Gospel Story Finder

Kathy looked out her bedroom window at the deep snow piled high against the barn and the fences. Her father had shoveled a narrow path from the house to the barn, and she could see him now struggling to open the heavy barn door against the wind so he could get inside to feed the animals.
Kathy sighed as she thought, Why couldn’t this big snowstorm have waited a few days, or why didn’t I see the picture of the beautiful shawl a few weeks earlier?
She wanted the shawl for a Christmas present for Grandmother, who was a dear companion to Kathy. Grandmother was always so gentle and kind and full of laughter that she made life fun. But lately, Grandmother couldn’t seem to keep warm. She would say, “Is there a door open somewhere?” or “I feel cold across my shoulders.”
Early in the fall Kathy decided to knit Grandmother a lap robe for Christmas. With Mother’s help, she had already gotten a good start on it. Then, as she was looking through the mail-order catalog one day, she saw the shawl. It was white and lacy and edged with long fringe. It was the most beautiful one she had ever seen.
That’s what I’m going to give Grandmother for Christmas, thought Kathy. It’s much prettier than the lap robe I’m making, and she can wear the shawl to parties or to church or just around the house.
Quickly Kathy checked the price and then counted the money she had tucked away in her top dresser drawer. But she didn’t have quite enough!
What can I do? thought Kathy. Christmas is only a month away. Then Kathy remembered that Mrs. Taylor owed her some money for babysitting.
Happily, Kathy picked up the catalog and slipped into the kitchen to see what Mother thought about this gift for Grandmother.
“It’s a lovely idea,” said Mother. “However, I think Grandmother would be just as happy with a lap robe that you made yourself. But if you decide on the shawl, have your order ready tomorrow and I’ll stop at the post office when I’m in town.”
Before going to bed that night Kathy spread the unfinished lap robe on her bed and placed the picture of the shawl beside it. As she looked at them both, she thought. The lap robe is pretty and it wouldn’t take me too long to finish it, but the shawl is beautiful. Grandmother would love it. I must get her the shawl.
So Kathy folded the unfinished lap robe and tucked it into her knitting bag. The next day she filled out an order for the shawl, and her mother mailed it when she went to town.
Now, it was just four days before Christmas and, although the postmistress had called to say the shawl had arrived, Kathy couldn’t pick it up because the drifting snows had closed the only road into town.
Tears filled Kathy’s eyes as she watched her father push through the storm on his way toward the house. I won’t be able to pick up the shawl until after Christmas the way the snow is piling up now, she thought unhappily.
Just then, Mother opened the bedroom door. “Kathy, I know you’re terribly disappointed about the shawl, but how much do you have left to do on the lap robe?”
“I could never finish the lap robe by Christmas, Mother,” answered Kathy, trying hard to hold back the tears. “Oh why won’t it stop snowing!” she fumed.
“Darling, we can’t do anything about the snow,” said Mother patiently, “but we can do something about the lap robe. Let’s see how much you have left to do.”
Kathy got out her knitting bag and laid the unfinished lap robe and the loose knitted squares on the bed. “Mother,” she sighed, “I just can’t finish it. I don’t even have all the squares done. Christmas is just four days away and we have so many other things to do.”
“I think we have time,” said Mother.
“Time for what?” asked nine-year-old Becky, poking her head through the doorway.
“To finish Grandmother’s lap robe before Christmas,” answered Mother.
“I can help,” offered Becky. “I could knit a square for you. The coin purse I knitted last summer looked good, didn’t it, Mother? And I could do your share of the dishes so you’d have more time to knit.”
“Oh, Becky,” exclaimed Kathy, “you’re a dear! Thank you.”
“How many more squares do you need?” asked Mother.
“I’ll need ten more,” Kathy counted, “besides this half-finished one. Then the squares need to be sewn onto the others, and an edge crocheted. We might as well forget it!”
“Well, let’s see,” said Mother, ignoring Kathy’s last remark. “I could finish sewing the squares together. Becky could finish the square you’ve started and then help you with the new squares.”
So as soon as Grandmother went to bed that night, out came the yarn and needles.
Kathy knit.
Becky knit.
Mother sewed.
Clickety-clickety-clickety went the knitting needles.
Daddy said, “What’s going on? I never saw such busy fingers. I guess if I’m going to belong to this family I’ll have to get me some knitting needles too!”
Becky, Mother, and Kathy just smiled and kept on working and as each square was finished it disappeared into Mother’s bedroom to be added to the other squares.
The next evening all the squares were finished. While Kathy crocheted on the edge of the lap robe, Mother sewed the last square onto the other end, and Becky stood watch at the door so Grandmother wouldn’t suddenly pop in to see what was going on.
The next day Kathy crocheted every spare moment she had. She excused herself quickly from the table before anyone else was through with lunch. Grandmother commented, “My goodness, Kathy, you’ve been in such a hurry all day that you’ve barely taken time to eat.”
“Just finishing up a few odds and ends, Grandmother,” said Kathy with a smile. “There’s lots to do at the last minute.”
“Maybe I could help,” volunteered Grandmother.
“Thank you, Grandmother, but with Mother and Becky’s help I’m just about finished,” Kathy said, patting Grandmother’s cheek.
As Kathy left the room to go back to her crocheting, Becky winked at Mother and hurried to her room.
Just as the big hall clock struck five, Kathy’s bedroom door opened. “Almost through?” questioned Mother.
“Almost,” Kathy responded.
The next thing Kathy heard was, “Time for dinner. Are you going to make it?” said Daddy, popping his head into the room.
“Yes, I only have three inches to go.”
“Come and eat,” Dad said. “You’ll need some strength to finish those three inches.”
After dinner Kathy hurried back to her room. Soon the lacy edge was finished, the yarn cut and tied, and the lap robe spread smoothly on her bed.
Why it’s really pretty, thought Kathy in amazement. It looks like Grandmother’s flower garden. It’s almost as beautiful as the shawl!
Just then Mother and Becky came into Kathy’s room.
“It’s lovely!” exclaimed Mother.
“Gorgeous!” added Becky.
“And finished!” said Kathy.
“Hurry and get it wrapped,” said Becky. “It’s almost time for our Christmas Eve program and we need you to play for our carols.”
Once again Kathy looked out her bedroom window. During the day, fresh snow had fallen. It was a soft, sparkling snow that seemed to reflect the light of a thousand stars that twinkled in the faraway heavens.
Kathy thought for a moment of helpful little Becky who hated to do dishes, yet had done her own share and Kathy’s too for four days. She thought of Mother and Daddy—all so loving, so understanding, so helpful. Then, brimming with love and happiness, Kathy picked up Grandmother’s gift, wrapped it in bright Christmas paper, and hurried into the living room to join the family.

