Gospel Story Finder

We have a good many people who have been in the ministry join this church. I had a call last week from a minister who lives in Los Angeles, who served, as he told me, for 20 years as a Baptist minister. Then he met the Mormon elders and they taught him the gospel as it has been restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith, and he gave up his ministry and became a member of the Church. He is now working in the temple there, and he called me to thank me for writing the missionary book that helped him to understand what the Lord has done in restoring his truth to the earth in this dispensation.

“I’ve swum twenty laps already, and I just can’t go another one.” Susan shouted to her swimming coach, who was standing near the edge of the pool.
“Yes, you can!” Coach Andersen encouraged confidently. “You’re good for at least four more laps.”
Susan looked up at the tall thin man and wondered why he expected so much of her.
“Four more!” the coach shouted. “And watch that kick. Your rhythm is off.”
Susan pushed off from the bank feeling discouraged and wanting to cry. Carefully she cupped her hands and pulled at the water.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” she counted over and over to herself as she kicked and then rhythmically fit her windmill-like arms into the pattern. Slowly but smoothly she glided over the water. Her arms and legs ached and her lungs gasped for air as her head turned in and out of the water.
Susan touched the edge and then sprung backward and began the backstroke. Once more she glided gracefully over the water.
As she neared the edge, she wished she could stop, but even in the water she could hear Coach Andersen’s voice calling from the deck, “Two more laps. You’re looking good, but don’t get lazy with those arms. Pull, pull!”
Susan turned on her stomach again and did one more lap freestyle and then tried another lap on her back. Her muscles were so tired she wondered how she could make it.
“The last lap! This is the last lap!” she kept telling herself as she moved through the water. She felt a smile cross her lips as she finished.
“That was pretty good,” Coach Andersen said without smiling. “We’ll have a short workout tomorrow, and then you’ll be ready for the swimming meet on Saturday. Remember what you can eat and what you can’t, and get to bed early tonight and tomorrow night.”
Slowly Susan crawled out of the pool. For a while she sat on the edge dangling her feet in the water and breathing fast to catch her breath.
Is all this worth it? she wondered. Or am I going to all this trouble and work for nothing?
Then she looked down at the pool and her thoughts changed. “This time I’m going to win!” she whispered. “Every time I practice and every time I lose, I learn something. I can’t give up now. I’m going to win!”
She grabbed her towel and sweatshirt and went in the dressing room to change her clothes.
Within fifteen minutes she was on the bus going home. By now her tired muscles were beginning to feel better.
At the first stop a girl about her age got on the bus. Susan watched as the girl walked down the aisle and then stopped next to her seat.
“Hi,” the girl said. “May I sit here?”
“Sure,” Susan replied.
“My name is Rachel Ann Moyle,” the girl said as she sat down.
“I’m Susan Thomas,” Susan replied.
“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” Rachel Ann said. Then she opened a small sack and pulled out two chocolate bars. “Would you like some candy?” she asked.
Susan looked longingly at the candy. She loved chocolate, but the coach’s rules kept ringing in her ears, “Don’t eat empty calories. Eat high protein foods.”
She looked once more at the candy bar and her mouth began to water. “I’d better not,” Susan finally said reluctantly, “but thanks anyway.”
“Come on,” Rachel Ann urged. “I’ll feel silly eating if you don’t.”
Susan looked once more at the candy. Then she remembered her tired muscles and all the work she had done so she could win.
“No, thank you,” she said very firmly. “I really wouldn’t care for any. But you go ahead. I don’t mind.”
During the next two days Susan’s thoughts alternated between discouragement and excitement. But as she climbed onto the starting block Saturday afternoon, she felt only a determination to win.
The starter’s voice called out, “Judges ready?”
Eight hands at the ends of the pool signaled readiness, and the voice instructed, “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Susan stepped up and curled her toes around the edge of the starting block.
“Get set,” the starter shouted.
Susan poised herself to make the starting dive.
Bang! The gun rang out and the eight swimmers flew off the blocks.
One girl led the way, with Susan a little behind her and a girl in the next lane just a little farther back.
Susan pulled and kicked down the first lap. As she made the turn, the girl in the next lane caught up with her so Susan let go with all her strength. Halfway down the lap she started gaining on the leader. The two girls swam neck and neck.
When Susan could tell she was starting to fall behind, she pushed herself even more. She felt as if she would burst, but the extra push was just enough. She finished two-tenths of a second before the other girl!
Coach Andersen ran over to help Susan out of the pool. His face was one big smile.
“Congratulations!” he said. “I knew you had what it takes.”
Susan gasped for breath. Her muscles ached, but she had never felt so good.
“Thanks, coach,” she whispered between breaths. “I owe it all to you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re the only one who can win. I’ve helped a little, but you’re the swimmer!”
While Susan was getting dressed, she thought about what Coach Andersen had said. Lots of people are willing to help me, but it’s up to me to help myself too, she decided with a smile.

