Gospel Story Finder

“Hold your family home evenings … ,” says President Gordon B. Hinckley. “I can remember when it was begun. I was a little boy five years old, and my father said, ‘President [Joseph F.] Smith has asked us to hold family home evenings.’ And we did it. It was not easy to do at first. We were more prone to laugh and giggle than we were to be well behaved. But we did it. I see the fruits of it in my own family and in the families of my grandchildren and in the families of my great-grandchildren. The principle of family solidarity carries with it a conviction of its truth” (“Words of the Living Prophet,” Liahona, April 1999, 18).

Last February I saw this joy personified as I accompanied the missionaries in Santiago, Chile, to visit some of their converts. At the Basuare home, eight-year-old twin boys, Nicolas and Ignacio, met us at the door, dressed in white shirts and ties, just like missionaries. Their father had been baptized three weeks earlier, and the following week he baptized his wife and sons. We talked of their conversion. They shared their feelings of love for the missionaries and the joy they were experiencing in living the gospel and keeping the commandments. They proudly showed us the picture of the Santiago temple displayed in their living room, a symbol of their goal to become an eternal family one year from the date of their baptism.

I asked Nicolas if he would like to be a missionary when he grew up. He answered yes, and we shook hands on the promise that he would prepare for the day. Then I asked Ignacio the same question. He hesitated and replied, “I’m not sure I can make that promise. I’m only eight years old.” I persisted, “Nicolas made the promise. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?” He still hesitated and said, “I don’t know if I could be ready.” I could see I had taken on more than I could manage, so I said, “Perhaps you’d better talk this over with your father.”

He went to his father, who took him in his arms and said, “Ignacio, Jesus was a missionary. He walked the streets like Elder Sheets and his companion and made the people happy by teaching them to keep the commandments. Wouldn’t you like to be like Jesus?” “Yes, Papi, I would.” “Do you think if we work together, you can be ready to be a missionary when you are nineteen years old?” “I think so.” “Wouldn’t you like to make the promise to Elder Mickelsen that you will do that?” He came to me, and we shook hands to confirm the promise. I marveled that this young father, a convert of just three weeks, could be so sensitive in helping his family follow the Savior and how he emulated the missionaries in teaching his son. Their goal of becoming an eternal family will surely be reached under the guidance of this faithful father.

The thoughtfulness of a Laurel class recently helped an 18-year-old New York girl face the trauma of being hospitalized with serious injuries far away from home and family.

Nancy Shannahan and her friends were returning to New York after a vacation out west when they were involved in an automobile accident. Nancy was hospitalized in Burley, Idaho, and was unable to return home with her friends.

The Oakley First Ward Laurels learned of Nancy’s predicament from their adviser, Betty Jane Fairchild, whose son was hospitalized with football injuries. The girls decided to befriend Nancy and make her a friendship quilt to take home with her to New York.

The girls donated scraps of material, and Sister Fairchild pieced them together. The quilt top was then passed from home to home so the girls could embroider the names of class members on it, with Nancy’s name in the center. The full-sized quilt was tied one evening, and a couple of Aaronic Priesthood youths even got into the spirit of things by helping to cut and tie the yarn.

Nancy has since returned home and recently wrote to the Laurels thanking them for their love and kindness. She expressed hopes of being able to get to know these girls better in the future.

