Gospel Story Finder

Ellen was a young girl who really gained an understanding of repentance. While at the store, she took an item without paying for it. But when she got home, she felt miserable. She confided in her mother: “I’m so sorry I took it; will you take it back for me?”
Her mother said, “I can’t repent for you, Ellen. You must repent yourself. You will have to take it back and say you are sorry.”
It was hard, but she did it. “This is my first repentance,” Ellen said. “I’m glad I know how to make things right.”

Two years passed, and changing family circumstances forced me into a profound sadness. My father had left Poland in search of work so our family was divided. I felt desperate, searching for God. My prayers became more sincere, pleading with Heavenly Father to help me find His presence.

One day my mother told me, “Some person by the name of Garling asked for you. I told him to call back next week.” She knew that it was a missionary and wasn’t interested in the message, so she didn’t feel it necessary to respond quickly.

That Friday night I again heard knocking at the door. This time I gave the emissaries a sincere welcome and a smile. “You are welcome in my home, but you need to know I will never become a Mormon,” I told them.

These elders taught me anyway—every Friday afternoon for six months. Loads of my mom’s cookies and thousands of questions later, all my deepest questions began to be answered. It seemed like every time the missionaries visited, another piece of life’s puzzle came together. Intrigued, I finally did what the elders had asked me to do: pray and ask Heavenly Father if their words and the Book of Mormon were true. They assured me that God answers prayers.

As I prayed and studied the scriptures more deeply, these doctrines became sweet to my soul. For months I hesitated, feeling that I needed solid evidence, needed to know everything about the gospel before joining this Church. Finally, the words of the Savior in John 20:29 spoke to my soul: “Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” I decided to be baptized.

My parents required that I wait until I was an adult to be baptized, but the time waiting helped in my progression and knowledge of the gospel. Sadly, as my baptism date drew closer, I lost confidence in my answer. I got into the things of the world and became fearful that my choice to be baptized wouldn’t be accepted by loved ones.
Little by little, mistakes and decisions made me deaf to the whisperings of the Spirit. My scriptures ended up in the deepest part of my trunk and I even stopped praying.

My life was not turning out—too many tears and disappointments. It was hard to understand why my family had to undergo so many trials. Right before my last year of high school, my parents had to leave Poland. The prospect of relocating again caused me anguish. Finally, I again knelt in prayer, truly meaning my words: “Heavenly Father, Thy will be done, not mine.”

That prayer marked the beginning of my return to the Church, which I knew would require repentance. That Sunday, for the first time in nearly a year, I attended sacrament meeting. The next day I again decided to be baptized.

The Lord helped me through my difficult process of returning to what I had once known to be true. I now define those difficult circumstances as some of the sweetest blessings from God. He did not forget me. He listened to my prayers and waited for me to recognize His answer. He helped me through all the suffering I endured, strengthening and protecting me. In the process I gained greater clarity on the meaning of Christ’s divine mission and His Atonement.

I was baptized in April 2011. My plane has taken off since—I now reside in France, which means more changes. However, I am now grateful to Him for my life and for the circumstances that He had me live through. Because of my testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I now understand that I am not alone, no matter what destinations life brings next. I don’t know if my plane will take off again. The only thing I do know is that my new destination is that straight path that leads to life eternal with Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

One night my elementary school principal came to our house for a meeting. After the meeting I asked her if she had a Book of Mormon. She told me she didn’t have one, but she would like one.
Three weeks later I went to a missionary fireside. The missionaries gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon to give to a nonmember friend. I didn’t know who to give it to. Then the Holy Ghost whispered to me the name of my principal.
I told my dad I wanted to take the Book of Mormon to her. I marked one of my 7. Dad took me to her house after the fireside, and I gave it to her.
A month later, when the missionaries came to our house for dinner, they asked me if I knew anyone they could visit. I told them about the nice lady I had given the Book of Mormon to.
The next time the missionaries came to dinner, they said they had visited her and they had a feeling that someday she would join the Church!

