almost everyone had a bike. After school, they’d hold races and play bike tag. Meanwhile, April was stuck walking home—usually alone.
One day while April was on her way home, David and Maria from school pulled up next to her, their bike wheels glinting in the sunshine.
“You should ask for a bike for Christmas,” David said. Before April could say anything, Maria started teasing.
“Her family can’t afford bikes, not even one.”
“That’s not true!” April said. “My parents could buy us all bikes if they wanted!”
Maria and David just laughed and rode away.
From then on, April wanted a bike more than anything. Christmas was a few weeks away. Was there any chance she might get one under the tree? She started asking for a bike every chance she got.
The big day finally arrived—Christmas morning! April was the first to run to the tree. She saw games, clothes, and a few school supplies … and zero bikes.
But then Dad said something that made her heart pound.
“Hey, I think I saw something on the porch.”
“I did too!” Mom said. “Kids, why don’t you see what’s out there?”
April and her siblings ran outside to look. And there, right on the porch, was a row of bikes! April could tell they weren’t new, but that didn’t matter. They were bikes!
Pam squealed in delight as she grabbed the red one with her name on the tag. Billy rolled the orange one down the steps. Then April got a good look at hers.
It was big. It was black. And it had the widest tires she’d ever seen. April felt her stomach drop. She tried to smile but felt a little sick.
It looks like a monster, she thought. What will the other kids say?
On the first school day after Christmas break, April pedaled slowly. She hoped the bell would ring before she got to school so she could hide the Bike Monster while no one was watching.
But everyone was still outside, talking about the holidays. And it wasn’t long before someone spotted the Bike Monster.
“Is that made of old tractor parts?”
“It’s from the junkyard!”
“Maybe if your folks didn’t have so many kids, they could get you something nice for once.”
April tried to ignore the mean comments, but those last words stuck in her mind. Would I be happier with a new bike instead of all my brothers and sisters?That evening April was watching her older brothers playing in the living room. She picked up her littlest sister and squeezed her with a giant hug. Would I trade her for a shiny new bike? April thought. No way!
Suddenly the Bike Monster didn’t seem like such a big deal after all. And it didn’t even really seem like such a monster. It was a gift from parents who loved her, and that made it the best bike in the world.
As the school year went on, April discovered that her bike was the very best—at least for racing and riding in the snow. Everyone wanted to try the big, wide tires. And April would let them. But the Bike Monster was hers, after all, and she loved it!

My Personal Progress value project for Knowledge is collecting each of the “Line upon Line” articles in the New Era and putting them into a binder in order of books of scripture. Reading these articles helps me to better understand the scriptures. I especially like the ones that pertain to scripture mastery, and I would love to see you print them more often.
Morgan S., California, USA

Most recently, in response to the devastating drought in Eastern Africa, the Church provided approximately $1 million worth of powdered milk, oil, flour, beans, and clothing to help care for expectant or nursing mothers, young children, and others. Twenty thousand pounds of medical equipment were sent to Albania, where modern medical care is urgently needed. Hundreds of hygiene kits and essential clothing were sent to Croatia to assist the suffering people in that war-torn country.

