Gospel Story Finder

In July 2001, Hoi Hoon was invited by the Hong Kong government to perform with other prominent gymnasts in the Chinese Gymnastic Gold Medalist Show. Then age 8, Hoi Hoon was the youngest participant.
All of the gymnasts were asked to attend a final rehearsal the Sunday before the performance. The Tam family knows it is important to keep the Sabbath Day holy, so Brother Tam told Hoi Hoon’s coach that Hoi Hoon would attend every other rehearsal—but not the one on Sunday. The coaches and officials were upset and thought about replacing Hoi Hoon with another boy. The Tam family would not change their minds, but they prayed every night in their family prayer that Hoi Hoon would be able to perform. In the end, the officials allowed him to be in the show. Even without the extra practice, Hoi Hoon did every movement perfectly. “I know that obeying the Lord is very important,” Hoi Hoon says.

I didn’t want to admit it, but no one else was going to. Even though I barely knew how to play five hymns, I was the only one in the whole seminary class willing to admit that I played the piano. It was my senior year, and I’d never had to play in class before because there was always someone else who volunteered, but not this semester. The title of official piano player gave me some confidence in my small talent—until I realized no one seemed to care.
With my new seminary responsibility, I worried that the class would get tired of singing the same songs over and over, so I tried to stumble through the top hand notes of songs I hadn’t played before. I soon stopped struggling to keep the melody going when I realized few were singing. Daily I became more and more reluctant to play. I purposely came late, hoping I’d miss that part of the devotional. I felt learning to play hymns was a waste of time, and I was ashamed to have to get up in front of the class every day.
Then one day, when I’d particularly struggled through a song I’d never practiced, my attitude changed. As I returned to my desk after playing, I found a note on my scriptures. At first, I thought it was a prank. Nevertheless, I opened it. On a paper torn from a day planner was written, “I appreciate you for playing the piano for our class. Music that you play brings a good spirit.”
I realized then my responsibility as the class piano player wasn’t just playing a song. I was inviting the Spirit of the Lord into the class. I began learning and practicing as many hymns as I could. I paid attention to the feelings they created, and I gained the confidence to play them with meaning.
I don’t know if many people noticed the improvement in my playing, but I know I helped at least a few people praise the Lord through song, even if it was only me and the person who wrote that encouraging note.

When I was called as a General Authority, I was blessed to be tutored by many of the senior Brethren in the Church. One day I had the opportunity to drive President James E. Faust to a stake conference. During the hours we spent in the car, President Faust took the time to teach me some important principles about my assignment. He explained also how gracious the members of the Church are, especially to General Authorities. He said, “They will treat you very kindly. They will say nice things about you.” He laughed a little and then said, “Dieter, be thankful for this. But don’t you ever inhale it.”
That is a good lesson for us all, brethren, in any calling or life situation. We can be grateful for our health, wealth, possessions, or positions, but when we begin to inhale it—when we become obsessed with our status; when we focus on our own importance, power, or reputation; when we dwell upon our public image and believe our own press clippings—that’s when the trouble begins; that’s when pride begins to corrupt.

When ten-year-old Kimberly heard President Benson encourage Church members to read the Book of Mormon, she knew that the counsel was meant for her too. Every night since then, with very few misses, she has read from the Book of Mormon. And, just as important, she has read it aloud so that seven-year-old Katie, with whom she shares a room at the top of the kitchen stairs, can also obey the prophet.

Years ago when I was serving as a bishop, a recently converted family moved into our rural Utah community. These good people had joined the Church in the eastern United States and had been warmly fellowshipped and put to work in a small branch there. When they came to our larger, more-established ward, they somehow slipped through the cracks. Some of the family members, particularly the father, became disenchanted with the Church and its members.
One Sunday morning when I noticed the father was missing from priesthood meeting, I left the meetinghouse and drove to his home. He invited me in, and we had a very honest conversation about the struggle he was having with his new faith and neighbors. After exploring various possibilities for responding to his concerns, none of which seemed to appeal to him very much, I asked him with a tone of frustration in my voice just what we could do to help him. I’ve never forgotten his reply:
“Well, bishop,” he said (and I will need to paraphrase here slightly), “for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, please don’t assign me a friend.”
I learned a great lesson that day. No one wants to become a “project”; we all want spontaneously to be loved. And, if we are to have friends, we want them to be genuine and sincere, not “assigned.”

