Gospel Story Finder

“Today we’ll make pictures of our houses,” said Miss Greene, the teacher.
“Yippee!” Everyone in kindergarten loved to paint. Matt carefully dipped the tip of his brush into the orange paint. Then he made a bright roof for his house. That’s when it happened—he knocked over the orange paint, and it splattered on his shirt.
Matt looked down at the big orange blob. His mom wouldn’t like that. He didn’t like it either.
“Would you like me to call your mother and ask her to bring you another shirt?” Miss Greene asked.
“She’s shopping today,” Matt said, swallowing hard. He didn’t want to cry.
“Then we’ll just have to do our best to clean you up,” Miss Greene smiled at him.
A little later, Matt was sitting at his table, printing the alphabet. The spill had been wiped up, and his hands were scrubbed clean. But his shirt still had the orange blob on it.
“That looks like a pumpkin,” Lisa giggled, pointing at it.
Matt tried to slouch so that it didn’t show.
“We could call it your pumpkin shirt,” Bill said.
“No you can’t,” said Matt, his ears turning pink.
Everyone started working again, but Matt’s pencil kept slipping, His letters looked all squiggly.
The recess bell rang, and everyone lined up to go outside. Usually Matt hurried to the front of the line, but not today. He didn’t want to go outside and hear the kids laugh at his “pumpkin shirt.”
“Hi,” said someone. Matt looked up.
Albert stood beside him. Albert was probably the quietest kid in the class. Matt had never played games with him. He’d never even thought about asking Albert to play.
Albert dropped a blue sweater on the table. “Here, you can wear that over your shirt today. My mom always makes me take a sweater, but it’s warm enough today without it.”
Matt slipped the sweater on. The sleeves were still warm from Albert’s arms. He slowly buttoned it up. It covered up the orange blob perfectly. “Thanks!” Matt smiled at Albert.
Albert nodded and went to go outside.
“Wait,” Matt said. “Do you want to play catch with me? I brought my ball.”
Albert grinned. “I sure do!”
Matt grinned back. He still didn’t like the orange blob on his shirt, but he did like the new friend he had found.

Josh had only a few toys. But his friend, Joe, had a bedroom full of them! There were balls and trucks and games and books. But of all Joe’s toys, Josh liked the cement mixer best. It was a bright green truck with a yellow mixing drum on top. And whenever Josh went over to Joe’s after school, he chose to play with the green and yellow cement mixer.
“Do you want to play with my race cars?” Joe asked one afternoon when they had finished eating some gingersnaps and milk.
“No, thanks,” replied Josh, who was busily running the cement mixer around Joe’s bedroom carpet.
“Then how about a game of checkers, Josh?” his friend asked, getting the checker set out of his big toy box.
Josh only shook his head as he watched the mixer slowly spin on top of the truck.
“Let’s go outside and toss my new football,” suggested Joe.
“Maybe later,” Josh answered.
Finally, Joe chose a soda water truck and began to play beside Josh on the floor, until they could both smell roast beef and knew it was time for dinner.
Joe’s mother came in and said, “Dinner’s ready, Joe. If you clean up your toys now, Josh may call his mother and ask if he may stay for dinner.”
Joe and Josh began grabbing the toys on the floor and putting them in Joe’s toy box. Before they were finished, Josh noticed that the green and yellow cement mixer had fallen over the side of the toy box and was laying on the floor. He started to tell Joe, who was closing the box, but for some reason the words wouldn’t come. Joe closed the toy box and ran to wash his hands. “Call your mom while I’m washing up!” Joe called from the bathroom.