I can’t wait to be a deacon. Ever since I was little, I’ve watched with envy as the older boys passed the sacrament. It’s an important job, and they always seem to know just where to go when they pass the sacrament. Now it’s my turn. My twelfth birthday is this week, and I’ve been learning about the priesthood in Blazer class. I’ve been dreaming about passing the sacrament myself. I wonder if I’ll get to pass it to the bishop.
My Blazer teacher told us that we would be interviewed by the bishop before we could be ordained. This would be my second interview—he had already interviewed me when I was going to get baptized. But I’ve lived half my life again since then!
I like my bishop. I see him every Sunday, and he knows my name. Sometimes he says hello. But I still worried about that interview. Did I know enough to be a deacon? Would he ask me about things I keep secret? Could I share my secrets with him? If I did, would he keep them secret?
Friday after dinner the bishop’s secretary called and said the bishop wanted to see me after my Blazer class on Sunday. I said OK, but I was nervous. In my mind I went over everything I thought that he might ask me. I began to remember all the things that happened this year. Some of them I wished hadn’t happened.
Sunday after class I headed for the bishop’s office. What a busy place! I thought. Everybody wants to see him. I think I’ll go home and come another day.
But he saw me. “Hello there, Bobby,” he called. “Come in and sit down, please. Excuse me just one moment.” He stepped out into the hall to talk to someone about something. I wondered what they were talking about. I looked around his office. He had a big chair and a desk, a picture of the Savior, and a picture of President Benson. I saw the scriptures on his desk. They sure were well worn. I wondered what it would be like to be a bishop.
The door opened, and the bishop came back in and sat next to me. He shook my hand. “Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “You’re almost twelve, the age when we normally confer the Aaronic Priesthood and ordain boys as deacons. I’ve talked with your father, and he also felt that you and I should have this interview. Tell me what you know and how you feel about the priesthood.”
Oh no, I thought. What shall I tell him? He probably knows everything about the priesthood. I started by telling him some things from Blazer class and some things my mother had taught me. He didn’t interrupt, and once I got started, my nervousness went away.
When I finished, he said, “Very good. I can see that you’ve been paying attention and that you understand some important principles. There are some scriptures about the priesthood that I’d like to share with you. They’re some of my favorites.”
He turned first to section 20 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 20]. We read from it and talked about the duties of a deacon. Then we read from section 84 [D&C 84] and talked about the covenant of the Aaronic Priesthood. After that, he turned to what he said was his favorite scripture—section 121. We read from verse 34 to the end of the section [D&C 121:34–46]. He helped me understand what the promise in verses 45 and 46 meant. [D&C 121:45–46]
Then he looked me right in the eyes and asked if I was paying tithing. I thought about how hard it had been to start. I was sure happy that I could say I was a full-tithe payer. I told him how good I felt when I paid my tithing.
Next he asked me if I ever smoked or drank alcoholic beverages or took drugs. I remembered the time my friends and I had tried a cigarette, and I didn’t want to say anything. I hadn’t even told my parents. I knew it was wrong when I’d done it, and I still felt bad about it. Something inside me said, “Speak up,” but I just couldn’t. My silence must have told the bishop I was wrestling with something, because he talked to me about keeping secrets. He called it “confidentiality.” He said that he would keep anything I told him a secret unless I gave him permission to share it with my parents. Then he waited.
It seemed like a long time while I figured out what words to use. I told him about smoking and how ashamed it made me feel. We talked about how it had happened and what I should do to repent. I didn’t tell him who I’d done it with, and he didn’t ask me to. He said that his knowing their names had nothing to do with my worthiness to receive the priesthood. We discussed the help my parents could give me, and I decided to tell them. A calm feeling came over me. I guess that’s what happens when you do something that you know is right.
When the bishop asked me if I was morally clean, I didn’t know what he meant, so I asked him. He explained about keeping my mind and body clean. We talked about how to do that. He explained that if I lived righteously, the power of the priesthood would always be with me.
He asked me to kneel with him and say a prayer, so I did. It was a short one. Then he prayed. He asked Heavenly Father to bless me, and that made me feel good. I knew that my bishop liked me.
I can hardly wait to tell Mom and Dad about my interview. They’ll be happy for me and will help me be a good, worthy bearer of the priesthood. Just think—next Sunday I’ll be presented in sacrament meeting by the bishop to be sustained to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and to be ordained a deacon. And the week after that, I’ll pass the sacrament. I’m going to be reverent when I do and try to set a good example. Maybe some younger boys will be looking up to me.