Elder Richards had grown up with a piano. In fact, he could never remember his home without one. It had been as permanent a fixture as the kitchen sink; and yet, the piano had always been Terry Richards’s curse. Even though the rest of the family had musical inclinations, he had rebelled against everything musical—especially the piano. However, his mother had insisted and he had been forced to practice the piano one hour each day. Until that daily payment was made, he was in his mother’s debt. There was no football, no movies, no TV, nothing until the piano received its due. His heart was seldom in the practices, but he put in his required time, banging out his version of music, which was often nothing more than a cacophony of reckless pounding.
When he turned 16, even his tenacious mother relented and relinquished her dream of making him a great pianist. The lessons were abandoned, and with some money he had saved, Terry celebrated his freedom by buying a portable stereo, declaring that any music he made from then on would come from the stereo and not the piano.
Now in Guaymas, lonely and somewhat dejected, he gently ran his fingers along the chipped and broken keyboard. A wan smile touched his lips. “It would take more than a pianist to get music out of you,” he whispered. He began to walk his fingers across the keys, listening to the sharp ping of the falling notes.
A worn hymnbook lay on one of the folding chairs. He reached for it and turned to “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” It was the first hymn he had ever learned to play. He studied the notes for a moment. When he was convinced he could, he sat down and began to play. His fingers were terribly awkward. The piano needed tuning, and several keys were broken. At times it was difficult to determine whether he or the piano was making the mistakes. But he labored through the hymn, once, twice. He played until the music, if not entirely melodious, was at least recognizable.
It was late when Elder Becket, Elder Richards’s new companion, and Elder Cole found him upstairs lying on their cot asleep.
The next morning as Elder Cole was preparing the sacrament and Elder Becket filled out a mission report, Elder Richards strolled to the old piano. “Who plays this old box?” he asked with a grin.
Elder Becket looked up and laughed. “That, Elder, isn’t just an old box. To the members here, it’s the most precious thing in Guaymas.”
“This?” Elder Richards asked with surprise. Elder Becket nodded. “Why? Did Cortez bring it over from Spain or something?”
“It’s a piano. There are a few of them in town, but you certainly don’t find them in every house for the kids to climb on and kick around. Some of the newer members haven’t even heard this one played, and none of the members have heard it played very well. An Elder Fisher, who could play a few hymns with one hand, was here about a year ago, a few months after they bought it. The members almost made him a saint. They made him play his hymns every Sunday. Finally he jokingly told the mission president he was going home if he had to play those hymns another time.”
“It’s seen better days,” Elder Richards commented. “It could sure use a tuning job.”
“You play?” Elder Becket asked.
Elder Richards laughed and shook his head. “I can make noise, pretty bad noise at that, but I don’t play. My mother thought I had musical talents, but after five years of lessons and no noticeable improvement, even she gave up.”
“If you had lessons for five years …”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“If you played that long, you can play as well as Elder Fisher.”
Just then President Perales and his family arrived and the piano was temporarily forgotten, but just before sacrament meeting, President Perales approached Elder Richards with a hymnbook and spoke, pointing to the piano. Grinning and shaking his head, Elder Richards said shyly, “No, no puedo … tocar.”
President Perales motioned for Elder Becket to come over. “Hermano Marcos said he heard you playing yesterday,” Elder Becket said.
“Yesterday?” he gasped. “I was just fooling around. I can’t play.”
“You sure impressed Hermano Marcos.”
“Elder, I haven’t played for over three years. Yesterday was the first time—I mean the very first time—I’ve even sat down to a piano for over three years. I was just …”
“Play what you were playing yesterday.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, but the protest was to no avail. With his face burning with embarrassment, Elder Richards retreated to the piano. Never had he played in front of a group. At home when the bishop had asked him to play in priesthood, he had adamantly refused.
When it came time for the first hymn, he huddled morosely on the piano chair and braced himself for the shame. Even had the piano been a good one, he would have battled to coax music from it. With his fingers trembling and his eyes frantically searching the keyboard, he began to grope through “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” He managed to get through all three verses, but it was torture for him. Later he played the sacrament hymn, and at the conclusion of the meeting he played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Sensing that all eyes were on him, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He wanted to race from the building and hide himself, and the thing that was so utterly frustrating was that he was forced to endure his shame in silence. There was absolutely no way he could explain in Spanish that it had been years since he had last played, that he had never learned properly in the first place, that this whole thing was a terrible mistake.