Mary Lou Beilfuss, a Laurel from the Holladay 17th Ward, Salt Lake Olympus Stake, earned the money for her banner by working at a grocery store. The theme of her banner was eternal life.
“It helped me understand more about the recent death of my father, because I studied more about eternal life. The subject was on my mind a lot, and the banner gave me the opportunity to express it on material.
“My mother and sister helped me make it. We are very close already, but working together helped us share our love. I feel close to them because they’re always willing to help. We also shared tears together because the banner had a very special meaning. It made my sister and I think of our father and my mom of her husband.
“I learned from making this banner that I am a daughter of God and that he is there when I call. It has helped my self-image and helped me grow closer to my Heavenly Father. Also, it comforted me about my father’s death,” said Mary Lou.

When I was sixteen in Billings, I went with a group to repel off the rim rocks rising up north of the Montana city. I had never done anything like this and was scared spit less. Now, I warn all of you: Do not do what we did. The guys parked their car close to the edge, blocked up the wheels with rock, and tied off ropes on the bumper. Those of us who can remember, back in the ancient days, car bumpers were made of steel instead of plastic. They strapped on me a homemade harness with a Karabiner and serpentine the rope through it; and then they placed a safety rope around my waist--just in case. The guys showed me what to do and lined me up at the rims ledge. My knees were shaking, I thought, "What have I got myself into and why did I let them talk me into this."

Getting up the courage, I jumped off the edge and before I knew it I was hanging upside down, screaming at the top of my lungs, about thirty feet below the edge, knowing any minute my life would be over. The guys from above, kept calling out to me, over and over again, "Turn around so we can pull you up."

After many attempts, I finally was able to pull myself around and then immediately they were all able to pull me up. I was never so thankful to be back to the top. Just a note, I did get the courage to do it again and was quite successful. I later loved it so much I got my own gear, and my friends and I would drive up to the top of the rims and foolishly tie off on my old 60 Chevy Bumper. Again, I caution you: Do not do this! Always and I stress always, have the right equipment and proper training.

If you get into an argument with a family member, hug and make up! Ezra A. from Australia, says, “When you get into a fight, rather than keeping a grudge, just be a bigger person and say sorry—straight afterward. One time I was fighting with my sister. We had a big argument, and instead of holding a grudge I just said sorry and ended it there. It felt good to get rid of the anger and not feel a grudge anymore.”

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language, may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this lesson well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki, who was then serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and returned from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I turned and explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He turned and left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? …

“He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.” On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort were required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

A young Nauvoo widow with several children, Sister Ellen Douglas, gives a glimpse of the early Relief Society ministrations in a letter dated April 14, 1844, to her parents in England:
“I was taken very ill. … Sometimes I thot I should die and then I thot of my poor children. I prayed for their sakes that I might live. I didn’t pray alone, but many of my brothers and sisters prayed likewise and our prayers were answered.” (Kate B. Carter, comp., Our Pioneer Heritage, Salt Lake City: Daughters of Utah Pioneers, 1960, 3:159.)
After Sister Douglas began to recover, she visited a friend who suggested she “make application to the female Relief Society for some clothing which I needed for myself and family. … I [reluctantly] agreed and we went to one of the sisters [of the Society]. … I told her … while I was sick my children wore out their clothes because I could not mend them, so she said she would do the best she could for me. … In a few days … they brought a wagon and fetched me such a present as I never received before from no place in the world.” (Ibid.)

Thirteen-year-old Jody Earnshaw climbs over the chute and with trembling knees carefully lowers herself onto the back of a holstein calf. Her hands, in green garden gloves, are wrapped in the rigging of the stamping animal. With a cry from her comrades and a shout from the stands, Jody explodes from the chute. Down the arena she goes—one second, two seconds—her hands still in the rigging as she fights to keep her balance on the twisting animal.

Not until eight seconds later does Jody slip from the holstein’s back, dodge its flying hooves, and roll into the dirt. She lies on the ground for only a moment before standing up. The crowd cheers wildly: “You did it! Jody, you did it!” A spectacular ride, her very first in rodeo competition.

Later, 18-year-old Scott Shurtz, the rodeo clown and director of the second annual rodeo, plunges from the horse chute on “Pepper.” They serpentine through the area, race for the fence line on the opposite side, glance off the signboard mounted on the fence, twist to the right, and buck all the way into the holding pen. The spectators shout in delight, and the other contestants scratch their heads: “How can we top that?” They can’t. Scott’s 100-point ten-second ride wins him the All-Around Cowboy award for 1979.