Walt was the new kid at school that year. He wasn’t in any of my classes; I met him out at our first freshman football practice. He seemed like a decent enough guy—a little on the quiet side, though.
I was the exact opposite—in the worst way. I talked long and loud with generous helpings of cussing. But, despite our differences, I put up with Walt because he was such a good football player. When it came to playing football, Walt was definitely all action and no talk.
I guess Walt had only two problems fitting in with the rest of us: he was the only Mormon on the team, and he was also the only kid who never, ever swore.
By the end of our freshman year, though, most everybody was used to Walt and his quiet, cussless ways. Even though he looked like us and hung around with us, when he opened his mouth—or didn’t open his mouth—he was completely different from us.
Walt’s “sissy” vocabulary didn’t bother me much the first couple of years I knew him. We became pretty good buddies and spent lots of time together talking about football, girls, school, and religion—Walt was always talking about his church. Anyway, in all our times together, I never heard Walt swear—even when he had every reason to.
At the beginning of our junior year, I decided it was my “duty” to reform Walt by “improving” his vocabulary. It was our first year on the varsity—he was a defensive back, I was an offensive lineman—and I figured if he didn’t learn to cuss, he’d never fit in with the rest of the varsity squad.
“Look, Wally,” I told him one night after twice-a-days practice, “I’m gonna make you swear—just once—if it’s the last thing I do this year.”
“Well,” he grinned, “I guess that’ll be the last thing you’ll do, because I don’t swear.”
I had my work cut out for me. I mean, here was a guy who said, “excuse me” every time he burped—even in the locker room. It was hard to believe that Walt didn’t swear; he surely had plenty of cussing examples around him. The air in the locker room and football field was always filled with vivid streaks of blue language. I knew that Walt had heard everything there was to hear, but he still never used anything stronger than, “Gee whiz, darn, or doggone it.”
So, I had to start at the beginning. One afternoon before practice, I handed Walt a vocabulary list. “Here, Walt. This is a list of words I want you to use today at practice. If you use them often enough, you’ll finally get the hang of it, and before you know it, you’ll be cussing like an old pro.”
He looked over my list for a minute but didn’t say a word.
I pointed to the first word. “This one—this is a great one. Use it when you drop a pass or miss a tackle. You’ll really feel much better if you do. And the next few are good when somebody takes a cheap shot at you. Use the last two anytime the ref makes a bad call.”
Walt wadded up my list and tossed it in his locker. “Aw, c’mon, Wally,” I pleaded. “Give it a chance. You’ve got to release all those pent-up emotions. The way you’re going, you’ll have ulcers before you’re 18.”
Out at practice that afternoon, Walt dropped a pass, missed three tackles during a scrimmage, and was the victim of one of my “friendly” cheap shots. I hit him right in the back, and when I helped him up, waiting to hear him cut loose with one of his new words, all he muttered was a feisty “Darn!” That was it.
I realized that I needed more help, so I recruited a few other guys to work on Walt. We tried everything: booby trapped his locker, pinched him in pile-ups, snapped him with towels, but we were lucky to even get a “doggone it” out of him. As a matter of fact, the harder we tried, the worse Walt got. It finally got so bad that Walt even quit using “darn” and just responded with “ouch” to all our persecutions.
“Okay, Walt,” I said to him one afternoon as we sat lacing up our cleats before practice, “I guess you win. No swearing, right? But what about dirty jokes? You know any?”
“Oh, you bet I do,” he answered. “I’ll tell you one today after practice.”
After wind sprints that evening, before he even got off the field, I gathered our buddies around and announced, “Hey, you guys, listen to this. Walt’s got a dirty joke to tell us.”
“Yeah, right,” said one player. “Walt? A dirty joke? You gotta be kidding.”
“Walt wouldn’t know a dirty joke if he heard one,” said another. “This I gotta hear.”
We huddled around Walt, anxious to see the effects of our “reform” efforts. “Gosh, you guys,” he exclaimed, “give me some room, okay?” We all moved back. “Okay,” he said, blushing slightly, “this is it. A white horse fell in a mud puddle.”
“Oh, no, …” we moaned. “You call that a dirty joke?”
“Well, what’d you guys expect?” laughed Walt. “That’s a Mormon dirty joke,” he said, and trotted off to the showers.
The football season progressed, and so did Walt. He terrorized our opponents as much as he mystified us, so we dubbed him “The Stormin’ Mormon.” It was a well-deserved nickname.
It became a team obsession to try to pollute Walt. We weren’t vicious about it; we were just good-naturedly hoping to save Walt from going off the deep end of goody-goodness. We owed it to him. Unfortunately for us, he was just as good-natured and just as determined to remain in the deep end of goodness.
We weren’t making any progress with Walt’s vocabulary, so some guys began telling (that is, trying to tell) dirty jokes to Walt. As soon as they’d begin a story, he’d cover up his ears. If they increased their volume, Walt would sing out loud; the louder the story, the louder Walt sang.
It got to be pretty comical. Two guys would dance around Walt trying to tell him a dirty joke while he sat peacefully in front of his locker with both hands clapped flat over his ears, singing at the top of his voice.
By the end of our season, we’d all but given up on Walt. He was a lost cause as far as swearing went. There was simply no reforming him.
It was even worse our senior year. The younger players looked up to Walt because he was one of the top players on the team, and the rest of us knew there was no changing him, so we all just accepted him for what he was and left it at that. Of course, we didn’t leave him completely alone. There were still a few booby-trapped lockers and assorted pranks. We gave Walt every opportunity, but he never swore. I guess that deep inside, we all knew he wouldn’t swear, and we would have been disappointed if he had.
Things finally got so bad that even I started to give up cussing, especially when I was around Walt. I knew he didn’t like hearing profanity all the time, so I toned down my vocabulary.
After all we’d been through (and Walt had been through a lot more than I had), we were really good friends. We talked often about lots of things, and he continued to plug the Church every chance he got.
It’s kind of funny, but for four years, I was really trying, trying hard, to reform Walt—to help him “see the light” of using a man’s vocabulary. But my bad example, and his good one, eventually backfired on me.
A month after we graduated, Walt was there to witness my baptism. “Gee whiz,” he said after the ceremony, “I didn’t think you’d ever change.”
“Doggone it, Walt,” I replied, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