As soon as the benediction was said, he stood, planning to sneak from the room and hide from the members’ questioning stares, but before he took three steps a sister had him by the arm and was speaking to him, tears glistening in her eyes. The only words that had any meaning for him were her often repeated, “Muchisimas gracias!” Two more sisters approached and then a brother. Soon it seemed as though the entire branch crowded around him, many with tears in their eyes, each trying to shake his hand.
He saw Elder Becket and searched his face for an explanation. Elder Becket smiled and called, “They loved it. If the Church sainted people, you would be the first Mormon saint in Guaymas.”
“For what?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“For playing their piano.”
“That wasn’t playing. That wasn’t music.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing them. They want you to play again.”
“Now?”
“But I can’t. It’s been …”
“That might have worked back home, but not here. Look at them, Elder. They’re all but begging.”
Elder Richards was touched. He felt a twinge of shame, a gnawing guilt. Suddenly he wished he could play like his mother had always dreamed of him playing. He offered a silent prayer, pleading for help, not to shelter him from shame and embarrassment but to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands so that through his neglected talent he might give these special people the joy and satisfaction they sought.
It was almost an hour later before the last of the members left the building and Elder Richards made his way with his companions up to their room. “I can’t believe they could even listen to that, let alone enjoy it,” Elder Richards commented.
For a long while Elder Becket didn’t reply; then he shook his head and asked, “Where are you from, Elder?”
“Logan, Utah.”
“Have you ever been to a chapel that didn’t have a piano?” Elder Richards shook his head. “Well, most of these people have never heard the hymns played on a piano. The elders have taught them the melodies. Before today, when they sang “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” it was the way the elders had taught it. Not more than a handful of them have ever sung that hymn accompanied by a piano. “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” is a hymn that many of them have wanted to sing accompanied by a piano, but they’ve hardly dared hope that it was really possible.”
“I’m no musician,” Elder Richards said, “but I can hear the difference between noise and music.”
“Maybe two years ago I would have felt the same, but this morning that sounded pretty good, even to me.”
“Where did they get the old box anyway?”
“In Logan,” Elder Becket chided, “that’s an old box. Here it’s a treasure. They bought it from the Baptists. They had a special dinner to raise the money. Everybody donated food and then paid outlandish prices to eat it. All the money went for the piano. Someday, when the chapel’s built, they’ll have a new one, but right now they have to make do with that. The members are proud of their piano. Even though no one can play it and even though it might be out of tune, that’s one of the most important things in this whole building.”
“If it’s so important to them, why don’t they tune it?”
“No money. Right now they’re trying to raise money so they can start building their chapel. Every extra peso goes for that.”
The rest of the day, as Elder Richards followed his two companions, he couldn’t forget the old piano. When they returned to the building that night, it was late and Elder Richards was tired, but before going to bed he went down to the old piano and played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” The timing was off, and the notes didn’t come through as smoothly as they did when his sisters or mother played, but for the first time in his life he really tried to make music and not merely put in time.
The next day he wrote a short note to his mother: “Mom, I would appreciate it if you would sell my stereo and send me the money. Ted Roberts said he’d buy it if I ever wanted to sell. There’s this piano here that needs tuning, and the members don’t have the money to get the job done. I’d like to help them out. I figure I owe them something after wasting all those piano lessons. And, mom, thanks for making me practice the piano.”
When the letter was addressed and sealed, Elder Richards stood and started down the stairs to the chapel below. “Where are you going?” Elder Becket asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go down and beat on that old box. I mean, I figure that as long as I’m going to be the new branch pianist, I should give the members something they can be proud of, not just a lot of noise.”