When I arrived in the Peru Chiclayo Mission, my only desire was to be obedient and work with great fervor to find those who would accept the gospel. Each morning, my companion and I knelt to pray for help in finding those who were seeking the Savior. Many times our prayers were answered.
About 18 months into my mission, I was assigned to the Los Proceres Ward, Chiclayo Peru El Dorado Stake. My companion and I began to work in the same way he and his former companion had been working. One morning as we went out to work, we discovered we didn’t have any appointments, so we decided to collect some referrals from the members.
On our way to a member’s home we passed a certain street, and I felt a very special sensation. I realized that the Lord wanted us to knock on the doors of the houses on that street. I told my companion what I was feeling and proposed that we tract there. He agreed.
We knocked on the first three doors on the block—and were rejected at all three. This response discouraged my companion so much that he wanted to go back to our first plan of getting member referrals. Seeing how he felt, I agreed, but I could not deny the feeling I had.
Later that month, my companion was transferred and Elder Meyhuay was assigned to work with me. I helped him get settled the first night, but the first thing the next day I took him to the street where I had received the impression. I told him about my feeling, and he agreed to help me knock on every door on that street.
And so we began. As before, the people in the first few houses rejected us. But we were determined to endure to the end. Then we arrived at the house of the Quesada Zerita family. The woman who answered the door invited us in, and we taught her the first missionary discussion. She was very moved by it. We returned two days later in search of her husband. He also agreed to listen to us, and we taught another discussion. This time the whole family was there.
So began a beautiful experience. As time went by, many of the families on that street wanted to hear the discussions. In order to accommodate them all, we had to set up benches outside and project our filmstrips in the street. As we spoke to the large numbers of people who gathered to hear our message, we felt like the Apostles in ancient times. All of this gave us great joy.
Going to church was exciting; we had to stop four or five taxis to get all the people to the meetinghouse, and the people from this street filled up four pews in the chapel. In the three months my companion and I worked together, we baptized about 50 people. Their names are written in my journal and in my heart.
I have since learned that the street, which we called “Mormon Street,” is now part of a new Church unit. The families we baptized are still active in the Church, and this especially fills me with joy.
Now that I have completed my mission and returned to my home in Ica, Peru, I still have challenges. But the experiences I had in the mission field give me strength. On my mission I learned to listen to the Lord. I learned that, like Nephi, when I seek to do the Lord’s will, I can be “led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Ne. 4:6).

Since my baptism after I graduated from high school, my life has never been happier, never more fulfilled. My love for the Church is deep and real.
As I studied the scriptures, prayed, and served in various callings and activities, my testimony grew even stronger. As I learned to use the gift of the Holy Ghost, I was blessed to know how true and how exciting the gospel is. I was sure nothing could ever shake my faith—until an anti-Mormon television show was broadcast on our local Christian station. I saw only part of it, but I felt terrible watching, it and afterward I felt angry and scared. I thought, “How could anyone say things like that about us? We don’t believe those lies!”
The empty, dark feelings I had experienced while watching the show stayed with me. A frightening thought came: what if the Church isn’t true? In spite of the blessings my Church membership had brought into my life, I was tempted to begin doubting it.
A few days later my husband, Paul, felt inspired to ask me if I’d like to go to the temple. This was no easy task, as the nearest temple from where we were living at the time was six hundred miles away. Could we just pack up and go?
Paul was willing for us to fly there instead of taking the time to drive. We had just enough money to afford the trip, with a few dollars left over.
I thought about it and prayed very hard. Yes, I finally decided, I needed this trip.
The peaceful feeling I felt at the temple was wonderful. But I still had questions. Exactly what was I doing there? What was the temple, or for that matter, the Church, really all about?
I went through the first session wondering “Why?” then, on the next session, I was able to relax and concentrate more on what was happening.
When I least expected it, an answer came. I could feel the presence of a warm, loving spirit that seemed to say, “You’re doing the right thing.” This calm reassurance instantly wiped away all of my doubts.
I had been confounded by the adversary’s propaganda, but I am grateful for that struggle. My testimony of this church is stronger now than ever before.

