Gospel Story Finder

My wife practiced law for over 20 years. As an attorney, she often worked with others who explicitly advocated opposing views. But she learned to disagree without being rude or angry. She might say to opposing counsel, “I can see we are not going to agree on this issue. I like you. I respect your opinion. I hope you can offer me the same courtesy.” Often this allowed for mutual respect and even friendship despite differences.

When we arrived at our missionary apartment that evening, my companion went in before me and slammed the door. I parked our bikes and went in after him. Our voices became loud and harsh as we argued about the events of the day. He, an American, claimed that we didn’t get along because I, a Filipino, was prejudiced against him. That wasn’t true, and his saying it only made me angrier. He stormed into the kitchen. I went into the other room. Silence reigned after that, but the fire of our anger still raged.
I sat in one corner of the room, crouched like a child, wanting to cry or shout—I wasn’t sure which. I felt empty and afraid, as if I were driving on a dark, winding road without headlights. Everything we had done that day—teaching discussions, playing with children, talking with investigators—seemed like a charade. When we had taught a discussion about living a Christlike life, I felt tormented inside: How could my companion and I teach about Christlike love when we had built a wall of hostility between us?
In the darkness of the room, I remembered the words of my stake president when he set me apart as a full-time missionary. He had said that I would have many trials on my mission and that some would appear insurmountable. He also spoke of two “Goliaths” that I would have to face—weaknesses in myself and problems with my companion. He then promised, “The power within you is greater than the obstacles in front of you.”
However, I didn’t feel ready to face my Goliaths; I wished instead for a transfer. I had thought companionship problems would be easy to resolve, but this was more like sailing in a raging tempest. I knew I needed to turn to my Heavenly Father for help, so I knelt to pray. I struggled because I did not feel worthy to talk to him. I couldn’t do anything but cry.
I sat in silence until, through my tears, I noticed the scriptures on the ironing board. I opened them and looked through them until I came to this verse: “First, be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift” (Matt. 5:24). I knew this was the answer that I had been seeking. I felt the still, small voice tell me to make reconciliation with my companion. I also knew that Heavenly Father would help remove the wall of hatred between my companion and me.
With this assurance, I went to talk to my companion. I was surprised when he broke the silence first: “It was my fault, Elder. I’m sorry.”
I grabbed my chair and sat beside him. “No, no, no,” I insisted. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry, too, because I wasn’t able to hold my temper.”
He smiled and said, “Do you know that Satan wants to destroy our friendship and to stop this sacred work? And do you know that it is past our bedtime?” He laughed, then gave me a big hug.
After that, we knelt down together in prayer and felt the Spirit of the Lord heal our friendship.
I hardly slept that night, for joy. I was surprised to see the darkness fade as sunlight crept into our room. I opened the window so the light could enter freely. From where I stood, I could see the silhouettes of the coconut trees, the nipa huts, and the mountains. At that moment, I felt a desire to share the light of the gospel with the entire world.

For example, when my daughter was 18, she would not go to bed and insisted on leaving her light on all night. She would get very angry and say, “I don’t want to go to bed because there are missionaries hiding in my dresser drawer.” I recognized this as clearly delusional.
Rather than being angry, I tried to understand. What would cause her to be so frightened? As I thought about it, I realized that many of her friends were getting married. She had attended bridal parties where they had received beautiful things they would put in their dresser drawers. They were getting married, leaving her, and were no longer available as her friends. She also longed to have those same experiences and had expressed concerns: “Will I ever marry? Will anyone ever love me? Will anyone ever give me a bridal party and beautiful things?” Her friends had married returned missionaries. She could see that returned missionaries were great husbands. Somehow, all of this went together. She was also poignantly and painfully aware that she lacked the skills and the ability to manage the demands of a marriage. She was unable to verbally express those conflicts or even fully understand them, so all we heard was a delusion about missionaries hiding in the drawer. Once I began to understand her inner experience, I was able to talk it through with her. We worked together to verbalize her conflicts and grieve the sorrow of not being able to marry. The problem behavior stopped, and she was able to sleep peacefully.