How do you stage a rodeo? The Woods Cross Second Ward, Woods Cross Utah Stake, begins by borrowing a truck and some park bleachers. Local farmers supply the stock such as calves, goats, pigs, and chickens. (Horse riders are limited to those who can furnish their own horses.) Someone’s mother sews a rodeo flag and different groups bake cookies, crush ice, chill soda pop, and heat barbecued beef. Others work the arena until the dirt is ankle-deep and mix it with sand so it is soft enough to break the hardest fall. Four loads of water are sprinkled on top to keep the dust down, and each contestant (or his parents) signs a written liability release form. Finally, the arena is filled with ward members, family, and friends. Photographers are also busy recording the action on film so it can be shown time and time again.

The rodeo is all homemade, all amateur, and all challenge. Although some of the participants have never even been on horseback, when the time for the rodeo arrives, nearly everyone finds out he has a little of the cowboy in him anyway!

“Kurt is a Down syndrome Scout who also has coordination problems,” says a priesthood leader. “He went with our Scout troop on a hike of about thirty kilometers. After sixteen kilometers, he lost his walking rhythm. But with his dad in front of him and his Scoutmaster behind him, he walked every step. We waited hours for him to finish.

“When Kurt and his helpers finally appeared, a spontaneous cheer went up, and Kurt proudly ran the last part, crying, and saying, ‘I did it, I did it! They are cheering for me! They thing I’m good!’ Everyone had tears in their eyes. We will never forget that lesson.”

I pulled a book from my shelf the other evening. I read again the life of Mary Fielding Smith, wife of Hyrum Smith, sister-in-law of Joseph Smith, mother and grandmother of two presidents of the Church. A convert to the Church, originally from England and then from Canada, she came to Kirtland in her late 30s. There she met and married Hyrum Smith, who was left with six children after the death of his first wife.

Mary loved him and brought an added dimension into his life. In that process she set a course which brought her happiness only to be followed by immeasurable sorrow, for there was laid upon her a terrifying and fearful responsibility which took her from Nauvoo across Iowa to Winter Quarters and, in 1848, on the long trail that led to the Salt Lake Valley. At the age of 51 she was worn out, weary from the struggle. She passed away September 21, 1852.

Her life is the epitome of the Relief Society woman of those days. In fact, some of her experiences predated the organization of the society in 1842.

Mary’s boy Joseph was born at a time when her husband was snatched away by the mob militia then terrorizing Far West. Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were taken to Liberty, Missouri, where they were imprisoned. Under the compulsion of Governor Lilburn W. Boggs’s extermination order, she left Missouri with the stepchildren for whom she had taken responsibility, as well as her own son. Her sister Mercy placed Mary, who was seriously ill, on a bed in a wagon box with her infant boy cradled at her side.

In February 1839, when winter was still upon the land, they traveled east across the state and then across the Mississippi to Quincy, Illinois, bumping along in a springless wagon where every jolt brought pain.

When her husband and the Prophet escaped from Liberty Jail and came to Quincy, life again improved. The Saints moved to what became Nauvoo and established their beautiful city on the Mississippi. But their peace was short-lived. Her little boy was less than six years old when a knock came at night on his window and a man said, “Sister Smith, your husband has been killed!”

Joseph F. never forgot his mother’s weeping through the night.

Her world was shattered. She was on her own now with a large family to care for. In the summer of 1846, they bade their comfortable home good-bye and rode a flatboat across the Mississippi. Taking matters into her own hands, she was able to trade, borrow, and barter for ox teams and wagons.

While living in Winter Quarters, she and her brother went down the Missouri River to purchase provisions and clothing. They had two wagons, each having two yoke of oxen. Camping for the night, they discovered in the morning that their two best oxen were gone. Young Joseph and his uncle spent the entire morning looking for the lost animals. They found nothing. Disheartened, he returned to tell his mother. Their situation was desperate, terribly so. As he approached, he saw her on her knees praying fervently, speaking with the Lord about their problem. When she arose to her feet, there was a smile on her face. She told her son and her brother to get their breakfast and she would look around. Following a little stream of water, and disregarding the words of a man who was in the area, she went directly along the bank of the river.

Pausing, she called to her son and brother. She pointed to their oxen, which had been tied to a clump of willows growing in the bottom of a deep gulch. The thief, who had tried to misdirect her, lost his prize and they were saved.