Josh was still sitting on the rug in Joe’s room. Almost before he knew it, he put on his coat and slipped the cement mixer inside of it.
Joe came back in, drying his hands on a towel. “Did you call your mom?” he asked, smiling at Josh.
Josh wiggled around on the floor. “Um, no, I didn’t because I remember that my mom told me to go straight home.”
“OK,” said Joe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he arrived home, Josh didn’t stop and talk to his mother while she fixed dinner like he usually did. Instead, he ran up the stairs to his room.
Josh took the cement mixer truck out from under his coat and ran it along the floor by his bed. It still fascinated him to see the mixer going around and around on top. After he had run the truck around his room once more, Josh stopped. He didn’t seem to enjoy playing with the truck as he did before, and he had an unhappy feeling. In fact, Josh didn’t feel good at all. He wished he could go hide somewhere. He was feeling so bad by this time he didn’t notice his mother when she came into his room with some clean laundry.
“Why, Josh, I didn’t know you were here! I must have been downstairs when you came into the kitchen to talk to me. Did Joe give you that cement mixer? Isn’t it shiny!”
Josh swallowed hard. For a second, he almost said, “Yes, Joe gave me this cement mixer.” But somehow he knew that would only make him feel worse. So he looked down at the carpet and said very softly, “No, Mom, Joe didn’t give it to me. I saw it fall out of his toy box. And when he went into the other room, I put it under my coat and brought it home.”
Josh held his breath and waited for his mother to scold him. Imagine his surprise when she hugged him instead and said very quietly, “Josh, you know you did wrong by taking the cement mixer because it doesn’t belong to you. But you surely did the right thing to tell me the truth. You don’t feel very happy right now, do you, son?”
“No,” replied Josh, past a big lump in his throat.
“Well, I’ll tell you what we can do. After dinner, I’ll go over to Joe’s with you and you can give the cement mixer back and tell him you’re sorry. How would that be?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” declared Josh. But then he looked into his mother’s eyes and heard himself say, “Maybe that would make me feel better.”
So, after dinner, Josh and his mother walked over to Joe’s house. Josh thought about not going in, but deep down inside he really wanted to talk to Joe, even though he felt scared. Josh made himself walk up to the door and ring the bell. When Joe answered, he said, “Here’s your cement mixer, Joe.”
“But I thought you were playing with it here this afternoon,” Joe said with a puzzled look on his face.
Josh swallowed hard. “I was, but when you were washing your hands, I put it under my coat and took it home. Now I want to tell you I’m sorry, and I’ll never do such a thing again.”
Joe looked at Josh for a long time. Then he took the cement mixer from Josh’s hand and said, “Well, that’s OK. I’m glad you brought it back.” He smiled and said, “We’re still friends. How about coming over tomorrow after school to play with my new football?”
Josh felt good again as he nodded his head and thought about how much fun that would be. After all, when you had a friend as great as Joe, who needed a green and yellow cement mixer!