I then turned to a brother on my left and said, “My hero is Jim Newton and his wife, Helen.” Shortly after Jim and Helen’s son Zach received his mission call to Peru, he was taken in an automobile accident. When I heard of the accident, I rushed to the hospital, hoping to hear that Zach was alive and would recover. The parents, in a most dignified and peaceful manner, explained that Zach would now be serving his mission on the other side of the veil. As I witnessed the calm resolve of these two strong parents, I realized that through the pain and anguish there was a peace that could come only through a deep and abiding faith in a loving Father and an atoning Savior. My faith was strengthened, and through their inspiration my resolve to follow their example in meeting similar trials and tragedies was reaffirmed.

One day, my friends and I bought drinks for lunch. My friends bought iced tea, and I bought juice. Noticing this, they started calling me the odd one out. But I felt good that I didn’t give into the temptation to let down my standards. Now, my friends respect me for standing up for what I believe. I’m thankful for the Word of Wisdom that helps me keep my body strong and healthy.
Alejandria F., 18, Philippines

When I was about six years old, I had an adventure I’ll never forget. Mom and Dad decided to raise chickens and sell the eggs to earn money. Every day Mom or Dad would take me to the chicken coop to gather eggs. One day Mom needed my help.
“Bobby, I need two eggs for a cake I’m making,” Mom said. “I know we already gathered the eggs today, but do you think you could go and find two more for me?”
“I will, Mom,” I said. “I’ll find those eggs for you.”
This was the first time I had searched for eggs by myself. It made me feel important. Off I went to begin my search. I went inside the chicken coop, first looking in all the corners because that’s where Dad usually found eggs. But there weren’t any. I peered into a nesting box—there was an egg! I was reaching for it when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rooster enter the chicken coop. My throat went dry. In my excitement to gather eggs, I had forgotten about the roosters.
We had big white roosters that didn’t like people. They would chase us and peck us with their sharp beaks. Usually Dad or Mom was with me and would chase them away. But now no one was there to help me.
“Stay there, rooster. Just stay there,” I muttered under my breath as I backed toward the door, keeping my eyes on the rooster. I carefully moved past the rooster until I got to the doorway. The rooster’s bright eyes watched me, but I thought I could get away by backing out and running to the house.
I turned, and outside I saw two other roosters facing me. I was surrounded! If I went back in, the two would follow me. If I tried to run, they would all chase and attack me. I didn’t know what to do. Tears filled my eyes. No one was around to help me—except Heavenly Father.
Mom always said if I needed help, I should kneel and pray and Heavenly Father would be there. Even though the roosters were surrounding me, even though they were coming closer, I dropped to my knees. Trembling, I began to pray.
“Heavenly Father, please help me get away from these roosters. Don’t let them peck me. Please make the roosters go away.”
I ended my prayer, wiped my tears, and slowly got to my feet. As soon as I stood up, a sound came from my mouth: “Putt putt putt … putt putt putt,” like the sound a tractor makes. It surprised me. The roosters stopped, looked startled, and suddenly turned their tails toward me and ran away.
I hadn’t thought to make the sound myself. I knew the Holy Ghost had put the idea into my mind. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. I was safe. I quickly gathered two eggs and then hurried to the house to tell Mom what had happened. She was proud of me for remembering to pray when I needed help.
I was happy that I could help Mom with an important job, and I was even happier to know that Heavenly Father is always near and will always hear and answer our prayers.

One sister, who for many years resented her father for the way she was reared, realized her attitude needed to change. “As I read what the Savior and our prophets have said about changing our hearts, it dawned on me that my hard heart was not hurting my father, but it was affecting every aspect of my life—especially my relationship with my Heavenly Father.”

For nearly two years she prayed and fasted for this change. Then one evening while attending a meeting focused on parenting, she remembers, “My soul filled with love for my dad, and I couldn’t contain it.” After the meeting, she and her husband drove to her father’s home. “I rang the doorbell. When the door opened I saw a very angry man, and my father slammed the door. I rang again. He finally let me in, but only because I wouldn’t leave.