2. Sometimes when I’m all alone
and long for my heav’nly home,
I ask Him to help me feel at peace.
Sometimes when I’m feeling pain
or standing in pouring rain,
I ask Him to help me feel relief.
Chorus
Then a message will come from my Father up above
in a song or a dream or in beauty that surrounds me.
If I try to obey and remember to pray
I’ll see the tender mercies of the Lord.

My wife and I were recently blessed to serve as mission leaders to labor with the outstanding missionaries in Uruguay. I would say that these were the best missionaries in the world, and I trust that every mission leader feels that way. These disciples taught us every day about following the Savior.
During regular interviews one of our great sister missionaries walked into the office. She was a successful missionary, an excellent trainer, and a dedicated leader. She was looked up to by her companions and loved by the people. She was obedient, humble, and confident. Our previous visits focused on her area and the people she was teaching. This visit was different. As I asked her how she was doing, I could tell she was troubled. She said, “President Olsen, I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I will ever be good enough. I don’t know if I can be the missionary that the Lord needs me to be.”
She was a remarkable missionary. Excellent in every way. A mission president’s dream. I had never worried about her abilities as a missionary.
As I listened to her, I struggled to know what to say. I silently prayed: “Heavenly Father, this is an outstanding missionary. She is Yours. She is doing everything right. I don’t want to mess this up. Please help me know what to say.”
The words came to me. I said, “Hermana, I am so sorry you are feeling this way. Let me ask you a question. If you had a friend you were teaching who felt this way, what would you say?”
She looked at me and smiled. With that unmistakable missionary spirit and conviction, she said, “President, that is easy. I would tell her that the Savior knows her perfectly. I would tell her that He lives. He loves you. You are good enough, and you’ve got this!”
With a little chuckle she said, “I guess if that applies to our friends, then it also applies to me.”

I’ve been receiving the Liahona (Spanish) for several years and have come to value it as a companion in my solitude. It is the best kind of communication we could have with members in other parts of the world. Reading their testimonies strengthens my testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. The counsel of prophets and apostles also strengthens me and gives me faith and hope.
Ramona Trevizo,Rio Grande (Spanish) Ward, Albuquerque New Mexico South Stake

Yeah, I guess I would. But my mom says she had a lot of pain when I was born, but she still loves me. In fact, she says she loves me more because she had to suffer for me.