Our new literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka, looked into the faces of 35 eager students and said, “In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life.”
After school was over I walked home, puzzled about what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just begun ninth grade at a German high school. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur. Roman history had always fascinated me. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was another book, the one the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years ago—the Book of Mormon.
I was the only Latter-day Saint in school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
“Why not?” I thought, and remembered how, by my 12th birthday, I had read this book from cover to cover, prayed about it with the faith of a child, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture, and that the people I had read about had really existed. This knowledge helped me to enjoy life to its fullest by leading me to be at peace with God and the world around me.
When I told my mother about my idea she looked worried, yet encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I pondered about how I should introduce the Book of Mormon, and decided to start by explaining it like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem and recounting their long journey through the desert and over the ocean. After much prayer and thought, I discovered that the right words began to flow easily into my mind. God was answering!
Patiently I awaited the day of my presentation. As it drew nearer, I noticed that the other students were presenting books like Dracula,The Godfather, and Rosemary’s Baby, books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. I wondered again, should I really introduce the Book of Mormon in class? But I felt that now, more than ever, I had to do it. I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last the day arrived. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but since I feared that if the students saw the title first they would be less receptive I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation on her knees, praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I stood before the class and started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I could hear myself relating the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible. I spoke more words than I had ever intended to, and recall the attentive looks of the other students.
After about 20 minutes I finished my discourse, leaving my teacher and the class speechless for several minutes. Then Mrs. Protschka turned to the class and asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
From that moment on, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.
For most of the remaining class period I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon. One said I looked like a minister during the presentation; others remarked I spoke with the power of a prophet.

Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.

I hope we are reading the Book of Mormon with our children regularly. I have discussed this with my own children. They have shared with me two observations. First, persistence in reading the scriptures daily as a family is the key. My daughter in a lighthearted way describes their early-morning efforts with mostly teenage children to consistently read the scriptures. She and her husband wake up early in the morning and move through the blurry mist to grasp the iron railing that lines their staircase to where their family gathers to read the word of God. Persistence is the answer, and a sense of humor helps. It requires great effort from every family member every day, but it is worth the effort. Temporary setbacks are overshadowed by persistence.
The second is how our youngest son and his wife are reading the scriptures with their young family. Two out of their four children are not old enough to read. For the five-year-old, they have five finger signals to which he responds in order for him to participate fully in the family scripture reading. The signal for finger 1 is for him to repeat, “And it came to pass” whenever it appears in the Book of Mormon. I have to admit that I love the fact that the phrase appears so often. Incidentally, for the interest of young families, finger signal 2 is “And thus we see”; fingers 3, 4, and 5 are chosen by the parents based on the words contained in the chapter they are reading.
We know that family scripture study and family home evenings are not always perfect. Regardless of the challenges you face, do not become discouraged.

Her name was Millicent, and she was my closest friend—literally. Millicent was a big, bulky back brace I wore in the ninth grade to help straighten the abnormal curvature of my spine. I called the brace Millicent because—well, because someone suggested I give it a name just for fun, and because that was my least favorite name at the moment.
I just wanted to fit in that year, but my days of melting into a crowd were over, at least until I stopped growing. Now I was stared at—a lot. Most of the time I tried to ignore the extra attention, but inside it really bothered me. And sometimes, more often than I would like to admit, I would even glare back.
But one time was different. I was with my family in the airport, eagerly waiting for my brother to get home from his mission. We talked in excited anticipation before his arrival. As we were talking, I glanced across the airport terminal and saw a woman watching me intently. This time, instead of scowling, I smiled and returned to my family’s conversation.
A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the woman standing beside me. “I couldn’t help noticing the brace you’re wearing,” she said. “I had to wear one years ago when I was in high school, only mine was a lot more obvious than yours!” We chatted for a few minutes about our respective experiences, and then she wished me well and went on her way.
That experience got me thinking. I was encouraged to know there were others who knew how I felt. But it also made me realize I had always assumed people had negative reasons for staring at me—that they thought my brace was funny looking or strange. I’m sure some did think that. But there were probably plenty of other people who were not thinking negatively. And maybe I could have made some new friends if I had acknowledged them with a friendly smile.
I realized then how easy it is to jump to conclusions about people. We don’t always know what they’re really thinking or what their motivations are. And a smile will open more doors than a frown or glare ever will.