Poor communication can ruin good relationships in a hurry. Let’s say Susan, a Laurel, is just coming home past her curfew. Her dad is waiting up for her.
Dad: Where have you been, Susan?
Susan: Don’t you trust me?
Dad: Your mom and I were worried.
Susan: I’m old enough to go out without you checking up on me all the time.
Dad: I don’t know if you should go to any more parties for a while if you can’t get home on time.
Susan: But Dad, I’m only a little late. You’re so unfair!
Susan then storms up to her room and slams the door. Obviously, not much family unity is being built in this situation.

Eegik Tuchiak felt the chill of the icy Alaskan wind through his parka as the snowmobile sped across the coastal plain. Even scrunching close behind his father in the seat ahead did not cut the cold very much.
Eegik was both happy and worried. This was the first time his father had taken him to count the musk-oxen. Other times he had been too young to be around the skittish animals. Am I old enough now if something happens? he wondered.
“Hold tight!” he heard his father, Ukak, call. “We will near the herd soon.”
The grind of the motor and the whistling wind were the only sounds to be heard along the Nunivak Island snow hills, polished hard by the constant wind. The crusty white surface gave a dusky light to the short winter days.
“There they are!” Father shouted.
Gradually the engine slowed and the snowmobile slid to a stop. “We will keep the motor running, son,” Ukak said, picking up his rifle. “It will freeze if we don’t.”
Eegik hopped off the machine and peered before him. Ahead, a small musk-ox herd was bunched up against a low sea cliff. Already they were forming their defensive line heads out, backsides together in a rough circle. With heads lowered and rows of horns facing the danger, the animals scuffed the ground nervously. Long brown fur swayed in the wind.
“They look like fur rugs,” Eegik remarked.
“Yes,” his father answered, “and the giviut [wool] makes warm sweaters. But,” he added, “they are good fighters, too, when there is no way out. See the horns curling down from the tops of their heads like stiff wigs? We will get closer. The oomingmuk [bearded] ones hide their young behind them.”
Eegik felt a deep pride in his father, who had been schooled by the government. Now he was hired by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game to keep an eye on the growing musk-ox herd, one of the hardiest animals in the world. Today he had to check on the population of the herd and count them.
Slowly and quietly the two left the machine and crawled over the snow, watching the herd skitter at the movement. One bull lowered and shook his head, taking short stamping steps forward and backward. Sensing his restlessness, the other animals jostled together and tightened the ring. Eegik could see one small head push forward, a young one anxious to do battle if necessary.
“They run swiftly,” Ukak whispered. “We must not frighten them.”
The two inched forward, sliding over the ice several yards apart, until they were within city yards of the herd. The lead bull, confused and frightened, danced excitedly in his position.
Suddenly, the bull gave a snort and charged forward with the speed of a much lighter animal. Ukak leaped up his rifle flying and tried to dodge as the animal attacked. But the musk-ox was more sure on his feet and swerved to the side, throwing Eegik’s father to the ice.
Without thinking, Eegik shouted his surprise and fell on his stomach. At the outburst, the frightened musk-oxen broke their ring, skittered excitedly, and clattered off in a wild rush.
His heart pounding, Eegik scrambled to his feet and hurried to his father, who lay sprawled on the ice.
“Father!” he cried, pushing at his parka. “Father, are you all right?”
Ukak opened his eyes and tried to rise. A shudder went through him. “My wrist … ,” he said, painfully. “I think it’s broken. Are the oomingmuk gone?”
Eegik nodded. “Can you walk, Father?” he asked.
“We should make my arm straight,” Ukak said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“But there are no sticks,” Eegik answered.
His thoughts racing, Eegik looked around, trying to find something straight and hard. But the barren arctic desert covered now by the ice held no useful object.
Then Eegik spotted the gun a few feet away. “The rifle, Father!” he cried. “We can use the rifle.”
“My son,” Ukak said, nodding, “it is a good idea.”
With his mittened hands, Eegik lifted the gun and emptied the chamber of bullets. Gently, he slid the barrel up his father’s sleeve to the elbow and wrapped the injured arm with the leather ties from his parka.
“There!” he finally said, leaning back to look at his handiwork. “That will help until we get home.”
Ukak smiled. “It is feeling better already,” he said.
With Eegik helping, the two made their way to the waiting snowmobile.
“You will have to drive,” Ukak said, holding the rifle butt with his good hand.
“I can,” the boy replied.
Eegik helped his father onto the seat, eased in front, and started off with the machine.
The journey back was slow, Eegik being careful to keep the ride as smooth as possible. Within an hour, they entered Mekoryuk and drove to their home.
At the sound of their approach, Eegik’s mother opened the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw that Eegik was in the driver’s seat.
“The oomingmuk did not like our visit,” Father answered, cradling his arm as he eased himself from the machine. “I might still be there, but for Eegik. I’m glad I took our son along.”
Eegik lifted his chin. He had wondered if he were old enough to help his father check on the skittish musk-oxen. Now he knew that he was.

When I was in graduate school, to help make ends meet, I took a job flying with the Naval Reserve. Occasionally we were asked to furnish services for exercises with the North American Air Defense Command. We would fly off to some place like Tonopah, Nevada, then turn around and try to make a simulated bombing run on San Francisco before the defense command could get F-106s from a nearby Air Force base up for a simulated rocket run on us. Our job was to see if we could penetrate the air defenses. We did everything we could do to foul up their system.
One time when we were heading for San Francisco, we switched our radios over to what we knew would be the operating frequency of the F-106s. Soon an eager young voice came over on the radio channel and said, “Torchy, Torchy! This is Lover Boy Two. Airborne, standing by.” At that time Torchy was the code name for the radar site on the north side of Mount Tamalpais. Lover Boy Two was the code name for the first F-106 that was airborne, and he wanted instructions.
We came up on the air and told him, “Lover Boy Two, this is Torchy. Angels, Three zero zero”—which means climb to 30,000 feet headed straight west. In just a few more minutes a third voice (the legitimate voice from the radar station) came on the frequency and cried out, “Lover Boy Two! Lover Boy Two! This is Torchy! Reverse course! Reverse course!”
Well, that pilot wasn’t going to be fooled. He was going to stick with that nice friendly voice that had been talking to him from the ground up. So he ignored the second voice and pressed on, heading straight west. Keeping in communication with the pilot, we ran several simulated rocket attacks out over the Pacific, but he never did see them, because they (we) were really 500 miles the other direction.
When we landed and filled out reports, we added, “Ha, ha! Look how we fooled you!” The point was that Lover Boy Two was getting all the advice he could ask for, from a voice that sounded friendly. The problem was, the advice didn’t come from somebody who had his best interests at heart. So we all have to decide whom we are going to listen to in life, because sometimes bad advice will come from friends or someone who sounds like a friend.

Like all homecomings, mine was bittersweet. I spent two years as a missionary for the Church in the Scotland/Ireland Mission, speaking Mandarin Chinese. The call was unique, and not a day went by that wasn’t similarly special. My mission took me to soaring heights, but also to lows I never thought I’d experience. It filled my life with a wide range of color and emotion I hadn’t thought possible, things I figured were exclusive for other people, but not for me. It felt like I’d spent my whole life playing a video game, and suddenly I’d been dropped straight into it for real.