Dr. Walker came one evening with a book under his arm and a flower in his hand. “Kari, I want you to have this book. I noticed you and your mother reading together, and I guess I wanted to get into the act. I think you of all people might understand a little of what this young boy went through. He was about your age.”
Kari reached for the book and smiled when she realized it was about the Prophet Joseph Smith. As she read she began to feel that Joseph was a good friend as they traveled together through pain, trials, endurance, and above all, loneliness.
A few weeks after the operation, Dr. Walker told Kari she would have to have radiation therapy. The first snowfall had covered the old oak tree when Kari’s mother drove her to the first treatment. Dr. Walker had prepared her for the aftereffects as best he could, but she soon learned to hate the radiation treatments, even though she knew they were probably saving her life. She wrote in her journal, “A radiation treatment is 100 stormy nights all mixed into one.”
Kari’s mother kept her promise. She was there every step of the way. She was a cheerleader in a house dress and apron, keeping up the faith and the fight.
Christmas came and went. The words “Kari, make it just one more day,” became Mother’s battle cry. Or if the fatigue or nausea was unbearable, the words were, “Kari, make it just one more hour.”
As winter dragged on, the hours and days merged into a gray landscape of pain and exhaustion. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, Kari gave up. She lay in bed looking at an unopened valentine from her mother. Finally, she let it fall to the floor, still unopened. She was tired beyond caring. Her leg burned and itched. She was on the verge of vomiting. She lay back and gave herself up to “What if?” and “Why me?”
Turning her head as if to hide the pointless tears, she saw through her window the ropes of her swing. They moved lazily with the wind, pale lines against the bare oak limbs and gray sky. She struggled to her elbow, then slid heavily from her bed and limped to the window. As she looked down at the swing, a memory stirred and grew strong. She knew what she had to do.
She had made it down the stairs somehow and was halfway out the door when her little brother John found her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said. “Please get back to bed. It’s cold out here. You’ll catch cold and …”
“Just help me get to the swing.”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The swing? You want to swing? It’s freezing out here.”
Kari kept limping toward the swing. “If you won’t help me, I’ll get there myself.”
John put an arm around Kari’s waist, and she leaned on his shoulder. Together they moved on toward the swing. Each step took forever. Kari held her stomach to keep from retching, dragging her leg behind her.
Finally they reached the wooden seat. Kari sat down and John began pushing her. At first she could do nothing but hold on weakly, but then she felt a change. Her grip tightened. Her head felt less heavy on her shoulders. Slowly at first, then more swiftly, strength came flooding into her from some hidden reservoir. For the first time in weeks she felt fueled by a purpose. She began pulling hard on the rope and stretching her toes forward. She felt as if she were reaching with her legs for the height her soul required. With all the strength she possessed she struggled higher and higher, hanging at each summit in a weightless, timeless calm, then dropping back into a dizzy gulf. Soon she was higher than she had ever been before. Street on street opened to her. Suddenly the whole valley was before her, clear to the horizon. She could see to the edge of the world. Her toes touched oak twigs. She felt as if she had left her body behind while her spirit soared. With every swing the world looked new and different. The oak limbs blurring past were the color of Thomas’s new suit.
The pages of Dr. Walker’s book began to dance in circles through Kari’s mind. She thought of Joseph crying out to the Lord in the jail at Liberty, and she heard the answer:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity … shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes” (D&C 121:7–8).
She felt as if she were kneeling with the Prophet as he searched the heavens again for the height he needed, and again heard the voice. “If the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).
Bells chimed somewhere in the valley, and Kari thought they were ringing in her soul.
All her newfound strength suddenly drained from her. She was barely able to hold on as the swing slowed. She went limp as John grabbed the ropes and stopped her.
He came around from behind the swing and faced Kari, steadying her as she slumped forward. He was surprised to see a calmness about her. And something that had been missing much too long seemed to have come back.
“John?”
“Kari, what is it? Do you need the doctor?”
Kari shook her head. “I was just wondering how long a woman lives. How old is a woman usually when she dies?”
John shivered in the 35-degree weather. “I had a teacher at school tell me the average life of a woman was 70 or so. She was about 50, and I think she told us that to take away our hopes of getting a different teacher in the near future.”
The wind stopped blowing for a moment, and the air felt less harsh. “John, Dr. Walker says I’ve got three more months of radiation treatments. Right now that looks like forever, but when I think of living 50 or 60 years after that, it’s really just an instant.”
John took his jacket off and put it over Kari’s shoulders. He glimpsed his mother at the kitchen window and knew that in a few moments she would be running out to bring Kari back to the safety of the house.
Kari made circles for a moment with her toe. “The surgeons think they got all the cancer, but they won’t be sure for at least five years, and even then there are no guarantees. But, John …” She took his hands and found that they were strong, like Thomas’s, like her father’s. “Even if they didn’t get it all—when I think of even the longest life compared to forever, it’s like sitting here on the swing and seeing just beyond the yard compared to being so high I can see the entire valley. It’s just a moment.”
John looked a little dubious. “I’d have to say it was a long moment, in my opinion.”
Kari smiled despite the churning of her stomach and the screaming of her leg. “Okay, a long moment, but still a moment.”
“Now let’s go in, Kari. Please? Mom’s coming out of the house, and she’s going to be madder than wet hornets.”
John lifted Kari from the swing. Her head began to swim, and her stomach lurched. He held her tight and started guiding her back to the house. Suddenly she stopped and turned around to look once more at the swing. She knew, as some things are just known, that she would swing again when the bluejays began to fly and the sun warmed the house once more.
“John, Thomas was right.”
John turned around and looked at the swing too. “Thomas is usually right, Kari. He’s the brains in this family.”
The swing began to move slightly as the wind picked up. Kari saw her mother out of the corner of her eye, running to help.
Kari turned her back to the swing, and at the same time she turned her back on giving up. Snow began to fall, but Kari’s thoughts were on the coming spring. She was thinking about the hours she would spend on the swing, and about how far she would learn to see.