I know a young man who was thrilled to be selected for an all-star basketball team to play in a tournament in another state. The first evening at the hotel, the other roommates decided to watch pornographic movies. This boy left the room and walked the city by himself well into the night until the movies were over. I am sure it was embarrassing, lonely, and challenging. But that is courage; that is manhood in its truest sense. And I say, “Behold a man!”—an 18-year-old boy turned man. I know hundreds of young men who have withstood ridicule and embarrassment to turn down drugs, alcohol, and illicit sex in order to turn to serve one another, provide a righteous example, or defend the principles of righteousness. All young men must face the wiles of Satan. It is impossible to escape this fight. But it is always possible to come out victorious. Yes, a true man is strong enough to withstand the wiles of Satan.

I had lunch recently with Elder and Sister John Hess of Ashton, Idaho. “We’re just old potato farmers,” John told me, but that is precisely what the nation of Belarus in the Russia Moscow Mission needed. For years the very best potato yields on government plots of ground there had been 50 sacks of potatoes a hectare. Considering it takes 22 sacks of seed to plant a hectare, the return was poor indeed. They needed help.

Brother Hess asked for ground just three feet away from the government plots, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work with the same seed, tools, and fertilizer available in Belarus. Come harvest time they began to dig, then called on others to dig, then called on everyone to dig. With the same rainfall and soil, but with an extra measure of Idaho industry, experience, and prayer, the plots planted by the Hesses produced a whopping 550 sacks per hectare—11 times better than any prior yield on that land. At first no one would believe the difference. They wondered if secret teams had come in the night or if some wonder drug had been used. But it was none of that. Brother Hess said, “We needed a miracle, so we asked for one.” Now just little more than a year later, in that community young proselyting missionaries are finding much more success just because an “old potato farmer” from Idaho answered the call of his church.

President and Sister Groberg were called to preside over the Tonga Mission when Gayle, their fifth daughter, was only six months old. When they left, Jean, a young mother going into a strange land with five young children, expressed her feelings this way: “I had heard John talk through the years of these people—their great faith, their love, and their service—and I didn’t have any worries. I was really excited about it.” She summarized that period of their life by saying that it was more than a chapter, it was the whole theme of life. “It really doesn’t matter where you are, the things that really count can be developed in any humble or great place.”

Some five months later, on a blustery December day at the Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe, Arizona, Gary stood bareheaded as the national anthem was played and savored the finest moment of his football career. The chance to play in a bowl game was a dream come true, and he could feel in his bones that the Cougars would win. The stadium was packed, banners waved, bands played, and he felt good. The whole team felt good. They all knew there were pro scouts in the stands, and they all knew that the young man they had come to see had a number 12 on his back.
A few minutes into the ball game, an elderly man picked up his cane and slowly walked out. As he left the stadium he was heard to say “I paid 20 dollars to see this game, and I didn’t even care who won or lost. I just came to see that fine young man play football. And now I’m going home.”
Others sat through the game in shocked disappointment. After 12 minutes of play, Gary was helped from the field with a separated shoulder. He would not be able to return to the game, nor would he play in the Hawaiian Hula Bowl to which he’d been invited.
The last time the Cougar quarterback left the football field, his fans did not cheer or applaud. They watched in disbelief. Although the pro scouts didn’t get to see much of Gary that day, his record was so impressive that the Cincinnati Bengals later made him their third-round draft choice. That day in the Fiesta Bowl, however, turned into one of gloom for Gary and the Cougars.
“I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit I was as discouraged as a person could be when I walked off that field,” Gary says. “My hopes were crunched. Down in the locker room, the doctor examined my injured shoulder. Then I pulled on my sweatshirt and listened—with another kind of hurt—as BYU lost the game. All the while I was asking the question that we all ask at one time or another: Why?
“But the old cliché is true. Time is a great healer. My shoulder is mended. BYU is headed for another great football season. And I’m looking forward to playing pro ball.
“I guess you can always draw a lesson out of experiences like the one I had at the Fiesta Bowl. Sometimes, just when things are looking good for us, we get knocked down. And we get up stunned and hurt and angry. Now at those times we can sit and sulk and hold our wound for awhile, and most of us do, but the only way we can really get back on our feet is to get down on our knees and try to sort out what the important things in life are.”