“Nothing ever goes right!” Jason shouted, and he slammed the model car he was making down on the table. Pieces of it flew in all directions. He picked up the pieces, shoved them into the box, then tossed the box onto the shelf in his bedroom and went outside.
Jason’s little brother, Kent, ran up to him. “Do you want to play catch with me?”
“I suppose,” Jason replied. He tossed the ball to his brother. Kent tried to throw the ball back, but it flew straight up into the air. It didn’t come anywhere near where Jason was standing.
“Learn to throw, will you!” Jason exploded.
Kent tried again. This time the ball bounced a couple of times and stopped far away from Jason.
“Oh, forget it,” Jason groaned. “I’m going to play ball with some of my friends.” He went down to Miller’s field, where his friends were standing together talking. Something important must be going on, he thought and ran over to them. “What’s happening?”
“Bad news,” Robert said. “Tomorrow’s Blazer B picnic has been called off. Brother Gilbert can’t take us because his father’s shed burned down and he has to help clean up the mess.”
“Nothing ever goes right!” Jason grumbled.
At lunchtime he hardly nibbled his egg salad sandwich.
“What’s wrong, Jason?” his mother asked.
“Oh, Mom, what a rotten day! Everything’s going wrong, and we can’t even have our picnic tomorrow because of a dumb old fire.”
His mother put her hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I know how you feel, Son. We all have what we call terrible days. But sometimes it helps to remember Heavenly Father’s goodness to us. Remember the scripture in Psalm 118:24 [Ps. 118:24]: ‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it’?”
Jason sighed. “I remember, Mom, but how can I be glad when everything goes wrong?”
“Sometimes things go wrong because we don’t use the gifts that Heavenly Father gave us to try to make things go right.”
Jason just moaned as he went outside and sat on the front steps, still feeling glum. He knew that his mother was trying to help him, but what was happening to him wasn’t his fault at all. The pieces of the model car were cut wrong; that’s why he couldn’t put it together. And it sure wasn’t his fault that Kent couldn’t throw a ball or that Brother Gilbert’s father’s shed had burned down.
He watched Kent trying again and again to throw the ball straight. But every throw was wild. The kid didn’t follow through with his arm. He jerked each throw with a twist of his wrist.
“Let me show you how to do it,” Jason said. He took the ball from Kent. “Watch my arm.” The ball made a nice arc through the air.
“That’s a great throw!” Kent said admiringly.
“Thanks,” his brother said. “If you go get the ball, I’ll show you again.” After a few more throws, Jason let Kent try. Kent’s arm motion was smoother this time, and the ball went pretty far.
“Oh, wow!” Kent yelled. “That’s the best I’ve ever done.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. “It was good.” It made him feel good to see his brother so excited.
“Let me practice some more by myself,” Kent said. “Then we’ll have a real game of catch.”
Jason wandered into the house. He couldn’t think of anything to do. Mom was in the kitchen, doing the lunch dishes. Jason went in and picked up the towel and began to dry them.
“Well, thank you,” his mother said, surprised.
Jason grinned. “When we get the dishes done, you’d better sit in a chair so you don’t fall down because I’m going to take out the garbage.”
Mom looked so startled at Jason’s pronouncement that he had to laugh. And the laughing made him feel good too. After he took out the garbage, he felt good enough to try working on the model car again. He took out all the pieces and looked at them carefully. Then he looked at the directions. He felt silly when he saw that he had been trying to put a piece where it didn’t belong. No wonder he’d thought that the pieces weren’t cut right. Now that he was using the gifts that Heavenly Father had given him, as his mother had put it, things were going right. He had even made Kent and Mom happy by helping them.
At least today is turning out pretty good, he decided. But what about tomorrow? All the guys had planned on the picnic. Mom had already bought the hot dog buns and mustard that he was supposed to bring. The Blazers had planned to go swimming, and Brother Gilbert was going to show them how to play water basketball.
Well, there was no sense moping about it. There was no way that the boys could go on the picnic without Brother Gilbert, and he had to help his father. Suddenly Jason put the model car down. Maybe …
He raced out of his room to find his mother. “Do you know where Brother Gilbert’s father lives?”
Mom looked surprised. “He lives about five or six miles out in the country, on Highway 27. Why?”
Jason told Mom his plan, and she thought it was a good one.
It took Jason a while to round up the other boys and for them to get their parents’ permission, but when everything was arranged, Jason called Brother Gilbert on the phone. “We’re sorry to hear about your father’s shed,” he said. “All the Blazer Bs want to help you clean up. My mom will drive us out there right after supper. Is that OK?”
“Is it OK? It’s terrific!” Brother Gilbert said. “If we all work together, we can probably get the whole job done this evening and go on our picnic tomorrow as planned.”
Jason smiled as he told his mother what Brother Gilbert had said. “You know something, Mom? My terrible day turned out to be terrific! When things go wrong, sometimes we can do something ourselves to make them better.”

A stake in Vancouver, Washington, had a “Senior Prom.” Youth sent elderly members invitations to a dinner-dance, where they served dinner, provided entertainment, and learned great old dance steps from the “seniors.” They even had pictures like at a school prom.

An elders quorum harvests the crop of a farmer after several of his family members die from influenza.

I’ve been warmed by the example of another young woman whose parents got divorced. She did not want her younger brother and sisters to feel unloved, so she says prayers with them every night and tells them she loves them. This young woman knows she is a daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves her, and she loves Him by loving her siblings.