Isn’t it nice to have a plan for your life? To have everything figured out? I thought I did, until I was diagnosed with a chronic health condition called polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).
When I was diagnosed, I grew angry and confused at times, and I focused all of my energy on getting rid of this condition.
I later realized that that wasn’t how God wanted me to view this trial. The Spirit helped me break free of these three unhealthy perspectives I struggled with and replace them with better ones:
At first, I thought I had done something wrong to deserve this disease and that if I changed my habits, I could be “fixed.”
I obsessively researched and tried many “solutions” that did little to help.
When I turned to Heavenly Father for answers, the Spirit helped me realize that we aren’t to blame for many struggles we face—some challenges just come with mortality. Elder Anthony D. Perkins of the Seventy said, “Suffering does not mean God is displeased with your life.”1 By letting go of blame and turning to faith, I was able to find hope and peace.
I believed that I could be healed completely if I just had enough faith, and I was constantly disappointed when I wasn’t. Eventually I learned that it’s also important to have faith not to be healed.
My “thorn in the flesh” has also helped me rely on God, thereby turning my weakness into a strength. I’ve learned that overcoming challenges can mean being able to manage them by relying on strength from the Savior, rather than getting rid of them altogether.

To my brethren, the fathers in this Church, I say, I know you wish you were a more perfect father. I know I wish I were. Even so, despite our limitations, let us press on. Let us lay aside the exaggerated notions of individualism and autonomy in today’s culture and think first of the happiness and well-being of others. Surely, despite our inadequacies, our Heavenly Father will magnify us and cause our simple efforts to bear fruit. I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”

Steven (8) and Douglas (11) Brown, and Kevin (8) and Kimball (11) Galbraith were neighbors in Sugar City, Idaho. On Saturday, June 5, 1976, they were planning to go fishing at their secret spot on the Teton River after Steven and Douglas had finished mowing their lawn.
Ordinarily the boys used a power mower but for some reason that day they used the hand mower even though it took longer. Word about the dam breaking came before they finished the lawn.
Doug said, “If we had used the power mower we’d have been at the Teton River and Dad doesn’t think that he could have gotten us out and we probably would have drowned.”
One month later Steven, Douglas, Kevin, Kimball, and Paul went back to see their homes. (see photographs)—

Some time ago, I received a faith-filled letter from Laurence M. Hilton. May I share with you that letter’s account of surviving personal tragedy with faith, nothing wavering.
In 1892 Thomas and Sarah Hilton, Laurence’s grandparents, went to Samoa, where Thomas was set apart as mission president after their arrival. They brought with them a baby daughter; two sons were born to them while they served there. Tragically, all three died in Samoa, and in 1895 the Hiltons returned from their mission childless.
David O. McKay was a friend of the family and was deeply touched by their loss. In 1921, as part of a world tour of visits to the members of the Church in many nations, Elder McKay, then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, stopped in Samoa. Before leaving on his tour, he had promised the now-widowed Sister Hilton that he would personally visit the graves of her three children. I share with you the letter Elder McKay wrote to her from Samoa:
“Dear Sister Hilton:
“Just as the descending rays of the late afternoon sun touched the tops of the tall coconut trees, Wednesday, May 18th, 1921, a party of five stood with bowed heads in front of the little Fagali‘i Cemetery. … We were there, as you will remember, in response to a promise I made you before I left home.
“The graves and headstones are in a good state of preservation. … I reproduce here a copy I made as I stood … outside the stone wall surrounding the spot.
“Janette Hilton
Bn: Sept. 10, 1891
Died: June 4, 1892
‘Rest, darling Jennie’
“George Emmett Hilton
Bn: Oct. 12, 1894
Died: Oct. 19, 1894
‘Peaceful be thy slumber’
“Thomas Harold Hilton
Bn: Sept. 21, 1892
Died: March 17, 1894
‘Rest on the hillside, rest’
“As I looked at those three little graves, I tried to imagine the scenes through which you passed during your young motherhood here in old Samoa. As I did so, the little headstones became monuments not only to the little babes sleeping beneath them, but also to a mother’s faith and devotion to the eternal principles of truth and life. Your three little ones, Sister Hilton, in silence most eloquent and effective, have continued to carry on your noble missionary work begun nearly 30 years ago, and they will continue as long as there are gentle hands to care for their last earthly resting place.
“By loving hands their dying eyes were closed;
By loving hands their little limbs composed;
By foreign hands their humble graves adorned;
By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.
“Tofa Soifua,
“David O. McKay”
This touching account conveys to the grieving heart “the peace … which passeth all understanding.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
My father suffered all his life from low self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness. He was raised by an alcoholic father who often told him how worthless he thought he was. Thankfully, my father never became an alcoholic himself, but he never told me and my siblings that he was proud of us or praised us for things we had done well. Growing up, I tried to please him, but I always felt I couldn’t quite make the mark. This caused us to have a strained relationship.
One year, I mentioned this to my wise bishop. He counseled me to write my father a letter telling him all the reasons I was thankful for him. This would be no small feat for me. My wounds were deep, and I didn’t want my letter of gratitude to become one of resentment. So I prayed. With the Spirit guiding me, the reasons that I was grateful for my father began to flow. It took time, but when I finished, I had filled two full pages.
I delivered my letter, not knowing how my father would respond. But I knew that I didn’t get to choose his response. I just needed to look into my own heart and remember why I had written the letter.
The next morning, I received a phone call from my stepmother. She was crying. She told me my father had read the letter over and over and over. She said he couldn’t talk to me because he was crying too hard.
“Thank you!” she said. “Your father needed this.”
Later that day, my father called to thank me. He called me every day for several days to express how much the letter meant to him.
I wish I could say that our relationship was miraculously healed, but we still had much work to do. Over time, my heart began to heal, and our relationship improved. Eventually, I was able to forgive him.
A few years later, after a tremendous battle with cancer, my father died. I am sure he is now experiencing great joy as the Savior helps him heal from years of abuse. I know that I have experienced healing through the power of Jesus Christ’s Atonement. The Savior understands our needs and can help us remove the poison of hurt and resentment from our souls. I know that gratitude, forgiveness, and love are powerful cures.