Tylor dressed and ate his breakfast as fast as he could. Today was Friday, and he had a very special mission.

Of all the things in the world that a boy could want, a tree house was what Tylor wanted most. He had wanted one as long as he could remember, but something had always stood in the way. One summer, his parents told him that he was too young. Another summer, they just couldn’t afford it. The next year looked good, but time ran out—his father had been too busy with work that summer.

But now, the summer of his ninth birthday, everything was arranged: Grandpa would supply all the wood. Mother had already helped Tylor save his pennies all year to buy the bright red paint for it. Father and he would build it tomorrow. And Cousin Hank would help paint it.

Only one thing still needed to be done. Tylor had to find some way to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard on the outskirts of town to Tylor’s house on Elm Street.

This was Tylor’s project today. He had received a wagon for a Christmas present a few years back and hadn’t played with it for at least a year. It had been put in the garage some time ago, and now it was loaded with old newspapers and magazines. Today Tylor would clean it out and use it to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard.

In no time, the wagon and Tylor were ready to depart. The only thing left to do was tell Mother that he was going. He found her on the back porch with two laundry baskets and a pillowcase full of dirty clothes.

“Oh, Tylor,” she said, “I’m glad you’re still here! The washer isn’t working, and I need to take these clothes to the laundromat. I can’t carry all of them by myself. Would you mind helping me before you get your wood?”

“Sure, Mom. We can load them into my wagon, and I’ll pull it. That way your hands will be free for Damion and Leslie.” (They were Tylor’s younger brother and sister.)

It didn’t take long to get the laundry finished, and Tylor was glad to help his mother, who was always doing things for him and everyone else in the family. After helping her carry the clean clothes into the house, there was still plenty of time to get the lumber. Tylor took the handle of his wagon and started down the street in the direction of his grandpa’s lumberyard.

After walking a few blocks, Tylor met Mr. Harper, an elderly man who had no children but who had always been kind to the children in the neighborhood. He owned an old go-cart that he allowed Tylor to ride on the weekends in exchange for running errands for him. Tylor liked Mr. Harper very much.

“You are just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Harper told him. “I need a favor. Yesterday my fridge went on the blink and everything inside spoiled. I got it fixed this morning, but now I’m out of milk and I’m afraid my old cat won’t stand for that. Do you have time to run to the dairy for me?”

Although he was anxious to get to the lumberyard, Tylor had always been taught to help a friend in need, and Mr. Harper was a friend. “Sure thing, Mr. Harper. Can I leave my wagon here?”

“Of course.” The elderly man handed Tylor money for the milk.

When Tylor returned, he saw that Mr. Harper had filled his wagon with empty pop bottles. What a surprise!

“That’s for running to the dairy for me,” Mr. Harper told him. “I thought you could find some use for these.”

“Thanks a lot!” Tylor called as he turned the wagon around and headed for home. All the way, he imagined what he would buy with the money he’d get for turning the pop bottles in for cash.

He took the wagon into the garage and sat the bottles neatly on a shelf. Then he turned his wagon around and started off again.

He had only gone a few yards, when he noticed his little brother crying. For a moment he wanted to turn away. After all, it was getting late and he wanted to get to the lumberyard and back while he still had sunshine to play in. But he couldn’t go knowing that something was wrong with Damion. Tylor went over to him. “What’s wrong, Damion?”