Our seminary class has always exchanged presents at Christmastime. Last year, as usual, we held a meeting to determine how we would go about sharing gifts.
“We could draw names as always,” someone said, “but let’s set a price limit.”
“How about instead of buying a gift, we write a letter?” Amy suggested. “We could secretly watch the person whose name we get, notice his or her good qualities, and then write a letter to the person, telling what we’ve learned.”
After some discussion we all agreed, though most people didn’t appear very enthusiastic—just glad they wouldn’t have to spend any money.
I drew the name of a girl I barely knew. Michelle had been in some of my classes, but I had never taken the time to talk with her. I began to watch her, both in seminary and in our history class.
Michelle was shy, but I noticed she always had a warm smile when she would pass strangers in the hall. I learned that she was intelligent when she gave a marvelous presentation in our history class. I was most impressed, however, when I saw her love for people—when she put her arm around a tearful girl on her way out of seminary, when she befriended a lonely handicapped student. She became a real person to me instead of just another face at school. I began to love her.
The day we were to exchange letters finally arrived. As I stood and read my letter, I found it easy to express my feelings to Michelle. Other students experiences similar reactions.
John said, “I grew closer to Glenn when I attended a performance of a play he was in. I didn’t even know he was an actor until I called his mom to find out more about him. I felt proud to see that someone from our class had the lead in the play. I couldn’t wait to write him a letter telling him how much I admired his acting ability.”
Over the next hour it became obvious that we were no longer concerned with what we would receive, but with being able to make someone else feel good. Angie found that by expressing her love for Patrick, whom she had never gotten along with, she was better able to dispense with grudges and learn to love.
The Christmas gifts our seminary class exchanged that day meant more to me than anything money could buy. Many students’ spirits were lifted, and we felt a closeness that unified our class for the rest of the year.
We learned there is something positive in everyone and that, when we share our love for them, we are giving a true gift.

“I will NEVER forget when I first saw this. I am autistic and have struggled with chronic depression and suicide ideation. The last few weeks before that concert were pure torture for me, and I was completely lost in what to do anymore. A few days before this song was performed, I asked a few friends of mine in the Choir for some support which they gave and when I first heard this song, I was drowning in tears. Truly the light will always come at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, Tabernacle Choir, my dear friends, for being such heroes in my life and such wonderful friends! I love you all forever!”

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’s recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had hit bottom. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped comeback capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that hitting bottom does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

The clowns must make up and be ready before everyone else to “warm up” the audience for the rest of the show. The clowns do slapstick comedy and vaudeville-type routines to get laughs from the crowd. Sometimes they all work together in one big rollicking show, and other times they work alone doing a routine of their own creation. Tim is the very first performer in the arena. He walks in with his huge shoes slapping on the hard rubber runway and a big bandage wrapped around his head. He groans and screams in pain from the most terrible toothache that anyone has ever had. But never fear, who should appear at the other end of the arena but a clown-faced dentist in a tuxedo who obviously has the equipment and know-how to help Tim get rid of his horrible toothache. This all seems fine to Tim until he sees the dentist’s equipment—a large hammer and a huge pair of pliers. Tim makes several attempts to escape but all to no avail. The dentist and Tork finally wrestle Tim to the ground right in front of the center ring, and with his huge pair of pliers the dentist extracts a huge foam-rubber tooth that had been hidden in Tim’s bandage. It’s a great laugh for everyone, and the clowns seem to enjoy it most of all. After a few more good routines, the crowd is warmed up and the show begins.

Old Mr. Winkel lived in a little house with four stray dogs that just happened to come live with him. They all behaved quite well, except Emmet. Emmet loved to go and return when he pleased. He was called a troublemaker by everyone in the neighborhood.
But one night when everyone was asleep, Emmet heard a prowler and finally had a chance to redeem himself. The beautiful double-page colored illustrations offer much to see and enjoy.