Dinah sat on the rug, excited for story time. It was her favorite part of the day.
She looked across the rug and saw a classmate named Felicity waving to her.
“Come here!” Felicity said.
Dinah scooted across the rug. “What’s up?”
“Your hair is different than mine,” said Felicity. “Why does your hair look like that?” She touched Dinah’s braids and giggled.
“My mom helped me do it,” Dinah said. She loved the color of her hair and how it felt under her fingers. She loved the neat rows of cute little plastic hair clips.
“Also, I want to see something,” Felicity said. “Show me your arm.”
Dinah held out her arm. “Well, what?” she asked as Felicity moved her own arm next to Dinah’s.
“Your arms are so brown!” said Felicity.
“Oh,” said Dinah, scooting back to the other side of the rug. Suddenly she couldn’t wait for the day to end.
At home, Dinah didn’t say much at dinner. When it was cleanup time, her sister, Aly, grabbed a towel to dry dishes and Dinah picked up the broom.
Mom started singing. Mom loved to sing while they cleaned.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine …”
Dinah smiled a little. She hummed and sang along as she swept: “Let it shine, let it shine …”
The song ended. “My turn!” Aly said. She started a new song. Dinah tried to harmonize like Aly and Mom did, but it sounded flat. Like a boring gray color. Everyone burst out laughing.
“That was funny!” said Dinah. “Let me try again.”
Aly started the song again, and Dinah closed her eyes and joined in. This time, the different notes started to blend, like yellow and blue mixing into a bright green.
They sang almost the whole time they cleaned. When they were finishing, Dinah remembered what happened at school. She still felt uncomfortable about it.
“Mom, do you ever think about how people look different?” Dinah asked. “How everyone has different hair and skin and eyes?”
“Hmm, yes, I know what you mean,” said Mom. “Did something happen that made you think about that?”
Dinah told Mom about what Felicity said. “I felt weird. I didn’t like it. Why did she say that?”
“It sounds like Felicity was curious about you,” Mom said. “Everyone has their own unique skin color. And hair and eyes too. We’re all Heavenly Father’s children, and there’s no right or wrong way to look. But sometimes people need to get used to the beauty of different colors.”
“All peoples’ colors are beautiful?” Dinah asked.
“Definitely. Everyone’s color shows something special about their family and their history. The way you act represents our family to others. And who do we always say we follow in our family? Jesus Christ, right? So you also represent the Savior.”
Dinah nodded as Mom pulled her into a hug. Then she pulled Aly into the hug too.
“We can always feel good about who we are—especially when we’re following Jesus Christ,” she said quietly.
Dinah’s upset feelings began to settle down.
“Now,” Mom said with a smile, “time to get ready for bed. And then—dessert!”
“Yay!” Aly shrieked. “It’s gonna be pie, I just know it!” She zoomed upstairs.
Dinah followed Aly. She felt much better after talking with Mom. Her skin color was another part of who she was, like her family and her testimony were. She would keep being kind and set a good example at school. With God on her side, it would be a piece of cake.
Or even better, a piece of pie!