After Paulo came up out of the baptismal font, he and Dad got dressed in dry clothes. Then Dad and Grandpa and the bishop laid their hands on his head and confirmed him. Now he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I feel so great,” Paulo said. He touched his heart. “In here.”
Mom hugged him tight. “That’s because you received the gift of the Holy Ghost when you were confirmed.”
Paulo nodded. He didn’t want to do anything to make that great feeling go away. He wanted to always follow Jesus.
But the very next day, his little brother Carlo broke Paulo’s toy plane. Paulo had saved up for months to buy it!
“Look what you did!” Paulo yelled. “Why can’t you leave my stuff alone?”
“I’m sorry,” Carlo said. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Maybe we can fix it.”
“It won’t be the same!”
Carlo ran out of the room crying.
Paulo sighed. He wished he hadn’t gotten so mad. Hadn’t he promised when he was baptized that he would always follow Jesus? He knew Jesus would have been kind.
“I promised I would try to be like Jesus,” he told Mom, his voice shaking. “But I’ve already messed up! How do I get back that good feeling from my baptism?”
Mom hugged him tight. “We all mess up. But Jesus gave us a way to have the Holy Ghost with us again after we do something wrong.”
Paulo could guess what she was going to say. “You mean repentance, right? I have to ask for forgiveness.”
Mom nodded. “And when you take the sacrament, you’ll renew the promise you made to follow Jesus. Then you’ll be just as clean as you were right after you were baptized and confirmed.”
Paulo went to find Carlo. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said. “Let’s fix the plane together.”
Carlo smiled, and Paulo felt like he had done what Jesus would do. When he said his prayer that night, he asked Heavenly Father to forgive him and to help him be nicer to Carlo. A warm feeling filled his heart.
That Sunday at church, Paulo paid extra attention to the sacrament prayers. He listened carefully to the words and remembered how he’d repented that week. As he took the bread and water, he felt Heavenly Father’s love for him. And it was such a great feeling!

The wind rattled the windows, and the rain sounded like hundreds of pebbles falling on the house. Billie was glad that she didn’t have to go to school that day.
Mother was baking in the kitchen, and sweet, spicy smells filled the house. Billie decided to stay by the stove and play with her special toy, an old wooden stool. She turned it upside down and climbed inside.
“Where are you going?” Mother asked.
“Up into space,” Billie answered. Suddenly there was a noise like a roaring engine, the wooden “rocket” shook, and Billie zoomed away. She flew past the moon, circled the planets, and headed for the twinkling stars. She waved to other spaceships and laughed at funny faces in the clouds below. After a while she steered her rocket back to earth.
“Did you have a good trip?” Father asked.
“Yes, but I have to leave again,” Billie answered.
“Where are you going this time?”
“Out to sea.” Billie took an old broom handle and tied it to one of the legs of the stool. After she hung a big towel at the top, she waved good-bye and sailed away.
For a long time her ship moved through gentle waters.
Then a fierce storm arose. Winds howled, and giant waves rolled and rocked the ship. Billie was tossed from side to side and almost fell into the sea, where huge whales, hungry sharks, and strange fish with bright, flashing tails darted to and fro. The sea was wild, but Billie was strong and finally steered the ship back to port.
“Was the ocean rough?” Mother asked.
“It sure was!” Billie answered.
“Maybe you need a cookie and some milk after your long trip.”
Mother has some good ideas! Billie thought.
“One of these days,” Father said, “we’ll have to take that old stool apart and make you a real toy.”
A worried look crossed Billie’s face. “But I like my stool just the way it is, thanks,” she said.
Mother and Father looked at each other and smiled. “And we love you just the way you are,” they told her.
Billie finished her milk and climbed back into the upturned stool. “Goodbye,” she called. Then a mighty whistle blew, and a silver train sped along an invisible track. It climbed a mountain where eagles nest, roared through a long, dark tunnel, and raced the wind on another magic journey.