Mary’s faith imprinted itself in her son’s boyish heart. He never forgot it. He never doubted her closeness to the Lord.

All of you are familiar with her experience when one of her oxen, exhausted and worn, lay down to die while they were en route to these valleys in the West. In a mixture of utter desperation and simple faith, she secured consecrated oil and asked her brother and an associate to administer to the ox. They did so. It rose to its feet with a renewal of strength and carried them for the remainder of their long journey.

A few hundred yards from Ansel Adams’ home in Yosemite Valley is a grouping of five trees. I took a workshop with Mr. Adams in 1974 and would get up each morning to go out and make photographs. Coming upon these trees in the pre-sunrise glow that illuminated them, I began to set up the large-format camera as quickly as I could. It is a cumbersome process that after years of experience I have been able to reduce to approximately five minutes. At that time, however, it took me from 10 to 20 minutes to set up and to make the tedious adjustments to the camera.

During the setup time, the sun came up. The trees were the same, but the light was different. The light had changed from soft brilliance to harsh contrast. The ethereal morning light had quickly changed, and I missed my opportunity. Without making an exposure I put everything away. The next morning I returned to the same spot 30 minutes earlier and again set up the camera. By the time light readings were taken and the exposure calculated, the sun had fully risen and I missed the shot again. The third morning I came even earlier. Again I set up the camera and calculated the exposure. This time I was able to make the photograph. It is a photograph that is still very important to me, one to which in hindsight I can apply President James E. Faust’s counsel: “If you can’t be on time, then be early.”

Mrs. Jennings held up a big glass jar for everyone in Henry’s class to see. “This is a Thankful Jar. Every day, I’ll ask one of you to share something you’re thankful for.”
Henry raised his hand. “Like what?”
“Anything,” Mrs. Jennings said. “Your family. A pet. Your friends. I’ll write down what you say and put it in the jar.”
How could Henry choose only one thing? All day he thought about the Thankful Jar. When Mommy picked him up, he couldn’t wait to tell her all about it. “I want to make a Thankful Jar for home! We can all write down things we’re thankful for. Maybe we can fill the whole jar!”
“Great idea!” Mommy said.
“Will you help me?” he asked. “I can’t spell all the words.”
“Of course I will.”
While Henry ate lunch, he thought of what he was thankful for. He waited while Mommy put his baby sister in her crib. Finally, Mommy helped him find a big jar. She cut some paper into wide strips. Henry grabbed a crayon.
“How do you spell ‘sister’?” he asked.
Mommy spelled the word out loud. Henry carefully wrote the letters down. She helped him spell sunshine and brothers and Daddy and snow and Primary and hermit crabs and other words. It took a long time to write them all. By the time Henry finished, his fingers were tired!
But Henry still had one more thing to write. He wrote Mommy on a slip of paper without any help at all. Then he showed Mommy what he had written.
“Look, Mommy!” Henry said. “I’m thankful for you!”
Mommy gave him a big hug. “I’m thankful for you too.”
Henry smiled. He was happy he had so many things to be thankful for.
See Come, Follow Me for Ether 6–11.