Damion opened his hand to reveal several nickels. “All the kids are waiting for the ice-cream truck to buy an ice-cream treat, but I don’t have enough money.”

Tylor thought a moment. “I don’t have any money, either, but I know where we can get some. Come with me.”

Tylor and Damion reloaded the pop bottles into the wagon. After they had turned them in at the store, there was enough money for them and Leslie to all buy an ice-cream treat.

Tylor did not eat his right away. He put it into the freezer so that he could enjoy it later, after he was back with the lumber.

Pulling his wagon over cement, grass, dirt, and even railroad tracks, he finally arrived at the lumberyard. With Grandpa’s help, he loaded the lumber onto the wagon and tied it securely with a piece of old rope.

All the way home, he sang songs he had learned in Primary. He was very tired, and it was late. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time left for playing, but it didn’t matter. He was very happy. He had helped his mother, Mr. Harper, and his brother and still had time to get the lumber. As he smiled to himself, he realized that this feeling must be why Mother always had a smile on her face, too.

Where I grew up, just outside Buenos Aires, Argentina, soccer is very popular. When I was 10 or 11 years old, the boys in my neighborhood would get together to play in an empty lot on a corner where the truck and bus traffic was heavy.
One day as I sat on my bike at the curb watching some older boys play, I heard a voice say, “Jorge, scoot over.” I looked around, but there wasn’t anyone there with me. I was alone.
But I paid attention. I moved my bike just around the corner of the lot and went on watching the game from the curb of the other street. No more than a minute later, two trucks collided in the intersection and slid into the curb where I had been standing.
If I had stayed there, they would have smashed me. But someone told me—and I know who it was—that I should move just around the corner.

Think about the neighborhood you live in. Okay, now think of it 30 or 40 years from now. How will it look? Who will live there? Will it still hold special memories for you?
Neighborhoods age over time. As a housing specialist for Salt Lake City’s Community Outreach program, Mary Allen knows that. And she knows that sometimes the aging isn’t kind.
But what Mary wanted to do right now was convince more than 250 young people from the East Millcreek North Stake that even when a neighborhood gets run down, it’s still home to the people who live there.
As she spoke, Mary, a member of the Liberty Stake Eighth Ward, raised her hands and stretched them out, as if to embrace the east central city streets surrounding the community center where the youth volunteers were gathered.
“This used to be one of the main parts of town,” she said. “Anything south of here was pasture. The old-timers—and I am one of them—remember this as the heart of the city.”
But people moved to the suburbs, private homes became apartments, and the combination of limited-income senior citizens and low-income renters left the area neglected.
“Landscaping isn’t critical when you’re struggling just to survive,” Mary explained.
“I grew up in the Church,” she continued. “I used to go on Saturday morning service projects, just like you. I used to wonder if it meant much to cut some weeds or help paint a house. But I can see it from the other side now. This is my neighborhood, and what you’re doing means a lot. It brings a spark of life to people who wonder if anybody cares.”
It was almost as though Mary were a coach, giving a pep talk before a big game. When she finished, a team rushed out the doors, determined to make a difference in a day. They fanned out over a one-block area, mowing lawns, planting sod, cleaning up debris, scraping old paint, slapping on new paint, and generally sprucing and tidying up.
The stake’s program, called Adopt-a-Block, was developed over a period of months as they consulted with Mary and with the city council volunteer program. To lend support, the city donated 2,000 gallons of paint, plus rollers and brushes, and convinced a waste management company to donate the use of a dumpster, a land fill company to donate space at a dump site, and a grocery chain to donate trash bags.
“The point of the program was to expose the youth to a different environment and life-style, within 20 minutes of where they live,” said David Garrett, East Millcreek North Stake Young Men president. “We need to provide service for those in our own community. These are our brothers and sisters, and they need our help.”
Sarah Heaton, 12, told of watching one older lady react to the cleanup. “She was watching as we worked on her yard and house. You could see her looking happier and happier as the work went on.
“I took a break and walked around the block a couple of times, just to see what everybody was doing,” Sarah continued. “It was amazing to see how many kids were involved, and especially great to see the before and after on some of the houses.”
Micha Smith, 16, spent the day mowing knee-high grass at the home of a Vietnamese refugee family. “They didn’t talk much; in fact I don’t think the parents spoke English at all,” Micha said. “But I came over to find a tool, and while I was picking it up, one of the children said ‘thank you’ in broken English. I had a good feeling about it. In fact, I still have a good feeling.”
“We re-did a flower garden for one woman,” said Jackie Wilde, 17. “At first she was a bit nervous. I think she wondered if we knew what we were doing. But she kept saying, ‘God bless you all.’ It made me feel something that I’ve never felt before, the joy was so deep. I felt like coming back the next day to ask her if I could do more.”
The stories went on and on. A man brought out an old chain saw, eventually got it working, and joined the youth in cutting dead branches from a tree. A woman who initially refused to let the youth on her property changed her mind when she saw what was being done for her neighbors. Stephanie Poulsen, 18, and Marci Fuelling, 17, made “best friends” with a couple of young boys playing in one of the backyards. Todd Edwards, 18, worked side by side with high councilor Craig Beck, laying sod and forging a friendship.
In addition to the one-block clean-up, some of the youth also traveled to the west side of town to paint over gang slogans and graffiti.
“I’m sure people who live there don’t like having that stuff all over their neighborhood,” said Andy Peterson, 12. “I wonder if people who do it realize how much work it takes to cover it up.”
By the end of the day, the dumpster was full, several houses had fresh coats of paint and new lawns, and grass, trees, and bushes looked neat and trimmed. But far more important, the youth of East Millcreek had learned about serving others.
“I felt like Mary’s block was my block, too,” said Andrea Ence, 12.
Adopt-a-Block wasn’t an earth-shattering event. It didn’t even last the entire day. But ask Mary Allen if it helped, and her smile will tell you immediately.
“It may not have changed the world,” she said. “But I think it changed some hearts. And that’s the beginning of changing the world.”