Gage stared at the empty old bottle and turned it over in his hands. It was small and misty green, with a cork stopper in the top. Grandpa Russell had given it to him after his baptism.
“What is it?” Gage asked. “I know it’s a bottle—but there’s nothing in it.”
“Oh, it’s full,” Grandpa said.
Gage shook the bottle. “Well, it looks empty to me.”
Grandpa laughed. He pulled out the cork and held the little bottle near Gage’s ear. “Can you hear it?” he whispered.
“Hear what?” Gage whispered back.
Grandpa smiled. “Silence,” he said. Then he put the cork back in the bottle. “In today’s world, silence is pretty hard to find. It’s like medicine, and each drop is as precious as gold.”
Gage said thank you and took Grandpa’s strange gift home. But he didn’t think about it much.
A few weeks later, Gage’s uncle Vince passed away. After the funeral, lots of relatives crowded into the front room at Gage’s house to visit. Gage escaped to his bedroom and closed the door. He could hear the muffled voices of his parents and relatives down the hall.
Gage saw the old green bottle sitting on his desk and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands. Grandpa had said silence was like medicine. Gage needed to find some peace and comfort after Uncle Vince’s funeral.
Gage pulled the cork loose from the bottle and tipped it over his head, pretending to let a little silence pour out. He knew the bottle wasn’t really full of silence. But he knew he needed some quiet time to feel close to God.
He felt tears build up in his eyes. Uncle Vince wouldn’t be there anymore—no more silly jokes, no more wrestling with him. Gage’s heart hurt from missing him.
Then in the silence, Gage felt something warm grow in his heart and soften the pain. He remembered that Uncle Vince wasn’t gone forever; he had just moved on to the next world. Because of Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation, everyone would live forever. Gage was still sad, but he knew that someday he could see Uncle Vince again.
As he held the bottle in his hands, Gage felt peaceful inside. He knew it was because of the Holy Ghost and not the bottle. The bottle had just reminded him to be quiet so he could feel the Holy Ghost. He corked the bottle and set it down.
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story.
Then he went back to the front room to be with his family. He could carry the peace and comfort of the Holy Ghost inside of him even outside his quiet room.

On another occasion, Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and a man named Brother Barnard were traveling to Far West, Missouri. The journey was difficult. The ground was frozen. After crossing a small stream, they found that the axle on their carriage had become bent.
Brother Barnard, a blacksmith, felt that they could not continue traveling with the axle bent so badly. He said that if they tried to straighten it, it would break.
Joseph inspected the axle and suggested that they try to spring it back into shape, anyway.
Again, Brother Barnard warned that it would break.
Joseph told him that he could straighten it, and it would be fine. He found a pry and, with the help of the brethren, bent the axle back into place. It gave them no further trouble, and the brethren arrived safely in Far West. Brother Barnard turned to Brigham Young and said that he would never say again that a thing could not be done when a prophet said that it could.2

There are those of us who have laid away our little ones in the grave, and we had that responsibility. A little daughter was born to us over in Holland while I was president of the mission there, and we kept her until she was three and a half years old. My wife has said time and time again that she knew the angels brought that spirit to her because she felt their presence, and yet we laid her away in the grave. If we had to feel that that was the end, we would have given anything in this world to have her back again. And then we come to this great knowledge that we have in the restoration of the gospel, that she will be ours in the eternal world and we will have the joy of seeing her grow up without sin, unto salvation. Sometimes I have thought that probably some of these choice spirits did not need the experience here in mortality like other children, and that is why the Lord has seen fit to call them home.

When the rescued sufferers got close to the Salt Lake Valley, Brigham Young convened a meeting on this block. He directed the Saints in the valley to receive the sufferers into their homes, make them comfortable, and administer food and clothing to them. Said President Young: “Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted. … We want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them” (Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 139).

When the rescuers brought the Willie handcart pioneers into this valley, it is recorded by Captain Willie: “On our arrival there the Bishops of the different Wards took every person, who was not provided with a home, to comfortable quarters. Some had their hands and feet badly frozen; but everything which could be done to alleviate their sufferings, was done. … Hundreds of the Citizens flocked round the wagons on our way through the City, cordially welcoming their Brethren and Sisters to their mountain home” (James G. Willie, in Journal History of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 9 Nov. 1856, p. 15).