April was here at last. The all-night study sessions and final exams were over and most of our belongings packed into a closet in the old house we had lived in for the past year. Tearful see-you-in-Septembers echoed through the empty rooms as we locked the front door. My roommate, Lanell, and I lugged our bursting suitcases through the slushy snow and into the yellow Renault.
“What a dumb time for a snowstorm,” Lanell grumbled, slamming the car door shut.
“Oh well, we’ll soon be winging our way to Europe,” I consoled, reminding her of our exciting summer plans. We had schemed all year for this two-month vacation, and because we were trying to save money by driving to Chicago and flying from there, it looked as though this sudden spring snowstorm might threaten our plans.
I switched on the radio. Another weather bulletin, this time with bad news. “All interstates in Utah are closed,” the deejay stated blandly. “Students are advised to remain in Provo until further notice.”
“No way,” I declared. “A little snow won’t stop this Canadian!”
I pulled out the road map, and Lanell and I discussed all the alternative routes. We finally chose one that went south of Provo and then east into Colorado. Since it wasn’t an interstate and didn’t seem to be too mountainous, we reasoned that it would be open and fairly safe.
We headed out as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the gray storm clouds and disappeared over the top of the western range of mountains. It was a bad time to leave, I knew, but we were anxious to be on our way.
I drove cautiously on the snow-packed highway and wasn’t too alarmed when snow began falling. We soon noticed, however, that the highway was ascending into the mountains. Lanell checked the map and to our dismay found, in tiny print, the mountain pass we thought we wouldn’t have to cross. To make matters worse, the storm had increased in fury, the snowflakes splattering so thickly on the windshield that the wipers could barely keep up. As the wind howled through the canyon, I realized that conditions were perfect for a blizzard. We considered returning to Provo for the night but were encouraged by the steady stream of cars creeping toward us on the highway.
“They made it over the pass so we will too,” we told each other.
“And the other side probably won’t be so icy,” I said, trying to sound confident. Inside, I was beginning to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into.
The road was now glare ice and we were steadily climbing. I grasped the wheel lightly as I’d learned to do on icy roads, but as the minutes passed, I felt a knot growing in my stomach and perspiration dampened my ski jacket. I wanted to turn back now but could find nowhere to do so safely. And what would Lanell think if “this Canadian” turned back? On the other hand, what would the downhill side be like, and would I have the nerve to drive it? I mentally tightened my grip on the wheel, silently begging the Lord to help us. If ever I needed a guardian angel, it was now.
Somehow, we reached the summit and I nearly shouted for joy at what I saw in the bright yellow beam of the headlights. Parked across the road, blocking the traffic, was a pickup truck, and standing beside it, a stocky man in a cowboy hat, coveralls, and a heavy parka. He was waving a flashlight, signaling for the cars to turn around and go back.
“The road’s closed. You kids would never make it down the other side,” he said, prying my hands off the steering wheel and kindly suggesting that he turn the car around for me.
As we headed back in the direction we had come, we alternately laughed and cried and prayed. We now knew the truth about all the cars that supposedly had made it over the mountain. All those cars had simply turned around and were coming back as we were now doing. How foolish we had been to ignore the weather warnings and how foolish were those in the approaching cars. Now that the storm had abated somewhat, we could see the ribbon of their lights for miles as we drove carefully down the mountain.
“Bet they’re thinking the same thing we did,” Lanell said with a grin. I grinned back, but silently I wondered, How many times do we make decisions without knowing the whole picture? How many times do we ignore the warnings? And how many times do we continue to tread dangerous paths just because it appears as if everyone is doing it?
We reached Provo late that night, and though I was shaken by the experience, I was grateful for the many insights it had given me. That Utah mountain pass and the angel in the cowboy hat who said it’s never too late to turn around, and who offered to help, will remain forever in my memory.

I am Brooke Ellis. When I was six, my dad went over to meet the neighbors, who were just moving in. They had a minivan, and it was filled with kids. He noticed that there was a girl who was just about my age. Her name was Clarissa Shinn. He brought me over to meet her. At first we were kind of shy with each other. But one day while my mom was still at Girls Camp with the Young Women, Clarissa and I were running over to my house and I glanced down and saw something gold and green on her finger. I stopped and so did she, and I noticed it was a CTR ring. I said, “Clarissa, are you LDS?” She said, “Yeah.” I told her that I was, too. I later found out when my mom got home that she had been fasting and praying for a girl my age who was also a Latter-day Saint to move into one of the three houses that were empty in our block. Clarissa and I are still great friends, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers.
Clarissa Shinn and Brooke Ellis, ages 9 and 10West Lafayette, Indiana