“I had no idea what I was going to say; I assumed it would be something like, ‘I forgive you for not being a very good dad.’ But I had it all wrong. As we sat together, I took his hand in mine, looked into his eyes, and said, ‘I want you to know I love you, and I am so glad you are my dad.’ The miracle was that I actually meant what I said! My anger and hurt had turned to love.

“Many years later, my love for my father has only grown. His personality didn’t change, but a loving Heavenly Father healed my heart. I felt the pure love of Christ.”

While my father attended LDS High School, he worked and lived in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He wrote in his life history about President Smith:
“Most great men that I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Each common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was a prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
My father tells of one experience in which the prophet taught him a practical lesson late one night as he entered the Beehive House. Again quoting from my father’s life history:
“I walked with guarded steps through the office, then into the private study to the door at the foot of the steps that led to my bedroom. But the door would not open. I pushed and I pushed to no avail. Finally I gave up and went back to a rug that I had noticed in the hall with the intention of sleeping there until morning.
“In the darkness I bumped against another partially opened door and the collision awakened the prophet. He turned on the light and, seeing who it was, came down the stairway and inquired concerning my difficulty.
“‘The door is locked that leads to my room,’ I explained. He went to the door and pulled instead of pushed, and the door opened. Had he been disturbed by my foolish blunder I would not have been surprised, for I had robbed him of a precious night’s sleep by a thoughtless act. He only smiled and stopped to inquire of a strange stable boy what I had stumbled into. I pointed to the half open door at the other end of the hall.
“‘Let me show you something.’ He took time at midnight to explain, ‘When in the dark, never go groping with hands parted and outstretched; that permits doors to get by your guard and hit you. Keep your arms in front, but hands together; then you will feel with your hands and not your head.’ I thanked him and moved to my quarters. He waited until I reached the rear stairway and then he retired.”

Monday, October 11
Dear Grandma and Grandpa, (Oops! I mean Elder and Sister Wall. I keep forgetting!)
How do you like Nigeria? Mom showed me where it is on the map. It’s very far away! But I’m glad you got to go on your mission. You always said you’d serve wherever Heavenly Father wanted you to go. Remember? But I still wish you weren’t so far away.
Love,Vera
Monday, November 1
Dear Vera,
Yes, Nigeria is far away from where you live, but we are so glad we’re here. The people are so warm and loving, and Heavenly Father has blessed us so much.
On Sunday, four children were confirmed. We met in a tiny chapel with a concrete floor, and the Spirit was so strong. It was beautiful!
Love,Elder and Sister Wall
P.S. We love the Primary children so much that we want to give them a special Christmas present. Do you have any ideas?
Monday, November 22
Dear Elder and Sister Wall, (See? I remembered!)
I’ve got a great Christmas present idea! And I’ve even talked to Mom and the Primary president about it. But I’m not going to tell you what it is because I know how much you like surprises. (Remember the surprise birthday party Mom gave you, Grandma? You were so funny!)
I will give you a hint. It starts with the letter P, and we’ll be sending it in a couple of weeks.
Love,Vera
P.S. Can you guess what it is?
Friday, December 3
Dear Vera,
What could it be? Grandpa and I have been thinking about what you might be sending for the Primary children. We can hardly wait to find out!
There are lots of things that start with P in Africa—like pigs, parrots, and potholes! But I don’t think that’s the surprise you’re talking about.
Love,Sister Wall
Monday, December 13
Dear Vera,
Dalu and Merry Christmas! Dalu means “thank you” in Igbo (a language spoken in Nigeria). P stands for “pictures,” doesn’t it?
All the children here in our Primary liked the Christmas pictures you and your friends drew for them at the Primary activity.
We wish you could have seen them! All the children were smiling and laughing and saying how wonderful it was to hear from faraway Primary friends who love Jesus just like they do.
Thanks so much for your Christmas present. It was perfect! (That starts with P too!)
Love,Elder and Sister Wall
P.S. The Nigerian Primary children like to send surprises too!
Friday, December 31
Dear Elder and Sister Wall,
Please tell the Primary children in Nigeria dalu for their pictures! All the kids in my Primary liked them! We especially enjoyed the pictures with the palm trees, fans, and baskets.
Love,Vera
P.S. Even though I still miss you, ever since we sent you the special present for your Primary children, Nigeria doesn’t seem far away at all!