“I need you to watch your baby brother,” Mama said. “Your pa and I are going to help someone who is sick.”
I looked up from sweeping the floor of our small house and nodded. Mama was the Relief Society president, and she often went to visit sisters in our ward.
“Thank you, Arlyn,” Mama said, kissing the top of my head. “John’s asleep. And there’s bread dough rising on the counter. Please don’t touch it.”
I watched through the doorway as she and Pa rode the wagon down our dusty road. I felt proud that Mama trusted me.
As I swept the kitchen, I stopped to look at the bread dough. I could hardly wait for Mama to bake it tonight. Usually we ate the fresh bread with homemade jam. But we had run out of jam three months ago.
Jam! The thought made me hungry for something sweet. I glanced up at the sugar jar, high up on the shelf. I knew Mama was saving it to make more jam.
But the more I thought about the sugar, the hungrier I felt. Finally, I pulled a chair up to the counter and reached up. My fingers just barely touched the jar of sugar. I pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf. …
And then the jar slipped right off the shelf! I tried to catch it, but it fell with a loud plop right in the middle of the bread dough. Sugar spilled all over the bread and counter and onto the floor.
“Oh no!” I yelled. That woke my baby brother up. He started crying. I wanted to cry too. What would Mama say about this mess?
After I got John calmed down, I did my best to clean up the sugar. I pulled the jar out of the dough and washed it. I wiped the sugar off the counter and floor. But there was nothing I could do to get the sugar out of the dough.
I thought about putting the jar back on the shelf. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice it was empty. But I knew that wasn’t right. So I set the jar on the table and waited for Mama and Pa to come home.
When they got home, Mama noticed the sugar jar right away.
I took a deep breath. “I just wanted a taste of sugar. But I knocked the jar off the shelf. I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t get it out of the bread dough.” The words rushed out as I looked down at the floor.
Mama was quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Mama let out a sigh. “Well, I guess the bread will be extra sweet tonight,” she said. I looked up. She gave me a little smile. “Thank you for telling us what happened.”
As we ate the sugary bread that night, Mama and Pa and I talked about honesty.
“We all make lots of mistakes in life,” Pa said. “But when we are honest and try to repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy. We will always be blessed for being honest—even if it seems harder at first.”
I was still sad that I had spilled the sugar. I knew we probably wouldn’t have as much jam this year because of my mistake. But I was glad I had told the truth. That was a sweet feeling no amount of sugar could give.

Twelve years ago, in company with the mission president from Hong Kong, it was my opportunity to initiate the work in the Philippines. On April 28, 1961, we held a meeting that will never be forgotten by those of us who were present. We had no hall then in which to meet. We made a request of the United States Embassy for permission to meet on the beautiful porch of the marble memorial in the American military cemetery at Fort McKinley on the outskirts of Manila. We convened at 6:30 in the morning. In that hallowed and sacred place, where are remembered the tragedies of war, we commenced the work of teaching the gospel of peace.
We called upon the only native Filipino member we had been able to locate. He recounted a story which I have never forgotten.
When he was a boy he found in a garbage can an old tattered copy of the Reader’s Digest. It contained a condensation of a book giving the story of the Mormon people. It spoke of Joseph Smith and described him as a prophet. The word prophet did something to that boy. Could there actually be a prophet upon the earth? he wondered. The magazine was lost, but concern over the presence of a living prophet never left him during the long, dark years of war and oppression when the Philippines were occupied. Finally the forces of liberation came, and with them the reopening of Clark Air Base. David Lagman found employment there. His supervisor, he learned, was a Mormon, an Air Force officer. He wanted to ask him if he believed in a prophet, but was afraid to do so. Finally, after much inner turmoil, he mustered the courage to inquire.
“Are you a Mormon, sir?” the young man asked. “Yes, I am,” was the forthright reply. “Do you believe in a prophet, do you have a prophet in your church?” came the anxious question.
“We do have a prophet, a living prophet, who presides in this church and who teaches the will of the Lord.”
David asked the officer to tell him more, and out of that teaching came his baptism. He was the first native elder ordained in the Philippines and today serves as president of the Northern Luzon District of the Church, now knowing for himself that there is indeed a living prophet on the earth.

But finding religious peace had its price: “It was soon reported that I had become a Mormon; and I was ridiculed and called old Joe Smith and old Brigham Young, and they were accused of many things as well as myself.” Friends, relatives, customers, and former Sunday school teachers tried to “show me my error.” During most of 1855 he accompanied another new priest (later to be his father-in-law), Samual Gentry, to conduct open-air preaching services in surrounding villages. William’s relatives sometimes attended these meetings to hear, as they said, “little Billy preach,” although Brother Gentry did the preaching and William assisted by giving prayers. Some relatives ridiculed him openly, but such treatment only made William “cling with a stronger tenacity to the principles of truth.”