Shauna Bart of Logan, Utah, loves to dance. She is so good that she received a “Special Distinguished Dancer” award in a Miss Utah Drill Team competition. But the thing that makes Shauna different is the fact that she is deaf.
Shauna loves to listen to music, although she only hears and feels the beat. She started taking dancing lessons as a child and enjoys dancing with a group so she doesn’t get ahead or behind the music.
During the last couple of years she has been working on developing her sign language skills since she already is an accomplished lip reader. She finds signing a tremendous help in communicating with her deaf friends, and it also provides her with a way to fully understand meetings and programs at church and at school. After the first sacrament meeting she attended with an interpreter, she said, “I didn’t realize sacrament meeting was so neat.”
Shauna has a strong testimony and has been an active member of the Logan 21st Ward, Logan Utah Cache Stake. She has taken part in meetings and programs, given talks, been in road shows, and participated at girls’ camp and at youth conferences.
Shauna’s goal is to attend college and major in special education. She hopes to work with deaf children someday.

The principle of eternal families changed my life before I was even born. When my dad asked my mother to marry him, she expressed her convictions about going to the temple in a letter that has been invaluable to our family. Part of that letter reads:
“Temple marriage is forever. It lasts beyond death. Children born to parents [who] married in the temple [and] who live up to their vows will rejoin their parents in heaven. The family unit is preserved for time and eternity. Steve, I believe as clearly as I believe the sun will rise tomorrow that this is true. And I also believe that as much as my Heavenly Father loves me, as much as He loves you, He could not preserve any other kind of relationship beyond death because He is a God of truth, bound by His word.
“Steve, if I love you this much, and I have known you only two and a half years, how much more will you mean to me as time goes by? If I can’t answer you now because I can’t face what the consequences might be, how could I ever, ever face them later?
“Without the covenant of God, two people can build their lives together, only to see it all snatched away in an unexpected nightmare. There can be no peace of mind.”
Those words supplied the added encouragement my father needed to join the Church. My mother committed to marriage, and my parents were sealed in the temple for time and eternity. My father’s testimony was strengthened by the peace of mind found through temple marriage—a peace of mind that would become very meaningful years later.