Leroy Alip listened intently as he was set apart to serve on a stake high council on the Big Island of Hawaii. In the blessing Brother Alip was told he would be on the island when a temple was built there and that he would serve in that temple. This was in 1984, and the only temple in Hawaii was on the island of Oahu, many miles away by boat or plane.
In 1997 President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) announced a new direction for temple construction. Building smaller temples would enable more temples to be built. The faithfulness of the Saints on the Big Island was rewarded six months later when President Hinckley announced a temple for Kona. After the temple was dedicated in 2000, Brother Alip was called as second counselor in the temple presidency. Today, fully retired from his career but fully engaged in the work of the Lord, he supervises the workers who keep the grounds of the Kona Hawaii Temple beautiful.

One of my friends was named Laura, and her mother became a friend of my mother. Whenever our mothers got together, sooner or later they would talk about the Mormons. Mom was interested but she didn’t want to leave her own church. She knew it would hurt my grandmother if she did.
After Mom had been with Laura’s mother one day, she said, “I’m not going to visit with her anymore. Every time we get together we end up talking about her church, and I’m getting tired of it.”
But I noticed that in a few days she was restless and finally she went back to Laura’s house to visit. She said later that she just couldn’t stay away. This was the very day that she agreed to let the missionaries come to our home.

It had been a good year for pumpkins. That was the trouble.
“I really have to congratulate you, honey,” my mother said to my father. “I never dreamed I’d ever be married to a successful pumpkin farmer, but here I am.”
My father smiled. “I’m a regular Johnny Pumpkinseed,” he said.
I asked, “What are you going to do with all these pumpkins, Dad? There must be a million of them!”
“They’re going to market first thing tomorrow morning, Dot. Pumpkins like these will make me a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to pay the bills, if he’s lucky.” That was my mother’s line.
My father had been a machinist in an auto factory. When it closed down, he borrowed some money and said that he was going to make his dream come true. Mother told everyone that he was “going into pumpkins.”
Dad had said what he always said, “If I can make my dream come true, you can take an art class and work on your dream.” My mother had always wanted to study commercial art, but there was never enough money for it. I heard her tell Dad that she was going to do this as soon as we kids got through school.
“But,” my mother had wailed, “if your dream doesn’t pay off, we’ll be in worse debt than ever. Wouldn’t you like to get retrained in computers?”
“Dear, you have a negative attitude,” Dad said as he lifted a pumpkin to test the weight and solidness of it. “I hope it doesn’t rub off on the children.”
It might rub off on my little brothers, but I knew it wouldn’t rub off on me. I loved the farm too much. I figured if we could make it work, I’d be able to get a horse someday.
Well, here we were, looking at enough pumpkins to make a million Cinderellas’ dreams come true. We all picked pumpkins and loaded them into the back of the pickup. Then we picked another load and filled the back of the station wagon. It didn’t take many. Some were too big for me to carry.
The biggest pumpkin of all was too big for the station wagon. Dad saved that one for its seeds—and for the Biggest Pumpkin contest at the county fair.
Dad drove the truck, and Mom drove the station wagon into town. Sure enough, Dad sold the lot of them at the first supermarket. We had a party that night. I went out after supper and looked at all the rest of the pumpkins shining in the sunset like pure gold. For the first time, I was glad that my father had lost his factory job and decided to live off the land.
Then trouble came to Pumpkinland. It had been a good year for pumpkins—not just for us Martindales but for all the other pumpkin farmers as well. After we’d sold a few more loads of pumpkins, Dad stopped taking his pickup into town. The markets had plenty of pumpkins.
My mother made and froze pumpkin recipes until there was no more space.
Dad said, “I wonder what Johnny Appleseed would have done?”
“He would have moved to town and gone into computers,” my mother said.
Dad decided to open a roadside stand. All the time I wasn’t in school, I helped to work at the stand with Mother. It was fun at first, when the customers came to buy pumpkins. But soon they were whizzing by without so much as a wave.
“We need a sign,” I said that Thursday afternoon.
“What for, Dot? They can see this pile of pumpkins a mile away.”
“We need a sign that really stops traffic.”
Mother had been painting on a small canvas while we sat there watching customers ignore us. “Bring me the biggest pumpkin you can carry,” she said.
In a few minutes, Mother had painted “PUMPKINS” on it.
“It needs a picture,” I said.
She added a purple spider with long white fangs. I had to laugh.
The pumpkin took its place in front of the stand, facing the coming traffic where it could do its best to lure customers. My mother had such fun painting the sign that she painted a few more spiders on a few more pumpkins. I set them out front too.
The next cars that stopped bought all the spider pumpkins for Halloween. That encouraged Mother, and she painted jack-o’-lantern faces on pumpkins. Before long they sold too. Now, the shed roof didn’t have to fall on us to show us we had a good thing going. Mother painted pumpkins as fast as she could—weird faces, snakes, funny faces, and more purple spiders. Friday there was no school, and all day we sold her painted pumpkins. And those were about the only pumpkins we sold.
That evening when we told my father, he said, “Well, well, I never thought I’d be married to a successful commercial pumpkin artist, but here I am.”
My mother said, “Thank you, Johnny Pumpkinseed.”
After that, Mother couldn’t paint fast enough. She made some stencils and outlined the figures on the pumpkins. Then I filled in the outlines, and she followed with the details. We worked most of the night. Bright and early Saturday morning we were back in business.
Dad came home jubilant to tell us that he’d talked a chain of doughnut shops into giving away a free pumpkin with every two dozen doughnuts sold.
“With or without faces?” my mother asked.
“Ah! That’s the best part,” Dad announced. “They want some of your painted pumpkins to decorate the inside and then a truckload of unpainted ones to pile out front to give away.
Finally we were able to see the end of the pumpkins. We didn’t sell them all, but we did have enough money to pay the bills.
“There’s even enough left over for a horse,” Dad told me.
I thought about this for a long time, then decided that the money should go for an art course for Mother. It was her turn.