“Have you seen the new girl?” everyone wanted to know.
We were eighth graders in a small town in Utah, and when a new girl came to school in the middle of the year, she was the subject of much discussion in the hallways.
Her name was Cathy Carlisle—a beautiful name that sort of rolled from the tongue—and the name fit. She had moved to our town from Salt Lake City when her father bought a local car dealership. She was totally “citified,” and her whole appearance, from her hairstyle to her clothing, bespoke sophistication and money. To teenagers who had grown up in a small rural community and did most of their shopping at one local department store, Cathy Carlisle represented a whole different world—a world that we admired and envied.
Each school day I could scarcely wait to see what Cathy Carlisle would wear. She always seemed to look perfect, with every hair in place and a radiant smile that-she flashed to one and all. She moved with a graceful poise that was uncommon to eighth graders, and whatever she undertook at school, whether it was tumbling in gym class or reading aloud in English Literature, she did it flawlessly.
It was strange, but I never heard anyone refer to her as just plain Cathy. It was always “Cathy Carlisle” this and “Cathy Carlisle” that. If Cathy Carlisle did it, or wore it, or said it, “it” became the popular thing to do, wear, or say. Despite Cathy Carlisle’s immense popularity at school, however, she didn’t seem to have any close friends. Hers was not a kind of popularity where everyone flocked around. It was more of an awe-inspired adoration from afar. We all thought she was amazing, and yet we were afraid to speak to her. Cathy Carlisle did not seem to be the sort of person that you went up and mingled with.
The cluster of girls I socialized with at school were the group commonly known as “the nice girls.” We were not the group of girls who were nominated for everything, nor were we the “nobodies.” We were just kind of middle ground. Probably because our crowd felt rather threatened by anyone as perfect as Cathy Carlisle, we began to refer to her as “the Snob.” To our way of thinking, it just followed that anyone as exceptional as she seemed to be must be stuck on herself. The fact that she really didn’t “run” with any of the kids at school only supported that idea.
The conversation among us began to go more along the line of, “I wonder what the Snob’s going to wear?” and “You can be sure the Snob will get it right!” But we were still just as awed by her as ever.
Then came the day of the eighth-grade sock hop. Because we were considered too young for nighttime activities, eighth-grade dances were held in the afternoons in the gymnasium. The first hour at these dances was always spent the same way. The girls sat on the bleachers on one side of the gym while the boys sat on the other side. Minutes would drag by while the music played, and boys and girls stared at one another in acute embarrassment.
Finally, a threesome of brave boys would jointly walk over to the girls’ bleachers. Then, almost in unison, they would ask three girls to dance. The three couples, each fearful of reaching the dance floor first, would timidly walk out and begin to shuffle their feet. The ice was finally broken, and it was safe to dance now. Slowly other couples would get up to tromp across the floor.
This particular dance began as any other. Most of my friends had gone out with partners, and I was still sitting on the bleachers, not particularly caring, until I looked up and saw Foy Murray walk in. A feeling of dread came over me as he shuffled past the bleachers, clumsily, with that silly smile on his face.
Foy Murray was mentally retarded and attended the special learning school next to the junior high. He rode the same bus as the junior high students and delighted in attending our school activities. I didn’t understand why our principal allowed him to join in—I thought he was a nuisance.
At the school dances, Foy loved to ask the girls to dance. No one ever accepted, but he would go to one girl after another, undaunted. Our response was always the same. We would giggle in embarrassment, roll our eyes, and try to ignore him until he went away.
That day, as Foy walked closer to me, meeting rejection after rejection, I decided not to stay and be subjected to the usual humiliation. I scrambled to the top of the bleachers where I hoped I would be out of sight. As I settled into my new spot, I gave a small groan. Foy was approaching Cathy Carlisle! This was her first school dance since moving to our town. She didn’t ride the bus, so she would not have encountered Foy Murray yet.
“Wow,” I thought, “the Snob will die when Foy asks her to dance.”
I held my breath as I watched; then I couldn’t believe my eyes! To my utter shock, Cathy Carlisle stood up and let Foy lead her out onto the dance floor. She was as graceful as ever, looking perfectly lovely. As the music started and Foy put his arm awkwardly, hesitantly, on her waist, she smiled that wonderful smile directly into his eyes. But it was Foy’s face that kept my eyes riveted. It was absolutely rapturous! I had never seen him look like that. It was obvious that he was thrilled beyond belief. The two of them moved around the dance floor, his big feet stumbling over the steps, hers never faltering as she continued to smile.
I sat with my mouth open and realized that everyone else did too. Couples on the floor had stopped dancing to turn to watch. Cathy Carlisle and Foy appeared not to notice and danced as if they were oblivious to everyone else.
When the dance ended, Foy walked Cathy Carlisle back to the bleachers, a new look of confidence on his face. He moved on to another girl on the bleachers, asking her to dance. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl jumped up and joined him. He grinned widely at her and everyone else around him, looking as overjoyed as he had moments before.
I descended the bleachers in a hurry to join my friends near the door. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Cathy Carlisle just danced with Foy Murray.”
At that precise moment, I glimpsed my own reflection in the hall window nearby. I stared long and hard as a sudden realization struck me. I had always considered myself “too good” to dance with someone like Foy Murray. As I looked once again at Foy’s glowing face on the dance floor, I knew what kind of person that made me.
I sat, feeling wretched, as I watched Foy dance every dance after that, each with a different girl. From then on, it became an unspoken law at school dances that if Foy Murray asked a girl to dance, she didn’t refuse. It was a sort of contest between us to see who could make him look the happiest.
Each day as we waited for the bus after school, we chatted with Foy, and soon began to actually look forward to having him join in on our conversations. We asked him questions and became genuinely interested in him as a person. Throughout the rest of the school year, Foy continued to make lots of friends, and as he did so, he blossomed before our eyes.
I don’t know what became of Cathy Carlisle. Her family moved back to the city a year later. Foy Murray passed away a few years later, but I’ve often considered how less joyful his last years on earth might have been if not for one lovely 13-year-old who set a firm example of friendship for her classmates.