My grandma came to our house in Wyoming once. We live in a valley in the mountains. Sometimes deer and elk nibble at our trees. Grandma didn’t come to see the animals. She came to make lefse. She and Mom bought lots of red potatoes. I helped wash them. Then they mixed the potatoes with other things to make the lefse dough. The dough is like the quilt, because it is made up of many different pieces. The different pieces taste much better mixed together.
Grandma’s lefse has more potatoes than anything else. Our family is made mostly of potatoes. I mean that like the ingredients of lefse are mostly alike (potatoes), the members (ingredients) of our family are a lot alike—but not exactly. For instance, I like to make snow angels, but even though Grandma used to do that, now she usually stays inside on cold, snowy days. And we all go to church on Sundays, but Grandma goes to a different one.
Grandma and Mom made round balls out of the lefse dough. Then they flattened the balls into thin circles bigger than our dinner plates. The circles looked like tortillas, only tortillas are made of corn, not potatoes. I tried to make a “lefse tortilla,” but my circle looked like a squashed white tomato. Grandma started giggling when she saw it. I giggled too. Then Grandma fixed my lefse.
She and Mom cooked the lefse on our griddle until it made little brown spots on the dough. Using a long stick that looks like a sword, they picked up each lefse circle and turned it over. I tried to turn mine over, but it slid off the stick onto the stove. Grandma helped me put it back on the griddle. When the lefse was all cooked, we put butter and brown sugar on one side and rolled them up. It tastes really good! I like lefse.

Whenever possible, missionaries took country trips to visit isolated Saints who lived far from organized branches; the elders administered the sacrament and gave much-needed counsel and support. For some time, the mission home sent out correspondence Sunday School lessons to these scattered Saints. In another effort to overcome vast distances between groups of Saints, President Tingey in 1929 commenced publication of a small monthly journal modeled after the Millennial Star in Britain. The Austral Star was published regularly until December 1958.

Adina N., from Switzerland, learned how family members can help one another develop talents as they enjoy wholesome recreational activities together.2 Her family plans a monthly family outing where they learn more about each other’s hobbies. “We have the opportunity to give our siblings a deeper insight into our life and our passions,” she says. One time, her father taught the family about dog training (below). “It was nice to see his enthusiasm and how happy he was to share an important part of his life and hobby with us,” Adina remembers.
Through these family activities, Adina has developed many skills. She has also noticed more peace in her life: “The family is a place where I can rest from the stress of everyday life and breathe peacefully, as well as gain strength and know that I don’t have to stand alone in this life. I am thankful for this because the world today is so fast and loud. I am glad I have a place to regenerate and rest.”

Henry Huggins*, by Beverly Cleary, illustrated by Louis Darling. When Henry adopts a stray dog and tries to take him home on the bus, the pair has the first of many adventures together. How does Henry end up with gallons of fish? Why is the dog pink when he enters the dog show? Find out in this classic story.

Elder Neil L. Andersen
(77) Couples in Mozambique follow the Savior instead of their traditions.

I was looking for the truth and ecstatic to hear the gospel message from the missionaries. I joined the Church, but I was the only member of my family to do so. After about one year, my testimony was growing stronger every day, but something was missing. I didn’t know I was a child of God.
I had accepted God as the Father of all, but I had not realized how intimately He knows each of His creations. With all that there is in this world, I asked myself, how could He possibly know me personally? How could He consider me His daughter? How could He love me as His child?
With these questions in mind, I turned to Heavenly Father in prayer. Shortly after, during scripture study, I stumbled across 1 Chronicles 28:9. King David told his son, “And thou, Solomon my son, know thou the God of thy father, and serve him with a perfect heart and with a willing mind: for the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts: if thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for ever.”
No other verse of scripture has brought me closer to my Father in Heaven than this one. It testified to me not only that I am a daughter of God but that if I seek Him, I can know Him. It testified to me of my individual worth. I had not, in my heart, been fully converted to the idea that I was a child of God. I had hoped that these things were true but couldn’t grasp the knowledge of such a loving Father in Heaven. I couldn’t accept His love, knowing my shortcomings and the many mistakes I had made.
The scripture taught me how David, who had made many mistakes of his own, counsels his son Solomon to seek the Lord and serve Him with full purpose. These words gave me a strong desire to develop a personal relationship with my Father in Heaven. I was learning more about His loving ways. I knew that, like David and Solomon, I could be found of Him.
I also discovered that Heavenly Father knows me personally. As I continued to study this scripture, the phrase “the Lord searcheth all hearts” was embedded in my mind. Each time I read it, the Holy Ghost whispered to my heart that Heavenly Father knows me and I am His beloved child. He knows my thoughts, aspirations, desires, fears, intents, and imaginations. With these insights, I gained a testimony that I am a child of God.