The ice glowed with a cold bluish hue around the edges of the rink, but in the middle, it was white where the cutting edges of skates had scarred the smooth surface. Huddled to one side of the rink was a group of toddlers, rocking unsteadily on the narrow blades as they clung to their mothers. It was the first time most of them had ever seen a skating rink, and it would be their first experience with ice skating.
One little girl with straight blonde hair was anxious to get started. Her mother helped her onto the ice. She tried a few running steps, but the skates slid out from under her. She went down hard, falling back and hitting her head with a resounding crack on the ice. The cry was one of sincere pain. Holly Cook, the toddler, wanted to end her skating career then and there.
“On my fourth birthday, Mom took me down to the ice rink which had just opened and signed me up for a group lesson. When I hit my head, I didn’t want to go back on the ice after that.”
But she did. Holly’s mother wiped away the tears, comforted her, then helped her again stand on the ice.
As a four-year-old, Holly Cook did try again, and since that time trying again has become a part of her daily life. She has spent hours and hours perfecting the intricate moves that make figure skating look deceptively simple when she’s on the ice. For 11 years she has honed her talent, skill, and grace, until now at age 15 she is one of the best—one of the 10 best women figure skaters in the United States and in the world. Competing in her first senior Nationals, Holly came in tenth. In her first international competition in Yugoslavia, she placed eighth. Just a few months ago in an international skating competition known as the Coupes des Alpes, she took first.

Emily poured the last of the lemonade into her cup and went outside. It was a hot day! Emily was glad she had some cold lemonade. Then she saw Grandpa pushing the lawn mower. He looked hot and tired. Emily really wanted the whole cup of lemonade. But she knew Grandpa would be thirsty. Emily went back inside. She got another cup and poured in half of her lemonade. Then she took it outside to Grandpa. He stopped the lawn mower. They drank their lemonade. Grandpa smiled and said, “Thank you for sharing your lemonade!”