The day I arrived in the mission field, I found a question staring me in the face everywhere I looked: Why did you come? Companions, the mission president, and ward members all asked us why we came on a mission. I had a good, general response to it. But, for whatever reason, maybe because I repeated it so much, those words began to sound hollow. So, I began to question, and one day, not too long into my mission, I woke up with the scary realization that I honestly had no idea why I had come.

Serving a mission had always been in my future. It was something I’d planned on and even enthusiastically looked forward to for my entire life. And yet somehow I didn’t understand fully what a mission would entail. I’d have to talk to people? Teach them? Why did something so basic come as such a shock to me? Was I really prepared for this? How did I get here? Why had I come?

It wasn’t until a few months later I was posed a different question, which put everything into perspective.
“Why do you stay?”

That was a more immediate question, so it required a more immediate answer. Rather than looking deep into the past for a reason I wasn’t sure was there, I could look at myself in the here and now and decide. Why did I stay today? Why would I stay tomorrow? Well, for one thing, I couldn’t well give up on something I’d just started. The work was anything but comfortable, but I didn’t feel so out of place as I sometimes had back home. I knew I was accomplishing something, even if I wasn’t sure what it was. But there was something more than that. As I pondered, I realized that throughout all of the ups and downs and lefts and rights, the highs and lows and every shade of color you can imagine, there was one thing underpinning it all. It was the grace of Jesus Christ.

That is why I went on my mission, and why I stayed; nothing else has taught me so much of the Savior and allowed me so much unfettered access to His divine power and love. Christ is real. He lives, He loves each of us, and He is with us in ways we cannot even imagine. Trust in Him, hold fast to His teachings, live by His words, and even in the darkest of night, life will carry a special glimmer that you cannot find anywhere else. That is so necessary in missionary life, but oh so much more vital in our daily lives.

I learned a great lesson from my father about priesthood authority and power.
I grew up in a home with a faithful mother and a wonderful father. My dad was not a member of our Church but still came to Church meetings with our family. He coached our ward softball team and helped with Scout activities.
As a boy I asked my dad many times each week when he was going to be baptized. My father replied each time, “David, I will join the Church when I know it’s the right thing to do.”
One Sunday I asked my dad when he was going to be baptized. He just smiled and asked me a question. “David, your church teaches that the priesthood was taken from the earth anciently and has been restored by heavenly messengers. If your church truly has the restored priesthood of God, then why are so many of the men in your church no different about doing their priesthood duty than the men in my church?”
My mind went blank. I had no answer for my dad.
I knew that men who hold the priesthood should act differently than other men. Priesthood holders should not only receive priesthood authority but also be faithful and worthy to exercise God’s power.
I decided I never wanted to be a poor example to my father. I simply wanted to be a good boy. The Lord needs all of us who hold the priesthood to be honorable, virtuous, and good boys at all times and in all places.
A number of years later, my father was baptized. I had the opportunity to confer upon him the Aaronic and the Melchizedek Priesthoods. One of the great experiences of my life was seeing my dad receive the authority and qualify for the power of the priesthood.

At school there was a girl with a disability. Most people used that as an extra excuse to make fun of her. My friend and I were the only ones who tried to help her. Some days it seemed like the whole class teamed up against her. It was challenging to know how to react. I wanted to just walk away, but I chose to remember that she is a child of God and to think about how Jesus would treat her. I felt the calming effect of the Holy Ghost. I remembered that I could make a difference. Following the Savior’s example helped me a lot, and I knew everything would be OK.
In my baptismal covenants I am promised to always have the Holy Ghost with me if I act as the Savior would. I’m grateful to have felt that comfort and strength from the Holy Ghost.
Alexis L., 13, Kansas, USA

February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

Another story of priesthood service was told a month ago in a ward sacrament meeting. Again, I was there. In this case, the seasoned Melchizedek Priesthood holder didn’t know as he spoke that he was describing exactly what the Lord desires to happen with strengthened priesthood quorums. Here is the gist of his account:
He and a home teaching companion were assigned to serve seven families. Almost all of them did not want visits. When the home teachers went to their apartments, they refused to answer the door. When they telephoned, they did not get an answer. When they left a message, the call was not returned. This senior companion finally resorted to a letter-writing ministry. He even began to use bright yellow envelopes in the hope of getting a response.
One of the seven families was a less-active single sister who had emigrated from Europe. She had two young children.
After many attempts to contact her, he received a text message. She abruptly informed him that she was too busy to meet with home teachers. She had two jobs and was in the military as well. Her primary job was that of a police officer, and her career goal was to become a detective and then return to her native country and continue her work there.
The home teacher never was able to visit with her in her home. He periodically texted her. Every month he sent a handwritten letter, supplemented with holiday cards for each child.
He received no response. But she knew who her home teachers were, how to contact them, and that they would persist in their priesthood service.
Then one day he received an urgent text from her. She desperately needed help. She did not know who the bishop was, but she did know her home teachers.
In a few days, she had to leave the state for a monthlong military training exercise. She could not take her children with her. Her mother, who was going to care for her children, had just flown to Europe to care for her husband, who had a medical emergency.
This less-active single sister had enough money to buy a ticket to Europe for her youngest child but not for her 12-year-old son, Eric. She asked her home teacher if he could find a good LDS family to take Eric into their home for the next 30 days!
The home teacher texted back that he would do his best. He then contacted his priesthood leaders. The bishop, who was the presiding high priest, gave him approval to approach members of the ward council, including the Relief Society president.
The Relief Society president quickly found four good LDS families, with children about Eric’s age, who would take him into their homes for a week at a time. Over the next month, these families fed Eric, found room for him in their already crowded apartments or small homes, took him on their previously planned summer family activities, brought him to church, included him in their family home evenings, and on and on.
The families with boys Eric’s age included him in their deacons quorum meetings and activities. During this 30-day period, Eric was in church every Sunday for the first time in his life.
After his mother came home from her training, Eric continued to attend church, usually with one of these four volunteer LDS families or others who had befriended him, including his mother’s visiting teachers. In time, he was ordained a deacon and began passing the sacrament regularly.
Now let us look into Eric’s future. We will not be surprised if he becomes a leader in the Church in his mother’s home country when his family returns there—all because of Saints who worked together in unity, under the direction of a bishop, to serve out of charity in their hearts and with the power of the Holy Ghost.