Growing up on a farm, there were plenty of jobs to do. But milking the cows was my favorite chore. Mother liked me to milk the cows because she was convinced they gave more milk when they were listening to music. When I milked the cows, I sang to them.
Early one September evening I began milking and singing to our cow Old Spooky. She had been raised on the range and hadn’t taken kindly to being milked, so sometimes milking her was a struggle. I was singing my most soothing song, developing a kind of mesmerizing rhythm, when a rock landed on the tin roof right above Spooky and me. Spooky’s reaction to the noise was both violent and predictable. I found myself dazed and flat on my back, ten feet away from the milk stool. My arm felt like it was broken, and the milk pail lay dirty and dented in the manure. I sat there for a few moments trying to figure out what had happened when I heard a shrill, fiendish laugh emanating from the street immediately outside our fence. The laugh told me the source of my troubles. It was also my first introduction to Winferd.
When I stepped out of the shed, I saw the little towheaded neighbor boy convulsing with laughter. Obviously, he had never before witnessed anything so funny. I shouted a few well-chosen words hoping to intimidate him and thwart a repeat performance.
Several days passed, and I had almost forgotten my little seven-year-old troublemaker. I was confident my threats had deterred him from further mischief when one day I was milking Old Spooky and the clangor on the tin shed triggered a performance from Spooky that would have done credit to a rodeo Brahma bull. The only difference this time from the first rock-throwing episode was that I didn’t get kicked. Spooky had stepped in the milk bucket, bending it beyond repair. Without even looking, I knew who had thrown the rock. I leaped the corral fence and caught Winferd in full cackle. I grabbed him, then twisted his arm until I extracted a promise that he wouldn’t do it again. But Winferd was not intimidated. As soon as I released him, he crawled through the fence that surrounded his lot. When he was sure I couldn’t overtake him, he shouted a defiant, “I’ll do it again!”
And he did. Again and again and again, each with diabolical variations. He filled my milk buckets with manure and hayleaves. He opened the gate and chased my animals. There was no end to his ingenuity. I caught Winferd several times and gave him a good pummeling and rubbed his face with fresh cow manure—all to no avail. Winferd was having too much fun. He met my threats with “I’ll do it again” whenever he felt he could elude me.
While Winferd seemed to be thriving, my relationship with my mother was deteriorating badly. She couldn’t understand how a little seven-year-old boy could outguess a fifteen-year-old. My fall from grace with Mom pained me. One day, I explained my situation to my older brother, who was home from college. He listened quietly and then took an excruciatingly long time before he spoke. I expected him to tell me some way to get revenge.
His answer was both disappointing and unbelievable.
“Why don’t you try killing him with kindness?” he said.
“I’ll kill him, all right, but not with kindness,” I blurted out. After I finished, my brother could see I was overwhelmed with frustration and malice.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the way to do it. Kill him with kindness.” Then he continued. “I’ve got a dime. Here, take it. The next time you catch this Winferd, act as angry as usual. Grab him by his collar and drag him to the store and buy an ice cream cone for each of you.”
“Waste a nickel on that brat?” I was incredulous.
“What have you got to lose?” he asked. “It’s my dime. You’ve tried everything you could think of and it hasn’t worked.”
It was a measure of the depth of my frustration that I even agreed to try what seemed like a silly plan. I figured even if his plan didn’t work I would at least get an ice cream cone out of it.
I didn’t have long to wait to try my brother’s crazy experiment. The following Monday, I was feeding the animals when I spotted Winferd sneaking around the far corner of the barn. It took a bit of doing to both catch him and not give in to my anger and frustration. After I caught him, I marched Winferd the two blocks to the store with him resisting every step of the way. I then ordered two ice cream cones. One for me and one for Winferd. Nellie, the storekeeper, was mystified. She was not accustomed to seeing anyone being coerced into taking a cone, least of all a young boy.
Winferd was clearly baffled at this strange turn of events. As we started for home, I kept a tight grip on his collar. Soon, however, I felt Winferd relax as he licked his unexpected bounty. I let go of Winferd, and we walked slowly together to my gate. What an unlikely and unexpected scenario—tormentor walking with the tormented, and both eating ice cream as if nothing had ever happened between them.
As we arrived at the gate, I turned in and Winferd went his way toward home. Neither of us had said a word. I was left to wonder: What next? I was troubled with mixed emotions. Our walk together had given me a small ray of hope that things could be different between us. But our silence seemed to prevent that from occurring. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next.
The following morning as I went out the back door of our home with my milk buckets, scarcely able to see in the early morning twilight, there, huddled on the step, was Winferd. He timidly asked, “Can I help with the chores?” All of the bravado was gone. Only a ragged little towhead remained who wanted to be noticed and loved.
After that, Winferd was a joy to be around. Sometimes he was like a friendly, loving, eager-to-please puppy. In the ensuing years he spent much of his time at our place, often only going home to eat his meals. Until I went away to college, a blond, loving friend often worked at my side, quick to be helpful, never demanding or expecting any kind of remuneration. None of us in those Depression years had money to spare. Winferd knew how it was and worked willingly just to be around someone who cared. After high school I served a mission, went to college, and joined the Air Force, and our paths seldom crossed. I missed Winferd, and was full of sorrow when I learned he had been killed in World War II.
I often think of Winferd, and when I do I see in my mind’s eye a ragged little boy lofting a rock onto our tin shed, hoping someone—anyone—would notice and love him. I also pay tribute to a loving and insightful older brother who had the compassion and vision to understand that a towheaded kid could become a friend for life for the price of a five-cent ice cream cone.