June pushed as Grandpa pulled the old red wagon up and down the long rows of vegetables. Grandpa stopped to inspect a knee-high, leafy green plant. “June, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?”
June stooped down to look, just as Grandpa had. “Yup.” She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a serious look. “Just right.”
June smiled and picked two more. She carefully placed them next to the corn in the wagon. The wagon was almost full, but there were still cucumbers, green beans, and squash to pick. June beamed as she looked at the beautiful fresh vegetables in the wagon. There were big red tomatoes, ears of yellow corn, orange carrots, leafy green lettuce, red radishes, and now big green peppers.
Grandpa and June had planted the big garden in the spring. First they got the soil ready. Next, June helped Grandpa plant seeds in little holes. Then they carefully covered them with dirt. After the seeds were covered, she helped Grandpa sprinkle the rich, dark soil with water. Up and down the long rows they had gone, digging, planting, and watering.
They had also planted small bedding plants. “If we plant these instead of seeds, we’ll get vegetables sooner,” Grandpa had explained. “I just can’t wait to pop a big ripe tomato into my mouth!” Grandpa loved tomatoes!
Together June and Grandpa watered their garden almost every day. Grandpa put on his big black irrigating boots, and June tugged on her little blue rubber puddle hoppers. It was fun walking up and down the long rows, getting their boots muddy while they made sure each plant got enough to drink.
Grandpa and June spent a lot of time weeding the long rows of vegetables too. “Weeds drink up all the water,” Grandpa explained. “Now, what is this I see?” he would ask. June would squat down next to Grandpa to have a look. “Does it look like the plants around it?” Grandpa would ask.
June would compare the green plant to those near it. “Nope.”
“Weed or vegetable?” Grandpa would ask next.
“Weed,” June would state firmly, and she would pull it out with a hard jerk.
“Yup,” Grandpa would say with a big smile, “you sure are a good gardener.”
As June looked up at Grandpa now, she said, “Wow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!”
“Yup—with lots more to come!” He unloaded the last acorn squash from the wagon onto the back porch. He sat down and wiped his forehead with his big red handkerchief. June sat down next to Grandpa and wiped her forehead with her little red handkerchief.
“Well, June, do you think we can eat all those vegetables ourselves?”
“Nope,” said June. “We couldn’t eat that many in a hundred years.”
“You’re right,” replied Grandpa with a chuckle. “Well then, what do you think we should do with them all? I would hate to waste any of our hard work.”
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables, and she didn’t want to waste any, either. “I know—let’s share them!”
“Now, that’s what I call a good idea. But who do you think would want some?”
June didn’t have to think very hard before she said, “Sister Rencher doesn’t have a garden since she can’t bend down to pull the weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa thoughtfully.
June’s mind was working fast. “Sister Rice works all day. She doesn’t have time for a garden.”
“Good thinking, June. The Sorensons next door don’t have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.”
“Can we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?” asked June. “I know she would like them.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa. “Now how many people is that?”
June counted on her fingers: “Sister Rencher is one, Sister Rice is two, the Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.”
Grandpa scratched his gray head and asked, “How can we get all these vegetables to all those people?”
June rested her head on her hand and thought for a moment. “I know! I know!” She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. “We can put vegetables in each sack for each person!”
“That’s a great idea,” said Grandpa.
Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks. “How can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?” asked Grandpa.
“Can we take them in our wagon?”
“Yup, I think that will work,” Grandpa said. “You always have such good ideas. Now whom should we visit first?”
June thought about this for a minute or two. “The Sorensons—they’re the closest.”
Later, June was holding Grandpa’s big hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. June’s small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpa’s big one. She felt good inside. “Grandpa, it’s sure fun to plant a garden. It’s even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know what’s the most fun of all?”
“What?”
“Sharing the vegetables!”
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a big smile.