Carl shivered as he pushed his bike against the wind. I can’t wait to get home and get warm, he thought. And I can’t wait to open Christmas presents!
He had gotten up extra early that morning to deliver newspapers. As he pushed his bike up the steep hill on his way home, he thought about Mom’s homemade Christmas cinnamon rolls. They were going to taste so good. He could almost taste the sweet creamy frosting.
Cream! Carl’s shoulders slumped. He had forgotten about milking the cow and the other chores he needed to do. Even on Christmas.
Carl parked his bike in front of the house. He and his brother liked racing to see who could get their paper routes done first. He didn’t see his brother’s bike, so Carl had won!
The only problem with winning was that now he had to wait for his brother before they could open their presents. Then they’d have to go back outside and do chores. Carl wished he could just stay inside and enjoy Christmas.
I could just get my chores done now, Carl thought. Then I won’t have to come back out in the cold. He hurried to the barn.
As he grabbed a pail and sat down to milk the cow, Carl looked around. All the other chores still needed to be done. Then he had an idea. If he did all the chores himself, he could surprise his family and they could spend the rest of Christmas morning together. It would be the best Christmas present ever!
Carl hurried and milked the cows. Then he cleaned the barn, fed the chickens, and collected the eggs. He smiled as he thought of how surprised his family would be.
Carl went back to the house. He peeked in the door to see if anyone was there. Then he sneaked into the kitchen. He had just finished putting the milk and eggs in the refrigerator when Mom walked in.
“Oh good, you’re home,” Mom said, giving him a hug. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
Mom helped him take off his coat. When Carl’s siblings saw him they shouted, “Carl’s home! Let’s open our presents!” Everyone crowded around the Christmas tree and waited for Dad to hand out gifts. Carl loved watching as everyone opened their treasures.
“All right!” Dad said. “Now it’s time to do the chores. But first, I think we need some juice and cinnamon rolls.”
Dad walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He stopped and stared.
“Well, look at that!” Dad said. “The milk jug is already full, and here are the eggs already gathered! Who could have done that?”
Dad came back into the living room. Carl tried his best to hide his smile.
“Do you know anything about this, Carl?” Dad said with a smile of his own. “It seems our chores are already done.”
“Merry Christmas!” Carl shouted.
Dad put his arm around Carl. “Thank you, son. That was very thoughtful. This might be our best Christmas yet!”
Carl grinned. He already knew this was his best Christmas ever.

By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, age 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen herself to the gospel just a short time ago. She says: “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this Church and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.
Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

Big teardrops splashed down Bobby’s cheeks as he watched Freddie and Dick lug Freddie’s wading pool over to Dick’s house. All the way home from school, the three boys had eagerly planned making a jungle hideout in a pile of dirt behind Dick’s garage. Dick’s father had said they could.
Freddie’s wading pool would be their hidden lake. The green branches Dick’s father had pruned from his shade trees would be the jungle trees. They would use their stuffed toys and odd-shaped rocks and pieces of bark for animals. Bobby knew where there was a crooked stick, streaked brown, that looked like a snake. He planned to put it on one of the trees for a huge python, just like in real jungles.
They were going to wear their shorts and go barefoot, like Tarzan. They’d creep through their jungle with bows and arrows, looking for wild animals. Oh, what fun they were going to have!
Bobby had rushed into his house to get a snack and to put on his shorts—and there, on the refrigerator door, was the note: DON‘T FORGET, BOBBY! Love, Mom.
He was so disappointed that he didn’t even look to see what she had left for a snack. Who’d feel like eating when he had to weed two rows of corn before he could play!
It didn’t help to remember that it was his own fault. He had fooled around all day Saturday while Dad, Mom, Susan, and Peggy did their weeding. Then, when he was about ready to start, who should come but Aunt Alice, Uncle John, Nick, and Michael.
“We’ll let it go for now. We mustn’t disappoint your cousins. They have come all the way from Bountiful to play with you,” Mother had said, adding firmly, “but you may not play after school Monday until your weeding is done.”
And there was the note to remind him.
Bobby started to cry. He felt awful. He felt even worse when he saw Freddie and Dick go by with the wading pool. They were going to make their jungle without him. And it was his own fault.
Trudging to the garden, he began pulling weeds. He started working fast, hoping to finish in time to play awhile before dinnertime. Then he remembered how Dad had told him to be extra careful to not injure the tender stalks of corn. He couldn’t work fast. He had to be careful.
When he looked down at the row of corn, it looked as long as a road that never ends. And he had two of those long rows to weed before he could play! He’d never get through in time to play jungle with his friends.
Bobby started to cry again, which, of course, only made matters worse—no weeds got pulled while he cried.
He noticed a shadow approaching and looked up. His father was standing behind him.
Usually Bobby was happy when Dad came home. But not today. If Dad was home already, it would soon be dinnertime. That meant no time at all for play.
“My boy seems upset,” Dad said.
Bobby tried to sniff back the tears.
“Those rows must look mighty long to you,” Dad guessed.
“Yes,” Bobby sobbed. “And Dick and Freddie are making a keen jungle—and I don’t get to help.”
“I know a trick,” Dad said.
“What kind of trick?”
“One that makes long rows grow shorter,” Dad answered, his eyes twinkling.
“No trick can do that.”
“Try it and see.” Dad tossed a small stick a little way down the row. “If you don’t look one bit farther than that stick, the row will grow shorter. Go on. Try it.”
Bobby started pulling weeds. In no time he had reached the stick.
“Now throw it a little farther down. But don’t look up,” Dad said.
This time Bobby seemed to reach the stick even faster. Dad tossed the stick again, and Bobby weeded to it. Again. Suddenly Bobby’s head almost touched the fence. He had reached the end of the row! “Wow! The row really did grow shorter!”
“Now do the other row the same way,” Dad suggested.
Bobby tossed the stick, then weeded to it. Again and again he tossed the stick and weeded to it. Then, as if by magic, he was through!
“Now look at the rows,” Dad said.
Bobby was amazed. The two rows weren’t shorter at all. They were as long as the other rows in the garden, just like before.
Then Bobby understood Dad’s “trick”: To make a job go faster, do it a piece at a time and work with a will. He looked up. The sun was still a long way from the mountain. Dad must have come home early. There was still time for play!
“Yippee!” he shouted. He gave Dad a big hug, hurried inside to change his pants, then got his “snake stick” and rushed to Dick’s yard to help transform a pile of dirt into a dark, mysterious jungle full of adventure and fun.