All through elementary and middle school, Julie Workman dreamed of the day she’d attend Utah’s Viewmont High School with her friends.
Then one day her father announced he’d received a call to preside over the New Jersey Mission. She’d be attending high school there. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in her face.
After a soggy farewell to friends and loved ones, Julie became determined to make the best of her new life. She set herself a goal: to be a good example to everyone, especially when she found out she would be the only Latter-day Saint in her high school.
What happened to the disappointment Julie felt at not attending her hometown high school? It evaporated when she learned to care about others and share the gospel with them. Now, she says, “Moving to New Jersey has been the greatest experience of my life.”

Something for the Teacher
All of us have dreams—things we’d like to do—but how often do you hear about people helping each other achieve their own individual dreams? That’s why the actions of the Laurel class of the Smithfield (Utah) Ward are so heartwarming. Said their teacher, Patricia Cannell: “Ever since I was a child I have loved to draw and paint. Now that I’m married, we have no room for my hobby in the house. Sometime during the MIA year when we were sharing dreams, I mentioned my desire to buy an old train caboose and make it into an art studio.”
That’s when the girls took over. A caboose was found. The cost to move it was $106. Unbeknown to the teacher, the girls sold window-cleaning fluid door-to-door at 35¢ a pint. At a recent birthday party for the teacher, guess what she received as a present from her Laurels?
A caboose.

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

I learned this formula in my own life. I started working for a big oil company shortly after I was baptized. These truths about work came into my life and led to my progress in the company.
One manager in particular at the company had a lot of power. He requested that each department send two people to help him do an inventory. And he said the only requirement was that the people knew something about accounting.
I had studied at a trade school, and I had a certificate from my accounting classes. My department boss said, “Go tell him that you are going to help with the inventory and that you are an accountant.” He wanted to see the reaction of the other man because I was so young.
When I arrived, the manager asked what I wanted. I answered, “I’m going to help you do the inventory.” I did as I was instructed by my boss and told him I was an accountant. He laughed.
Then he said, “Well, Mr. Accountant, come to my chair. Take this adding machine, and add everything in every column as fast as you can.”
I started with one finger, very slowly. He pushed me out of the chair and said, “You don’t know anything; you are going to be punished. You are going to sit there in a chair in front of me for two weeks, watching how I do the work.”
I moved to another chair. He said, “Watch me.” He started adding so fast, not even looking at his hands. I was amazed. I thought he was joking about having me watch him work for two weeks, but he wasn’t.
That first day I sat there for six or seven hours. That evening I stayed after work and waited for everyone to leave the building. Then I went to his office and changed the roll of paper in the adding machine and started practicing adding the same columns he did. For hours I worked and got faster and faster and faster. When I felt I was doing it as fast or faster than he did, I went to sleep for an hour or two.
The next morning I just washed my face and went out the front doors when they opened early, then walked in again after the manager arrived. I knocked on his door. He said, “OK, you sit there and watch what I’m doing.”
When he started on the adding machine, he seemed slow to me. I had practiced for seven hours straight. I gently pushed him aside and asked him to sit in my chair. I started adding so fast. He was surprised.
He said, “What did you do?” He forced me to tell him. He said, “From now on, because you learned this, you will work with me, and I’m going to teach you everything I know.”
I switched departments. After a few years he resigned, and I was able to take his place because of his recommendation. I used effort and concentration, and I was happy in what I was doing. I was not angry because he punished me at first.