The basketball slipped through my fingertips and rolled down the driveway. “Nooooo!” I cried as it bounced across the street—right into Mrs. Clark’s yard!
I remembered Mrs. Clark’s angry words to Mason when his ball had bounced into her yard. “Look at this flowerbed,” she had shrieked. “It’s completely destroyed! If you come into my yard, I’ll call the police!” With that, she’d picked up his basketball, and it was gone. Now I was too afraid to even cross the street to get mine.
I worried all night about my ball. Sure enough, in the morning it was gone. Mom talked to Mrs. Clark the next day, but she wouldn’t give it back. She was one grumpy neighbor.
Mason and Andrew and I thought of ways to get even—like letting her dog out of her backyard at night. But we decided not to.
A few days later my friends and I were outside playing basketball when Mom came out with a cardboard box. Inside was a spaghetti dinner. “Is this for us?” Andrew asked, licking his lips.
“No, it’s for Mrs. Clark,” Mom replied. “She was in a car accident.”
We all frowned. “Why would you do that for Mrs. Clark?” Mason asked. “She’s the meanest person I know!”
“Mrs. Clark needs our help,” Mom answered. “It’s what Jesus would want us to do. Will you boys please take this dinner over to her?”
We walked to Mrs. Clark’s door with shaky knees, rang the doorbell, and waited. And waited. Finally, a cranky voice asked, “What do you want?”
“We, uh, have some food,” I said.
“Food? Why are you bringing me food?” she asked.
“Mom told us to. It’s spaghetti,” I said.
“Oh, spaghetti,” she said softly as she opened the door. Slowly a smile crept across her face. It was the first time I’d ever seen Mrs. Clark smile. She fumbled around in her purse. “Here,” she said, handing me some money. “Take this to your mother and thank her for me.”
“Oh, she won’t want the money,” I answered.
But Mrs. Clark wouldn’t take no for an answer. She dropped the dollar bills into my hand and quickly closed the door.
The next day Mom had another box, this time with beef stew. I placed the money from last time under the bowl of beef stew. Mrs. Clark smiled again when we brought her the food, and again she tried to pay me. But this time we got away without taking it.
“Mom doesn’t want the money,” I called back as we scurried away. “She wants you to have the food.”
The next Saturday we were playing basketball again, and this time Andrew’s ball got away! It bounced down the driveway, across the street, and landed smack in the middle of Mrs. Clark’s flowerbed. As usual, she picked up the ball and disappeared into her house. But this time something different happened. Mrs. Clark came back out carrying a box. She walked across the street, up the driveway, right to where we were standing. We were all about to run.
“Here,” she said, handing me the box. Inside were all three of our basketballs!
“Thanks!” I said with a big smile on my face.
On Sunday in sharing time, Sister Jones asked, “How can we love our enemies?”
I raised my hand high in the air. “By doing something nice for them,” I answered.
Sister Jones beamed. “That’s a great answer.”
When I looked at Mason and Andrew, they were smiling too.

You could start in your room today. Is there an unfinished school paper somewhere in the stacks? (I assume there are stacks there; I think I know your room.) Perhaps it is typed and apparently ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College (now Brigham Young University–Idaho). I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she would write. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up near the back. He had said little during the term; I’m not sure he had ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

Moving was a challenge for Mary, too, but she met it with independence and tenacity. Once when they moved, “I took her to Germany, dropped her off in Frankfurt with the two boys, and then I had to fly on to Berlin for a temporary assignment,” says Elder Hales. “Mary got the boys into school, learned to find her way around the busy autobahn, and eventually learned to speak German. This was typical. She has always made it work.”