Recollecting times of fervent prayer during her childhood, Sister Smith continued: “The day I was to be baptized, my mother was delayed trying to find a place to park the car, so she sent me into the Tabernacle by myself. The sisters there helped me get ready, and I went into the baptistry and sat down. My mother wasn’t there yet. I was so nervous I could hardly sit still. The only thing I could think to do was to pray that Heavenly Father would make sure my mother would soon come to be with me. While I was praying, in she came, and I knew that my prayer had been answered.”

James: Cristi has this Christlike ability to see the good in others. She has a deep testimony of her Savior and a great desire to do missionary work.

Cristi: I remember trying to bargain with the Lord. For a while, it was like, “Come on, heal me. I want to gather Israel!” I tried to boss God around, but it didn’t work. Then I thought, “OK, my name, Cristi, means ‘follower of Christ.’ While I’m still here, I want to bring as many souls to Christ as I can.

James: And that led to another prompting.

Cristi: I started doing a social media message each day, a little message of hope and love. I called it “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive.” People started hearing about it. My sister-in-law was an atheist, but she said, “Will you start sending me your messages?” Over time she became a believer, and now she’s a member of the Church. And my brother started reading the messages. They helped him to find faith again. Now he’s active in the Church.

James: I was traveling a lot for work, going to small towns in Texas and Georgia. Cristi often went with me. We’d meet people we wanted to stay in touch with, and she would say, “Can I send you one of my messages? Then you can decide if you want to keep receiving them.”

Cristi: The number of people who wanted my messages kept growing. Now there are about 200. Some are Church members; some are not. For a long time, I sent out a thought every day, but now that’s getting harder and harder. I think the messages will be like a little history. When I’m gone, my family and friends will still have my witness about what I know is true.

Several weeks ago I took the New Era to work. I was going to read it on my break. Several people asked if they could look through it. They said they had never seen a magazine like it. They enjoyed the stories and said it made them feel good all over.
I learned that the New Era is a great missionary tool. It has helped me explain many of my beliefs to my co-workers.
Rochelle JohnsonSan Antonio, Texas