My seminary teacher used the article “Extra Strength” (Jan. ’02) in one of her lessons. That very day, a friend from school was asking me questions about the Church while we were in the weight room. I tried to answer him the best I could but didn’t feel my words were very influential. But I felt impressed to do as the young woman in the article did. The following day I gave my friend the new For the Strength of Youth and told him it contained the guidelines written for teenagers to follow. It felt good to have done this small missionary effort.
Marek de SavignyDunrobin, Ontario, Canada

On the day of my baptism, I was a 22-year-old college student. I was part of a small group that assembled at a swimming pool in Brussels, Belgium. We didn’t have a chapel at that time. There was no baptismal font, no bishop, just two missionaries and a few branch members to support us. I had no family members with me. I had a sure testimony of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer; of Joseph Smith, a prophet; of the Book of Mormon; and of the Church, the only true one.
Three months passed before I was interviewed and ordained a deacon. That Sunday morning I stood in front of the sacrament table to distribute the emblems of the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. I still remember the surroundings: the dining room of a home had been transformed into a meeting hall for sacrament meetings that were attended by a few members. It was my first opportunity to magnify my priesthood calling. Nine months later, I was ordained a teacher and learned how to teach and to watch over the few members of the branch.
Another four months passed, and I was ordained a priest. Now I stood on the other side of the sacrament table. The decor was the same, but I felt different. It impressed me that now I was blessing the emblems of the Atonement and memorizing “that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, … and always remember him and keep his commandments … ; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).
Two years passed after my baptism, and the day arrived for me to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and to be ordained an elder. The mission president once again laid his hands upon my head. The higher authority and power to act in the name of the Lord were given.
The Church is a divine institution led by the authority of the priesthood. I testify that Jesus lives, that this is the only true church, that the priesthood of the Son of God is vested herein, and that the prophets, seers, and revelators who preside over this church are appointed to preserve the pure doctrine of Jesus Christ and the authority of his priesthood for the salvation of his people.

Not long ago, Josh received his mission call to serve in the Washington D.C. South Mission, speaking Persian.
“Persian?!” he says. “I had no idea that language was even taught at the MTC.”
As it happens, there are only three elders in his mission who currently speak Persian. And very few other missions include that language at all.
He started buckling down to learn as much Persian as possible before entering the missionary training center, but then everything missionary-wise got thrown into uncertainty as the pandemic took hold.
It’d be understandable for anybody in Luke’s situation to feel discouraged, but he says he finds heavenly help every day. “I see a lot of blessings in disguise.”
One of his favorite blessings in disguise was only possible because seminary was held virtually. Due to different start times, he was actually able to attend his current seminary class in Alabama as well as his old one back in Mississippi! “That’s been kind of cool because I can stay in touch with my friends!”
That’s only one blessing, though. “I also have more time for prayer and scriptures,” he points out. “And more time to study my language before entering the MTC.”
On that note, Luke was fortunate enough to connect, through a social media group, with the mother of one of the Persian-speaking missionaries in his mission. She was thrilled to hear from Luke and offered to send him some language-training tools her son used before his mission.
Luke has been using those tools ever since.
“I love the extra time to study,” he says again. “Especially family study in the morning. Now we have more time to do that than we normally did.”
The biggest question on Luke’s mind has been about what to decide regarding his mission. Like so many others in his situation, Luke has to choose whether to defer his mission call for a year or more, or wait and see if he can go as soon as possible with the original date.
Nothing is certain yet.
For Luke, direction came after watching general conference. “President Nelson and the other leaders were so optimistic,” Luke said. “It makes me optimistic too. So, at least for now, I’m going to plan on serving during my normal time.”
Luke knows that nothing is certain where COVID-19 is concerned. Even so, he’s absolutely certain about something else. “God is at the wheel,” Luke says. “He isn’t going to let us fail.”