Staff meeting in the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission offices had just ended when the phone rang. Elder Olson, who was working in New Orleans, sounded near panic. His junior companion, Elder Freeman, had been run over by an 18-wheel truck and was on his way to the hospital. Unable to contact his zone leaders, Elder Olson was calling his mission president to find out what to do.
I reassured him that within two hours my wife and I would join him. When we got to the hospital, we were greeted by Sister Margaret Simmons who works as a nurse in the facility. She described the damage Elder Freeman had sustained. His pelvis was broken in two places and cracked in a third. He had a ruptured spleen, cracked and broken ribs, a broken hip, and a massive blood clot lodged in the intestinal area, along with many lesser injuries.
More than an hour passed before Elder Freeman was wheeled out of surgery into the intensive care unit. “I’ve done all I can,” the doctors said. “If he can make it through the next 24 hours, he might have a chance to live, but there is little hope of that.”
A bone specialist arrived to put Elder Freeman in traction. When he was finished, I pulled him aside to ask for information I would need in making a full report to Salt Lake City. The specialist told me the breaks were clean, as if the bones had been snapped in half. Proper healing would take time—intensive care for a week, traction for eight weeks, six months to a year of waiting and analysis before a decision could be made about whether or not he would ever walk again.
I asked for permission to visit my young missionary and give him a priesthood blessing. Permission was granted, and I joined five concerned elders in a circle around him. His companion anointed him, and I pronounced the blessing, feeling inspired that he would heal and live. As we lifted our hands from his head, he roused and looked up at me. “I don’t have to go home do I, President Lemmon?” he said. What faith! I replied simply, “You haven’t finished your mission yet.”
As we left the room, I noticed the doctors standing nearby. They had a look of puzzlement on their faces; it was, perhaps, the first time they had seen the power of God’s priesthood at work. Sister Simmons pulled me aside and said they had all watched intently and listened silently as the blessing was performed.
On the third day in the hospital, Elder Freeman was released from intensive care, getting out five days earlier than predicted. The next few weeks he spent entangled in traction equipment designed to pull his bones back to their normal positions. Even though in extreme discomfort, he used his time to memorize the missionary discussions, to teach hospital employees about the gospel, and to share his testimony of the restoration with them. Everyone knew who he was, even the hospital president.
During the sixth week following the accident, Elder Freeman was released from the hospital and came to serve on the mission office staff in Baton Rouge. When he drove into the driveway, he got out of the car and, using crutches, walked into my office. Again he had beaten the doctor’s prediction—this time by close to nine months—even though he had lost so much weight he had to put his scriptures under his belt to help hold his pants up!
After one month’s service in the office, Elder Freeman asked to be reassigned. I sent him to Baker, Louisiana, as a district leader. Shortly after his arrival there, he used his crutches for the last time. Elder Freeman is now in Hammond, Louisiana, serving as a zone leader. When he walks or runs, it is with a slight limp, but he enjoys a normal range of activities.
Elder Matthew Freeman is a living example of the power of the priesthood, and a walking example of the power of faith. I thank the Lord for the priesthood, and I thank him for fine young men like Elder Freeman, who serve with all their might, mind, and strength.

Time for scripture study requires a schedule that will be honored. Otherwise, blessings that matter most will be at the mercy of things that matter least. Time for family scripture study may be difficult to establish. Years ago when our children were at home, they attended different grades in several schools. Their daddy had to be at the hospital no later than 7:00 in the morning. In family council we determined that our best time for scripture study was 6:00 a.m. At that hour our little ones were very sleepy but supportive. Occasionally we had to awaken one when a turn came to read. I would be less than honest with you if I conveyed the impression that our family scripture time was a howling success. Occasionally it was more howling than successful. But we did not give up.
Now, a generation later, our children are all married with families of their own. Sister Nelson and I have watched them enjoy family scripture study in their own homes. Their efforts are much more successful than were ours. We shudder to think what might have happened if we had quit trying.