In the jungles of Indonesia dwells a tiny member of the deer family called a mouse deer. Its Indonesian name is Kancil (CAN-chill). Because it is so tiny—no higher than two or three feet—and because it provides a delicious snack for such jungle inhabitants as the tiger, crocodile, or panther, it has to rely on its intelligence to outsmart these large predators in order to survive.
One afternoon while ambling down a jungle trail to the river Ciliwong (CHEE-lee-wong) to quench her thirst, Kancil overheard two crocodiles talking quietly together.
“Wait here, my darling,” Buaya (crocodile) whispered with clacking jaws. “When Kancil comes down to drink, I’ll grab her and we’ll share a tender snack. Just wait and see how I trick her.”
Buaya’s girl friend floated on the Ciliwong, her beady eyes and nostrils barely above the water. She was terribly hungry and could hardly wait for her snack.
Buaya waddled up onto the shore, tucked his feet under him, and hid his long tale-telling snout with the razor-sharp teeth underneath a pile of rotting leaves. He was sure he looked like a fallen tree trunk.
No sooner was he settled than Kancil stepped daintily into view, her large eyes rolling from left to right, her short tail trembling nervously.
Buaya’s mouth watered, and he worked even harder at looking like an uprooted tree.
“Oh, my!” Kancil called out loud. “That tree must have fallen down during the night. It wasn’t here yesterday!”
“Let’s see now …” Kancil said, pondering. “If you really are a dead tree, turn around. But if you are a crocodile, lie still!”
At her first words Buaya started to move, then he realized his mistake. Too late! Kancil quickly retreated into the jungle, while Buaya’s girl friend laughed. “Fooled by a dumb mouse deer,” she sneered. “I’m going to find myself another boyfriend!” She dived into the river and Buaya never saw her again.

This story happened in Taiwan.
Melanie ran as fast as she could across the school play yard. Three of her classmates were just a few steps ahead of her. They were almost to the line that marked the “safe area.”
She stretched her arm out. She pushed her legs harder. Finally, she tagged two of them just in time!
“Got you!” Melanie said. Her friends laughed as they collapsed to the ground.
“You’re fast,” Jia said as she breathed in and out.
Melanie had almost tagged Jonny too. But she just missed him.
Jonny pointed at her and laughed. “Too slow!” Then he called her a name.
Melanie frowned. Jonny was mean to her a lot! She didn’t like it.
After school, Melanie sat at the kitchen table. She worked on her homework with her older sister. But she couldn’t stop thinking about what Jonny said.
“Liv, what do you do when someone is mean to you?” Melanie asked.
Liv looked at her. “Was someone mean to you?”
Melanie nodded. “A boy at school. He teases me all the time!”
Liv put her pencil down. “That’s really hard. I’m sorry.” She leaned back and folded her arms. “Maybe you could do something nice for him.”
Melanie scrunched up her nose. “Something nice?” That didn’t sound very fun.
“Yeah!” Liv nodded. “If you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll be nice back. Have you tried that?”
Melanie shook her head. She wasn’t so sure about this idea. Why would she be nice to someone who was mean?
That night, Melanie said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, please bless that Jonny will be nicer to me.” She paused. She thought again about what Liv said. “And please help me find a way to be nice to him too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
But what nice thing could she do?
A few days later, Melanie’s class went on a hike together. There were lots of big green trees and cool streams on the trail.
When it was time for a break and lunch, Melanie ate with her friends. Then she noticed Jonny sitting under a tree. He was alone. Maybe I can share my treat with him, she thought.
Melanie walked to Jonny and sat down. “Hi, Jonny.”
Jonny looked up at her. “Hi.”
“Do you want a cookie?” she asked.
She handed one of her cookies to Jonny. He took it and smiled. “Thanks.”
“Did you like our hike?” she asked.
“Yeah. The bridge we crossed was awesome.” He bit into the cookie. “Mmm. This is really good.”
“Thanks! I made them with my mom and sister.”
Melanie and Jonny finished their lunch together. They talked about a card game they both liked. Jonny was actually pretty funny. They laughed a lot. Melanie liked this much better than when he teased her.
“Do you want to play a game?” Jonny asked as they followed everyone else down the hiking trail.
Melanie nodded and smiled. “Sure!”
They took turns hopping between rocks during the rest of the hike. Melanie had a lot of fun. When the hike was over and it was time to go home, she was sad to say goodbye.
“Let’s play that card game next week,” Jonny said.
Melanie nodded. “OK! Bye, Jonny!”
Melanie waved goodbye and smiled. Jonny wasn’t the boy who teased her anymore. Now, he was her friend.
Illustrations by Skylar White

Young men in Uganda start playing football as small boys, using tightly bound branches for a ball. Ever since he was very young, Dennis had a gift for the sport, and his high school gave him a scholarship to play for their team. After he completed high school, a professional team offered him pay, room, and board. It was a dream come true, but Dennis knew this would likely interfere with his plans to go on a mission later in the year.
Dennis’s desire to do what his Heavenly Father wanted him to do was so strong that he did not even want to be tempted to remain on the team when the time would arrive for him to serve a mission. Many people questioned his choice, but Dennis is certain he made the right decision—for himself and others. “My two little brothers and my little sister were just baptized,” he says. “I never thought my sister would hear the gospel. When I see God doing miracles in my family, it gives me a bright hope for my future.”