Seth squirmed in his chair. He could hardly wait to hear what Grandma and Grandpa had to say. When everyone was quiet, Grandpa began. “For a long time, Grandma and I have prayed about serving a mission. We want to do what the prophet has asked, so we turned in our mission papers. The Lord has called us to serve a mission in Puerto Rico.”
Everyone was happy and excited for Grandma and Grandpa. Everyone except Seth. He felt sad and lonely. “It’s almost like everyone wants them to go away,” Seth thought. He went to his room, curled up on his bed, and cried.
Mom found him there. “Seth, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe that Grandma and Grandpa are leaving us. What about when my new baby sister is born? She won’t know who they are. And what about me? Don’t they care about me?”
“Seth, Grandma and Grandpa love you very much,” Mom said. “That’s one of the reasons they’re going to serve—to set a good example for you and for all of us.”
Seth didn’t understand. He had never felt more miserable.
The next morning, Grandma’s soft voice woke Seth up. “I thought maybe you and I could have breakfast together,” she said.
Seth sprang out of bed. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa had changed their minds!
After Grandma and Seth finished their waffles, she told him a story. “When Grandpa and I started thinking about going on a mission, I was concerned about you. I prayed that Heavenly Father would help you to understand our feelings. Then at general conference, Elder Robert D. Hales said if we serve a mission, our families will be blessed.
“Grandpa and I want those blessings for you, Seth. We also want to show you that it’s important to follow the prophet. We want you to share this special time with us and be happy.”
Seth knew that Grandma was right. “I am happy for you, Grandma. I just didn’t know that following the prophet meant I’d lose you.”
“You will never lose me, Seth,” Grandma said. “We are an eternal family. But we are asking you to share us with people in Puerto Rico who need us. The time will pass quickly. We’ll write letters and send you stamps for your collection. And when we get back, I’ll be an even better grandma!”
On Sunday, Seth’s Primary sang “Follow the Prophet.” It seemed like a whole new song to Seth. Now he knew that sharing Grandma and Grandpa was one way he could follow the prophet too.

Soon after the end of the cross-country season, Doug was called to serve a mission in El Salvador. His track career was a little shaky at best, and he had no particular reason to think that a two-year absence would improve it much, but his desire to follow the counsel of the General Authorities was strong. As he served the people of El Salvador through his calling, he began to change in many ways. He began to have a different perspective on sports and life in general.
“When you look at a high school athlete, he grows up with sports. He eats it and drinks it. That’s his life—everything. As you grow up a little more, you find out there’s a little more to life, and then you go on a mission and find out you don’t have to run and compete to be successful and to feel important as a person. Then your emphasis changes, and running isn’t necessary anymore. Many times sports are a means by which individuals can gain self-confidence and self-esteem. Many people go through an identity crisis. How important are they as an individual? As you go on a mission you realize that the Lord loves you and cares about you and is concerned with your being a good person regardless of how you are athletically. You come to realize that your relationship with people, school, your church callings, a number of things—all are important, not just athletics. You become a little more aware of life.
“I was always very small in high school and had little self-confidence, but now my confidence is in the Lord.”
The two years in El Salvador proved to be a blessing athletically. Even though Doug had little opportunity to run in the mission field, his body had a chance to mature. He returned stronger and faster than when he left. He was the 23rd American finisher in the NCAA cross-country championships that year, earning all-American honors. He was also part of a distance medley team that took second in the nation.