The stars flickered once and then went out. Slowly the sky’s midnight black faded into the calm, pale gray that meets the dawn. The shadowy silhouettes of the trees in the orchard and the old rusty-red barn became more defined, clearer; then suddenly, as the sun topped the mountains, it was all there.
A dog barked. The rooster called good morning to the hens and anyone else who was listening. The birds in the loft awoke, fluttered their feathers, then rushed out of their nests into the cool morning air to catch that last, late worm on the dewy grass. The cows stirred in their stalls; they wanted to be milked. A horse whinnied and stomped his feet as he nuzzled in the manger, looking for a wisp of alfalfa. The barn owl returned from a night of hunting with a field mouse for her downy young.
I heard the creaking of the stairs. Milk pails rattled and clanged in the kitchen, and the back door slammed shut. Turning over, I saw the clock by my bed. Dad was up early; it was only 5:30 A.M.
I closed my eyes. Maybe I could sleep for a few more minutes. The ringing of the alarm made me jump. Six o’clock! I had just closed my eyes.
Stumbling sluggishly, I got out of bed and pulled on my clothes as I sleepily made my way to the bathroom. I filled the sink with icy water and washed my face, then reached for a towel. Instead, I grabbed one of my sister’s blouses. That’s girls for you, always leaving their clothes strewn around.
As I went down the hall, I stopped at my sisters’ room and gave their door a few loud knocks. I heard one sit up in bed and the other groan.
“Cut it out, Bobby!”
“Yeah, we want to sleep. It’s Saturday, you know.”
“I don’t care. It’s time to rise and shine. Besides, mom needs you to help with breakfast,” I said. “Now get up.”
I clumped down the stairs. Mom was busy in the kitchen, and dad had just come in with the milk.
“What’s for breakfast, honey? I’m as hungry as a starved hog in the winter,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Just sit down, dear,” she said with a smile. “We’re having coffee cake. Now sit down, Bobby. Elizabeth, go see if your grandfather is up yet.”
Coffee cake for breakfast? We only had that on special occasions, and I really hadn’t thought that anyone would …
“Happy Birthday, dear Bobby,” sang my sisters as mom set the steaming cake down in front of me.
“How does it feel to be 18, son?” asked grandpa as he sat down next to dad. “I was about your age when I first got that old Ford. Today would probably be a good day to start putting it back together.”
I looked at grandpa with a dazed expression. I couldn’t believe it. For as long as I could remember, the old Ford had sat in the unused part of the cow barn. Time and time again grandpa had said, “Bobby, someday when you’re old enough, you and me will put that old car back together.”
So, someday had finally come.
The old Ford had been the first car my grandfather ever owned. He bought it as a young man after a bumper crop of wheat in the early 1900s.
He was a farmer like his father and grandfather. He had lived on the land and off the land all his life. Farming was in his blood, and he had passed on this love of the land to my father, who had passed it on to me. Many times grandpa would say, “I’ve been a farmer all my life, always had dirt on my hands and mud on my boots. I’ve sat on a tractor and walked behind a plow. Yep, I’ve been a farmer all my days, and I intend to die one!” Then his wrinkled, weather-worn face would smile, and he’d be off into the past, telling a story of days long ago.
The old Ford was almost always in these stories. He loved the car almost as much as the farm. It was a part of him. Renovating it was his goal, and now it was mine, too.
Grandpa and I worked on the car most of the afternoon. We stopped at about 4:00. There was a dance in town that night, and I was going to take a girl I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I had known Margie for as long as I could remember. We were in the same kindergarten class, and I used to pull her ponytail. In junior high I used to tie the ends of her dress sashes to the back of her chair during class, and then laugh as she got up and knocked her chair over. Most girls would have gotten mad but not Margie. She would just laugh, shake her finger at me, and say that I had better watch out; she was going to get me back.
But when we went to high school, something happened. Margie was no longer the skinny-legged, freckled-faced girl in knee socks and braces. Sometime during that summer she had changed into a willowy beauty with an electrifying smile and sun-streaked hair. She was so carefree and simple, always laughing, always there to listen.
But halfway through our sophomore year she moved to the city. It was quite a blow to all of her friends, me in particular. But she promised to write and visit when she could.
So, when she called me to tell me that she was going to be in town visiting her grandparents for a few days, I couldn’t help but get excited. She had always been so fun to be with, and I was sure I would have a good time. Two years couldn’t have changed us that much.
As I drove up to the house where her grandparents lived, my hands were sweaty and butterflies were doing acrobatics in my stomach. My legs felt like spaghetti as I got out; and as I knocked on the door, I felt my face flush to a deep, hot red. The door opened and there was Margie, still willowy, still beautiful. Smiling, she let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Boy, it’s really good to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” I stuttered.
“Grandpa and grandma are in the kitchen. They said they wanted to see you when you came.”
“Oh. I saw your grandpa in town the other day, but I haven’t seen your grandma for a long time,” I said as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bobby, how’s your grandpa?” asked her grandfather. “I hope he’s doing well. Haven’t seen him around for a while. Now, we don’t want to sound old-fashioned, but what time do you think you’ll be home?”
I assured them that it wouldn’t be too late, and then we left. As we walked out to the truck, I heard Margie clear her throat. I looked at her, but all she did was smile and ask who was going to play at the dance.
“Oh, it will be records,” I said.
“Records. How different. At home we always have a band.”
“That really must be nice,” I said uncomfortably. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice kept saying that this evening wasn’t going to be what I had expected. She just kept smiling.
All the kids welcomed her when we got to the dance, but as I watched her, I saw something that puzzled me. It was sort of an amused look, one that seemed to say, “I can’t believe the way you all act. I hope I didn’t act like this.”
We danced; then she danced with some of the others. Every once in a while I would see that same look. It bothered me, but what could I do? I just let it go.
On the way home, I asked if she had had fun.
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to get home and tell the kids about it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she would tell them. Her voice wasn’t the same as it used to be. She acted differently. Maybe it was just my imagination; it was probably nothing more than seeing old friends again. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to worry about it; we were going to the county fair the next weekend, and I was sure we’d have fun.
I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