Curt’s record is impressive, too. He placed second in the wheelchair division in April 1977 and again in 1978 at the Boston Marathon in Massachusetts. He completed the 26-mile, 385-yard race in two hours, 34 minutes, and 15 seconds. That’s right! Over 26 miles!

The Boston Marathon is the biggest and oldest race in the U.S. This is it’s 83rd year, and only the top athletes are selected to participate. This year there were 20 wheelchair competitors racing in temperatures below 40° Fahrenheit. Five of the athletes had to be hospitalized for a brief period after the race for hypothermia. Curt says, “After the first mile of soaring downhill, each wheelchair contestant was covered with mud and water from the chairs in front.” He also explains that wheelchair marathoners have more problems than regular runners because their circulation is poorer.
The wheelchair winner of the Boston Marathon this year was Ken Archer, a Mormon from Akron, Ohio. Curt says: “Ken is one of the greatest fellows I’ll ever meet. When he won, he came across the finish line with his hands raised in triumph and his head bowed in humility.”
In 1977 Curt placed in every event in Denver, taking two first places in the 100-yard dash and the mile push. In San Diego he placed either second or third in five events. At San Jose, he took first in the 100 meters, breaking the world record. He also placed third in lawn bowling and discus and fourth in shotput.
The same year, Curt placed first in the wheelchair division at both the Deseret News Marathon in Salt Lake and the Pioneer Marathon in St. George, Utah. In 1978 he took first in the New York City Marathon and now holds the national record in the 1500-meter run.
Curt was voted Most Outstanding Athlete in 1978 and 1979 at the Denver Rocky Mountain Regional.

Both Mike and Curt are also involved in their careers. Mike has counseled at the State Hospital in Provo, worked as a draftsman for the Bureau of Reclamation, and is now majoring in health sciences at BYU. His goal is to coach college basketball.
Curt has gained experiences in various jobs. He was a resident assistant at Ricks College, an insurance salesman, a desk clerk at a motel, a switchboard operator, and an insurance clerk for a hospital. Now he works at Handicapped Awareness, Inc. in Provo. He graduated with a B.S. degree in psychology from BYU in 1978 and is in the process of getting his masters in rehabilitation administration.
Church activities form another part of their lives. Mike works with the Explorers in the Alpine Fourth Ward, Alpine Utah Stake. He and a couple of other members in the stake took the Explorers to the National Explorer Olympics at Fort Collins, Colorado, for a week in August 1978. Mike coached basketball and helped coach volleyball during the Olympics. Mike says some of the Explorers in his ward like to double date with Jan and him.
Curt and Bonnie are members of the Provo West Stake, Sunset Third Ward. Curt was the elders quorum president in a previous ward and is now the first counselor in the quorum presidency. Bonnie has served as a Relief Society president. Now she is the first counselor in the Young Women organization.
Service is another important part of their lives. To earn money for a specially equipped bus for the handicapped in Utah County, Mike and Curt earned pledges and then wheeled 115 miles around Utah Lake in 16 hours. As a sidelight they shattered the world record which was 108 miles in eight days.
In May of 1978, Curt wheeled 284 miles from Cedar City, Utah, to Salt Lake City in five days, raising nearly twelve thousand dollars in pledges for Easter Seals.
Both athletes have spoken to large groups on a number of occasions. Mike addressed the Orem High School student body during their Freedom Week. He told the students they could go as far up as they want to in life, or they could stand still and not progress at all. Mike says, “The choice is theirs. We live in a country with that freedom. The degree of excellence we attain depends mainly on how willing we are to work.”
Last July, Curt was the keynote speaker during the National Olympic Academy at BYU. He has spoken across the United States at meets and says: “I’ve really seen a lot of the country. If I’ve impressed just a few people the way that I’ve been impressed by others, then it’s been a blessing to be in a wheelchair.”
Curt says traveling has also provided an opportunity for missionary work. He was invited to a party in Boston for 50 top athletes. When asked why he wouldn’t drink, he had the opportunity to share the gospel.
Curt finds it interesting that people are so concerned about what to do and say when they meet a handicapped person. He says that usually it’s what people don’t say that hurts. For example, when a child runs up and asks why he doesn’t have any legs, Curt wishes the parents would let him answer the question rather than hushing the child and rushing off. He explains, “The child grows up feeling he shouldn’t associate with the handicapped, and that’s not good for either one.”
Mike has some advice of his own, and he says it applies to everyone, whether they’re handicapped or not. First, he says, he doesn’t like quitters. Then he adds: “Don’t be afraid to try things you think you might not be able to do. Whatever you want, go after it one hundred and ten percent. Whether your goals concern work, church, school, jobs, marriage, or whatever, just don’t, don’t, don’t ever quit!”

When I was a young mother, I found a recipe in the April 1980 Friend for Bunny Buns. They looked fun to make, so I tried them. This recipe has become a part of our Easter tradition in our family. I am the oldest of 11 children, and we have all made this recipe almost every Easter for the last 30 years. The recipe has traveled to places like India, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, and Venezuela as family members have served missions. Thank you for not only feeding us spiritually over the years with the wonderful Friend, but for feeding our physical appetites as well.