Ryan liked to sprinkle his garden and watch the water spray from the hose onto the thirsty plants below. He enjoyed seeing the big squash leaves covered with the tiny droplets and the feathery carrot leaves bend under the gentle spray of water. He especially liked the pleasant yet pungent smell of wet tomato plants and damp earth.
Ryan was proud of his garden. He had done all the work himself. He had put the seeds in the warm earth, watered and thinned the plants, and pulled every tiny weed that poked its head up through the ground. Feeling that the garden was his very own was one of the best things that had ever happened to Ryan. He could hardly wait to share his carrots, tomatoes, and squash with the family.
One afternoon as he was watering, Ryan noticed his younger sister, Kris, watching him from the sidewalk. She looked rather wistful and lonesome, and Ryan felt a little sorry for her. Breaking an arm is no fun, he thought, especially in the middle of the summer, when all her friends are taking swimming lessons and having lots of fun.
“Hi, Kris,” he called.
“Hi. Is it okay if I watch?”
Ryan knew what the next question would be. He had heard it at least a hundred times already this summer.
“Do you need any help?” she asked hopefully.
“No, not right n—” Ryan stopped himself in the middle of his usual answer. Something in the way she was standing, her eyes wide and hopeful, her arm so uncomfortable looking, made him think again. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let her hold the hose a minute, he decided.
“Do you think you could hold the hose with one hand?” he asked.
“Sure I can!” she declared.
Ryan handed her the hose and showed her how to hold it so the water would spray just above the plants instead of directly on them. Kris carefully watered the tomato plants while Ryan pulled some weeds that had sprung up among the carrots.
“I’m done!” Kris announced proudly in a few minutes. Then without thinking she stepped between two tomato plants and landed right on the carrot row, completely flattening one feathery plant with her foot.
Oh no! Ryan thought disgustedly. But he said, “I guess the rows are pretty close together. It’s hard to find a safe place to stand, isn’t it?”
Kris nodded solemnly and added, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’ll try to be more careful.”
She looked so sad that Ryan found himself saying, “Don’t worry about it, Kris, you’ll do better next time!”
Instantly her face lighted up. “Will you let me help you again?” she asked eagerly.
Ryan was silent for a moment. Until today, this garden has been mine, he thought, even all the hard work. It had given him a good feeling to know that he had done everything by himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have a partner now.
“We’ll see,” he said finally. “I’m not sure there’s enough work to keep us both busy.”
The next day after breakfast, Ryan announced, “Today is weeding day, Mom. I hope you fix lots of lunch!”
Weeding the garden was a big job. Ryan wanted to start early while the soil was still damp from yesterday’s watering. He was in the garage looking for a small hand spade when he looked up and saw Kris. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to—her questioning eyes spoke for her. Ryan fumbled around looking for the spade. As he picked up the small tool, he thought, It’s my garden and it’s not my fault she broke her arm and can’t play with her friends.
Then he turned to face her.
“Hi,” Kris said, looking excited and hopeful.
Ryan couldn’t resist that look. “Come on, partner,” he said. “Let’s weed the garden.”
When they reached the garden, Ryan dropped to his knees beside the tomato plants. Kris stood a moment, then knelt beside him and timidly asked, “Which ones are the weeds?”
I thought everyone could tell a tomato plant from a weed, Ryan thought. He had to smile, though, when he saw how eager Kris was to learn. Patiently he explained which ones were the weeds and told her to be careful to pull them up by the roots so they wouldn’t come up again. Then he showed her how to use the hand spade to dig out the tougher roots. The two worked silently side by side and Ryan was surprised to see how fast the work went. Within an hour they had finished weeding the whole garden.
“After a while I didn’t even have to ask you which ones were the weeds!” Kris said excitedly when they were through. She looked tired and her forehead was smudged with dirt, but she was smiling and seemed happier than she had been since she broke her arm.
The next morning Ryan checked the soil in his garden. As he had expected, the hot sun had baked it dry again.
“Want to help water our garden?” he asked Kris. As usual, she was eager. As they set the hose and sprinkler in between the tomato row and the squash row, Ryan thought to himself, Sharing my garden with Kris isn’t so bad after all.
“When will the tomatoes be red?” Kris asked. “Will they always be that small?”
“No,” he explained. “They will get much bigger and turn red next month, I hope.”
“When will the carrots start to grow and get ripe?” Kris asked. “I can’t even see them.”
“The packet said the carrots would ripen by mid-July and that’s about right now,” Ryan answered. “Maybe some of them are already ripe. They grow underground so we’ll have to pull one up to see.”
Ryan knelt and gently pulled the leaves of one of the carrot plants. They both watched as a carrot slowly emerged from under the ground.
“Oh, boy!” Kris exclaimed. “A real carrot! May I show Mom?”
Ryan had wanted to take the first carrot to show Mother, but Kris was already halfway to the house. She was so excited that Ryan didn’t have the heart to stop her.
Kris didn’t come out to the garden again so Ryan finished the watering by himself.
“It’s lunchtime,” Mother called from the back porch a few minutes later.
“Hurry up, Ryan,” Kris urged, smiling mysteriously when he went into the kitchen. “Wash your hands and then come and eat lunch.”
He sat down at his usual place. It looked like an ordinary lunch to him—tuna sandwiches, potato chips, milk, a plate with four carrot sticks. …
“Carrot sticks!” Ryan cried. “Is that our carrot, Kris?”
Kris laughed and nodded. She looked down shyly and added, “Look under your plate, Ryan. I made a surprise for you.”
Ryan lifted the plate and saw a card with a large orange-colored carrot on it. Inside the card Kris had printed, “Thank you for sharing your garden with me.”
Ryan looked up at his sister and smiled. Then after taking a bite of a carrot stick, he said with a grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such a delicious carrot. But then I had a pretty good partner to help me take care of it!”