Amanda hurried toward Rebekah’s house, watching her feet carefully and making some steps short and some long. She almost hit her friend head-on as she neared the gate of one of their neighbors, because Rebekah was walking along and looking down too. They saw each other’s shoes and stopped just in time.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Rebekah teased.
“I’m missing the cracks,” Amanda replied, adding with a grin, “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m looking for textures. Want to help me win the prize?”
“What prize?”
“The box of crayons the teacher promised for the one who finds the most textures.”
“Sure, I’ll help. What are textures?”
“Oh, you know, how something feels when you rub your hand over it. Or how it looks like it would feel. A carpet is fuzzy or loopy or shaggy or carved looking. Tiles can be shiny or rough or patterned. And most glass is clear and smooth, but some bathroom glass is cloudy and bumpy so people can’t see through it.”
Amanda looked down again. “Like the sidewalk is different from the grass?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How about the bark on that tree over there?”
“That’s a good example!” Rebekah exclaimed. “It’ll make a good rubbing.”
“Rubbing?” questioned Amanda.
“Lots of textures make nice designs on paper. I’ll show you.”
Rebekah took some crayons out of her pocket.
“Looks like your little brother has been playing with these,” Amanda said. “They’re all broken, and the paper’s peeled off.”
“Oh, I did that.”
“What for?”
“So I can use the sides,” Rebekah explained, “like this.” She put a sheet of paper against the tree and rubbed the long side of the crayon over it.
The design of the bark showed on the paper.
“Hey, that looks like fun!” Amanda said. “Let me do one. How about a tire?”
“Sure,” Rebekah answered. “Which one do you want, Mom’s or Mrs. Rakich’s?”
“I was looking at the one on your bike.”
“Why don’t we do all three?”
“OK. You could probably win the prize just with tire treads from the cars parked on this street. They all look different.”
“So do the tree trunks!” Rebekah added excitedly. “Wow! I’m sure we’re going to find the most!”
All afternoon Amanda and Rebekah discovered different textures: bricks and boards, walks and walls, fancy fences, shingles, corn shucks, stones, gravel, grass, and grease. They made rubbings of some and lists of others.
Then Rebekah took a magnifying glass out of her pocket, and the two friends looked at skin and fingernails, leaves and flower parts, insects and feathers.
When the sun went down, they went into Rebekah’s house. In her mother’s scrap bag they found slippery satin, rough and tweedy wool, ribbed corduroy, smooth velvet, lace, linen, and polyester knits in many patterns. With Mother’s help they cut samples and made a booklet of the different fabrics.
Mother showed them wallpaper, sandpaper, paper towels, and napkins. They found textures on baskets, towels, dishes, and furniture. By the end of the day, they had found 211 different textures.
“Do you think that’s enough to win?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know if it is or not,” Rebekah answered, “but if anyone else found more textures than we did, he deserves the prize.”
“No matter who wins,” Amanda said, “no one could have had any more fun than we did!”
“That’s true—but I sure need those crayons. Mine are all used up!”

Catherine’s faith was mighty, and she had many occasions to exercise it. On one occasion when Miles was away, three-year-old Junius, their third child, suffered so terribly with an ear infection that she feared he would die. Desperately she prayed for help and felt inspired to ask the stake patriarch to bless him. Wrapping up her son, she carried him to the patriarch who, in the blessing, promised Catherine that if her faith was strong enough, Junius’s ear would bother him no more and that he would become a great leader in the Church. Even while he spoke, Junius stopped crying and fell into a deep sleep, for the first time in weeks. He raised a family of six children and became president of the Juarez Stake in Mexico before he was thirty.

Once, when my mom was tucking me into bed, I told her I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go on a mission. I said that I would miss her, Daddy, and my sisters too much. My mom said that we should pray about it and see what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. We knelt by the side of my bed, and I asked Heavenly Father if He wanted me to serve a mission. As soon as I asked the question, a really warm feeling filled my whole heart, and a really big smile came to my face. After the prayer, Mom asked me how I felt. I told her I knew that Heavenly Father wanted me to serve a mission and that I was excited to go and serve. I know that Heavenly Father hears our prayers and answers them. I am excited to share this with everybody when I go on my mission.

Eight years ago my sweetheart, Zina, suffered a massive stroke that took her speech and left her paralyzed. The doctors said she probably would not survive the week. As our children surrounded her bed I pled with the Lord to spare her life. Then I spoke to her, though she was unconscious. I reminded her that through the years of our married courtship we had planned and hoped to take the final trip together. I told her I wanted what was best for her and our Father’s will, but life would seem so empty without her presence. I think the Lord in his mercy permitted Zina her choice—she could travel on into immortality and rest, or remain to bless us with her exhibition of quiet faith, patience, and fortitude. Characteristically, she chose to do what she knew would give me greatest comfort, unmindful of her own tribulation. Hers is truly a Christlike love. Our entire family has been blessed and benefited by her unselfish sacrifice in our behalf. Noble characters do not alone bear trouble; they use it.