As a youth he decided early to read the scriptures. According to his sister Edith, he had read the Book of Mormon twice by the time he was ten.

“When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood,” President Smith remembered, “my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind, and I have never forgotten them.”

We know that many wards lately have staged service projects featuring cemetery cleanups, but youth in the Goldsboro North Carolina Stake added another dimension: a historical visitor from the past.

After the youth weeded, hoed, mowed, scrubbed, and cleaned, Brother Allen Holloman, dressed in a Civil War uniform, appeared beside the tombstone of his great-great-grandfather and talked about the hardships that were faced during the war.

“Billy! Time to get up, or you’ll be late for school,” called Mother.
Billy Burke snuggled farther down under the warm quilt and wished that he didn’t have to get up. It was raining, and rainy days are nice times to burrow down in bed and sleep.
“Billy, do you hear me? I don’t want to have to come up there and get you. Hurry now, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m coming.”
Billy knew his mother didn’t want him to be late for school, but his horse, Brownie, could be depended on to get him there before the bell rang.
Living seven miles out in the country was fun most of the time. However, it meant that he had to get up earlier in the morning than the other kids and that he didn’t have as much time to play after school. He had his own horse to ride, though, and Billy thought he was about the luckiest ten-year-old boy in the county.
While Mrs. Burke piled hotcakes onto Billy’s plate, she said, “I want you to start early this morning because of the rain.”
Billy couldn’t understand why his mother never liked the rain when there was so little of it in this dry land. Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast quickly and went outside to the barn. Brownie stood in his stall, hunched against the chilly dampness. When Billy tried to put the saddle on Brownie, the horse shied away. “Stand still, Brownie. Do you want us to be late for school?”
Brownie usually liked the walk to school and the attention he got from the other children. Sometimes someone would bring him an apple or some carrots. But Brownie was behaving in a most peculiar way this morning.
“I know what’s the matter with you—you’re afraid the rain’ll make you rust, aren’t you? Well, it won’t,” Billy said as he tightened the cinch. As Billy rode out of the yard, he gave a quick wave to his mother.
The road followed the river up a narrow, steep canyon for the first two of the seven miles to town. There was no place to go in case of trouble except up the canyon walls—and that was where Brownie was going now!
“Brownie! Have you gone loco? Stay on the road.”
The usually obedient horse had a mind of his own this morning. Laying back his ears, he kept trying to climb the steep canyon wall, slipping and sliding on the loose stones. Billy did something that he had seldom done before—he smacked the little horse on the rump with the ends of the reins.
Ignoring Billy’s irritation, Brownie continued to scramble up the steep slope. The rain had seeped into the ground enough so that it was very difficult for the horse to keep his footing. Gooey mud tugged at his hooves, and the rocks were bruising his legs, but he kept struggling upward.
“Brownie! Please! I have to get to school. You know Mrs. Thompson gets cross if anyone is late. Now, come on. Please!”
Brownie slipped and went to his knees, then regained his footing and climbed frantically toward the top of the canyon walls.
Billy was getting scared. Brownie had never acted this way before. Realizing that he could not make the horse go back down to the road, Billy let the horse have his way. Once on the brow of the hill, Brownie headed straight home.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Mother asked.
“Brownie had other ideas, Mother. I couldn’t make him stay on the road.”
“Something must be wrong. Brownie never behaved that way before, and he’s trembling,” Mother said as she stroked Brownie’s neck. “Billy, why don’t you go inside, put some dry clothes on, and have a cup of cocoa. I’ll take care of Brownie.”
Suddenly, with a roar that shook the earth, a torrent of water surged down the river and through the canyon. It moved boulders as if they were pebbles, and great fingers of water reached out and grabbed trees and brush, devouring them in huge, gluttonous bites.
Billy turned and shouted above the roar, “Mother, what’s happening?”
“The river is flooding. There must have been a cloudburst in the mountains, and it’s just now reaching here. The farther it goes, the faster and more furiously it rages. You’d never have made it to school if Brownie had stayed in the canyon!” Mother declared.
Later, after Billy and his mother had thanked Heavenly Father for their safety, Billy helped her peel apples in the warm, cheerful kitchen.
“Well, now, apple pie sounds good on a cold, wet day like this, doesn’t it?” Mother asked.
“It sure does,” Billy answered as he went out the kitchen door with a bowlful of apple peelings. “And this ‘apple pie’ is for the smartest and bravest horse that ever set foot on this earth!”

To illustrate, one of our daughters told me a story about going to a school dance. She waited until I was distracted with company, then, when I wasn’t looking, she changed and hurried off in a skirt she knew I wouldn’t like. At one point during the evening boys started paying attention to her, and she remembers vividly how it made her feel. It wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted after all. At that moment she decided to get rid of that outfit. Her experience and the consequences with clothing helped her learn an important lesson about agency and obedience, and she was able to invite more of the Light of Christ into her life.

As a family, we decided that temple and family history work would be a major part of our married life. We have now completed thousands of ordinances for our kindred dead, including hundreds of Samoan names, which we had learned were very hard to find because of the lack of recorded history. However, my husband Sosene Faleofe “Fe” persisted and spent many hours and days in the family history centre reading microfilms of old documents. After much effort, he was able to process the names found and link them to his family lines. When we took those names to the temple each month, it was exciting to know that we were binding our families together forever.