Sometimes it may seem almost impossible to keep shining. You encounter so many challenges which may obscure the source of all light, which is the Savior. Sometimes the way is difficult, and it may even seem at times that a thick fog obscures the light. Such was the case with a young woman named Florence Chadwick. From the age of 10, Florence discovered that she was a talented swimmer. She swam the English Channel in record time of 13 hours and 20 minutes. Florence loved a challenge, and she later attempted to swim between the coastline of California and Catalina Island—some 21 miles (34 km). On this swim she grew weary after swimming 15 hours. A thick fog set in that obscured the view of the coastline. Her mother was riding alongside her in a boat, and Florence told her mother that she didn’t think she could finish. Her mother and her trainer encouraged her to continue, but all she could see was the fog. She abandoned her swim, but once inside the boat, she discovered she had quit within one mile (1.6 km) of the coastline. Later, when she was interviewed and asked why she had abandoned her swim, she confessed that it wasn’t the cold water and it wasn’t the distance. She said, “I was licked by the fog.”

Later she attempted the swim again, and once more, a thick fog set in. But this time, she kept going until she successfully reached the coastline. This time when she was asked what made the difference, she said that she kept a mental image of the coastline in her mind through the thick fog and throughout the duration of her swim.

When my children Mark and Carolyn were six and seven years old, respectively, they met a neighborhood playmate, Dana. Dana became a great friend, and through that childhood friendship, Dana and her mother became interested in the Church. Dana began attending Church services and Primary on a regular basis. Shortly after she was eight years of age, she was baptized. To this day, that friendship has strongly endured because its foundation in gospel principles was secure. There is nothing that provides a surer basis for true friendship than sharing the gospel truths with others.

It may look like the youth from the Big Cottonwood Stake are simply using ropes and boards to walk together. But actually they are learning about temple work—and how it’s a team effort.
The youth chose “Aspire Higher” as the theme for their youth conference and learned to work together and set goals for celestial living.
Receiving a temple recommend may seem as far in the future as marriage and mortgages, but the youth in this Salt Lake City stake took on the responsibility of becoming temple worthy by the time they held their youth conference.
Six months before the conference, the youth began preparing to attend the temple to do baptisms for the dead and understand the work that goes on there. They were divided into groups, and each was assigned to learn about one of the temples around the world.
Their two-day youth conference included a trip to the Salt Lake Temple.
Mike Harrington, a priest from the Cottonwood 12th Ward, provided the music in their temple devotional.
“I gained a testimony of what goes on in the temple,” Mike says. “I am really excited to get to go there.”
Youth in the Pinedale Ward, Rock Springs Wyoming Stake, spent several activity nights learning more about the temple and how to be prepared to enter it. As a culmination of their activities, they each sanded and finished a large pine picture frame and put their favorite picture of a temple inside. The youth now have a special reminder of the temple and what it means to them.