With young people keeping this hectic pace, their parents frequently find themselves trying to catch their sons or daughters for a few minutes of visiting. The dinner table is often the only time when most of the family is together during the day, and a common scene at the table is to watch mother or dad attempt to pump out a little information from their frantically scheduled offspring. Mother: How did things go at school today, Jan?
Jan: Okay.
Dad: Anything interesting happen?
Jan: Nope.
Mother: How did your math class go? I know you’ve been worried about it.
Jan: It’s going all right.
Dad: How is your play practice coming?
Jan: Good.
Dad: Any problems coming up that we can help with?
Jan: Not really, but can I have the car tonight? I need to get together with some of the other kids.
Dad: I guess so.
In fairness to Jan, it is not just from her that her parents try to pump information. If you were to listen to the conversation between her mother and dad when he comes home from work, you would probably hear a conversation like this:
Mother: How did things go at work today, dear?
Dad: Okay.
Mother: Anything interesting happen?
Dad: Nope.
Mother: How did that new project go that you’ve been worried about?
Dad: It’s going all right.
Family members often don’t spend enough time talking, sharing, discussing. They don’t often find a time when everyone is together, and the climate for discussion is not created since everyone is rushing through dinner to get to the next activity.
The lack of scheduling in family time is just as much a problem for the children as the parents. Younger children often are the ones who suffer. They would like to get together with the whole family more often to play games and do other things together. Many teenagers don’t really know anything about younger brothers or sisters. The little one goes on in a world of his own, and the teenager only occasionally dips into that world. It is often a surprise to the teenager to find that a younger brother or sister has grown up or has developed habits or attitudes he doesn’t understand. Older brothers and sisters are important role models and sources of influence on younger children.
Scott was caught up in the excitement of his mission call. In two months he would be leaving for Australia. Following the first flush of excitement came a flood of nostalgia for his home and family, which was surprising since he had not yet left home. He began to look around and see things he had been aware of yet not really seen. There was his sister, four years younger, who was beginning to blossom into a young lady. He saw her trying to cope with the sudden attention boys were paying her, wanting to be popular but not knowing how. Scott wanted to tell her things he thought might help, but he didn’t know how. He suddenly realized that he had never once had a serious, sensitive, personal conversation with his own sister. All of their interaction was in bits and pieces of teasing, complaining, or routine daily matters. Here he was about to try to teach the gospel to people thousands of miles away but had disregarded the opportunity to render a similar service at home.

I remember I learned a lesson one evening in a little country ward in Idaho while I was traveling for the University of Idaho. I traveled that wonderful state for eight years. I’ve been to every town and hamlet in the state. It was not uncommon for me to be away for two weeks. Then I’d go home, and as a stake officer, I would take a bath, change clothes, and be gone again to a Stake meeting. My wife used to say, “Well, when you’re not away traveling, you’re away to meetings.” Once when this happened, one of my little girls came to the door, waved, and said, “Come visit us again, Daddy.”
I used to miss my family, and this particular time I was in Pocatello, Idaho, on Sunday. I got thinking about my family, so far away, and I thought, “Well, I’ll just run down to Whitney and see if I can attend sacrament service and renew my acquaintance with some of the wonderful people there.” So I drove down and arrived just as the meeting was about ready to start and the bishop was going into the church.
He invited me in with him. He had the custom of going up on the stand and sitting there ten minutes before the meeting started so he could see the people come in. He’d have his counselors down at the door. And as I sat there, I watched these groups come in. There were family groups with father, mother, children, and I knew practically all of them. I knew all of the parents and could identify the children by association.
Well, the meeting got started, and the counselor was conducting. He called on me to say a few words. And while sitting there, I’d been thinking, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could be home every Sunday and go to church with your family? Just think what a joy it would be.” Well, as he introduced me, he said, “Brothers and sisters, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all had a job like Brother Benson? He’s traveling this great state of Idaho all the time. He’s always on a trip.” I thought, “Yes, how true to life. Other blessings look better than our own.”
I hope we can be happy where we are, be grateful for our blessings—now—here, accept the challenge that is ours and make the most of it, and don’t be envious of others.
God help us to be grateful. Someone has said that an ungrateful man is like a hog under a tree eating apples and never looking up to see where they come from. Do we look up to see where our blessings are coming from?
God help us to be grateful for our blessings and never to be guilty of the sin of ingratitude.
“And he who receiveth all things with thankfulness shall be made glorious; and the things of this earth shall be added unto him, even an hundred fold, yea more.” (D&C 78:19.)