After college my sister Grace and I worked for a company with several other Latter-day Saints. Our employers were not members of the Church. When my sister became engaged, our employer planned a surprise bridal shower for her. I hoped she would respect our standards, but instead she ordered liquor, a male dancer, and a scandalous video.
Before the bridal shower, I felt the whispering of the Holy Ghost within me encouraging me to remind my boss of our standards. I grasped my Young Women medallion and thought of all the effort and sacrifices I had made when I was in Young Women to complete my personal progress. I prayed that I would be guided to stand a little taller at this time. I texted my employer my concerns, thinking that she might become offended. Nevertheless, my greatest desire was to please Heavenly Father.
When the party began, my boss didn’t talk to me or even smile at me. However, she did cancel the dancer and the video.
In the days following the party, my boss didn’t talk and laugh with me like she had before the party. However, I felt comfortable because I knew God was pleased with what I had done. About a week later, my relationship with my boss went back to normal. I know God softened her heart and helped her realize that I lived what I believed.
Lemy Labitag, Cagayan Valley, Philippines

As I neared my 12th birthday, there were several requirements to be completed before I could graduate from Primary. One was to recite the thirteen Articles of Faith in the prescribed order. The first twelve articles were relatively easy, but the thirteenth was much more difficult. It was remembering the order of the virtues that presented the challenge. Thanks to a Primary teacher who was patient and persistent, I finally completed the memorization.
Years later my wife and children and I moved into our first home. We were surprised to learn that my former Primary teacher would be our neighbor. For the 40 years we have lived in the same neighborhood, she has kept our little secret concerning my learning disability.
“We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things” (Articles of Faith 1:13).

Soon my 12th birthday came. I was ordained a deacon. Around this time, my family moved to Madison, Wisconsin, USA. I missed my friends, but I was excited to make new ones. Madison was much bigger than Manti. My new school was large. There weren’t many members of the Church. One day some popular kids invited me to a party. But the party was on the same night as a Church activity. I had learned from my experience in Primary that good things happen when I am faithful in attending my Church meetings. I thanked them for inviting me, and I explained why I couldn’t come.
The day after the party, everyone at school was talking about it. They had been drinking alcohol at the party, and everyone who went got in a lot of trouble! I was so grateful that I had been where I needed to be.

A wonderful example of this philosophy was shared by Arthur Gordon many years ago in a national magazine. He wrote:
“When I was around thirteen and my brother ten, Father had promised to take us to the circus. But at lunchtime there was a phone call; some urgent business required his attention downtown. We braced ourselves for disappointment. Then we heard him say [into the phone], ‘No, I won’t be down. It’ll have to wait.’
“When he came back to the table, Mother smiled. ‘The circus keeps coming back, you know.’
“ ‘I know,’ said Father. ‘But childhood doesn’t.’ ”

Leonard and Vera Chisango of Zimbabwe experienced challenges even with effective planning. They had prepared to serve missions their whole married life, and they knew their pensions and investments could sustain them for their first mission at the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. But while they were serving, the economy suddenly took a huge downturn, and their investments were greatly reduced.
With the help of their family, the Chisangos stayed on their mission. The blessings of that sacrifice were gratifying: their son’s business performed well, their daughter was promoted at work, and their children learned to work together in support of their parents.

The Appleton District of the Milwaukee Wisconsin Mission held a fun youth conference right in their own backyard. They planned to sail and swim in Lake Michigan.
The unpredictable weather served up two beautifully sunny days. Following the theme of the conference, “Chart Your Course,” the leaders cast the youth adrift, in theory only, in groups of six with a survival kit. Each group was to decide which items were necessary for survival. The exercise was used to foster a discussion of our journey through mortality and what things are necessary for a safe return to our Father in Heaven.
Workshops in aerobics and a Coast Guard presentation in boating safety were held prior to an afternoon swim in the lake. That evening, garbed in pirate costumes, the group had a banquet and dance.
The following morning, breakfast was prepared for the group by the Young Men. After additional workshops on spiritual survival and an emergency course in human relations, the young people were invited on board a sailboat built by a member of the district.
One of the special experiences of the conference was the participation by one young man who was battling a serious illness. Although he had difficulty participating in some of the activities, the others helped him enjoy the conference.
The group returned exuberant and pleasantly tired for an evening testimony meeting. They bore testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and the appreciation for meeting together with other young members of the Church.

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place [and] was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. … He and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing anyone can do for this boy.”
“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”
President Thomas S. Monson, “Willing and Worthy to Serve,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2012, 67, 68.

When I was 15 years old, my older brother, Joe, was trying to decide whether or not to serve a mission. Joe was an incredibly good example to me. He had planned on going to medical school, but when the opportunity came to serve a mission, he took the decision very seriously.

One evening we talked long into the night about the gospel and testimonies and missions. We reasoned that if the Church was just a good institution, he could help more people by attending medical school and becoming a doctor. On the other hand, if Joseph Smith was actually a prophet and the Book of Mormon was really true, going on a mission would be much more important.

That evening was one of the most important times in my life. After Joe and I finished talking, I went into another room and prayed about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I got a very strong feeling that the things Joe and I had been talking about were true.

Joe chose to serve a mission, and a few years later, I followed in his footsteps, serving in the British Mission. My mission experiences greatly strengthened the testimony that had begun in Primary.

This group was successful in winning battles in Argentina, and then José began to plan to free Chile. In order to do so, it was necessary to take his army of 3,500 men across the rugged snow-topped mountain ranges of the Andes. The Andes have an average width of 150 miles and an average height of 12,000 feet. The only roads were narrow, steep, and dangerous paths that wound around deep gorges and over jagged peaks.
Even the women and children in and around Mendoza, Argentina, where the march began, participated in the final preparations. The women brought their precious jewels to José to be exchanged for food and equipment. The children went from door to door collecting blankets, clean rags, and whatever could be used for bandages or for protection against the intense below-zero cold of the Andes.
One man had room in his saddlebags for nothing but the medical supplies for José, who was almost always ill with asthma, rheumatism, stomach ulcers, and various other ailments. But neither impassable mountains, severe illness, lack of money, lonely separation from his young wife and little daughter, nor other obstacles could stop this man whose dream was to free the people of South America from what he believed was the unfair government of Spain.
Finally all was in readiness. The night before the army left Mendoza, mule packs and oxcarts went through streets that had been strewn with flowers, as everyone gathered to hold special prayers and to pledge again their dedication to freedom.
The army made an unbelievable crossing of the Andes despite storm, cold, illness, and other hardships. This march prepared the way for the establishment of independence for both Chile and Peru.