Gospel Story Finder

Heber C. Kimball was ordained an Apostle in 1835 by the Prophet Joseph Smith, who considered him a man of great integrity. Two years later, while sitting in the Kirtland Temple, the Prophet Joseph whispered to Elder Kimball that the Lord wanted him to go on a mission to England. He would be the first Church missionary sent to a foreign country, a thought that was overwhelming to Elder Kimball.

“The idea of such a mission was almost more than I could bear. … I was almost ready to sink under the burden which was placed upon me,” he said. But despite the inadequacy he felt, Elder Kimball accepted the call and went to England. “The moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed.” (See History of the Church, 2:489, footnote.)
Elder Kimball had the faith of Nephi. He knew that “the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).

If I may use a personal example:
Some years ago when our first son was about a year old, I was the source of some seemingly unnecessary suffering. We were attending college, and one evening I had been playing with my boy on the floor. I left the room to study, and as I closed the door behind me he apparently reached for me, raising his hand up behind his head, and his finger went into the hinged side of the door. When I closed the door he suffered a rather severe injury to his finger.
We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, he was given a local anesthetic, and a doctor came in; he assured us that it could be repaired. Almost paradoxically, at that point the only thing my one-year-old wanted was to be held by his dad. As long as he could see me he resisted any efforts to bind him for the delicate surgery. When I left the room he calmed down, and the doctor was able to proceed.
During the process I was anxious and would draw close to the open door and look around the corner to see how things were proceeding. Perhaps by some unseen sense, as I would peek noiselessly around the corner, which was located behind him and to the side, his head would come up and he would strain to see if I was there.
On one of those occasions, as I saw him with his arm pinned out from his side—his head arched, searching for his father—the thought came to my mind of another Son, His arms stretched out, nailed to a cross, searching for His Father, and to my mind came the words, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” What was a very traumatic moment in my life suddenly became very sacred.
As I have pondered that event with my own son so many years ago, it has provided new insights and perhaps even deeper understanding of the magnitude and magnificence of the Atonement. I have a deeper appreciation of what a Father was willing to allow His Son to go through for me and for each of us. I had a new personal insight into the depth and breadth of the Atonement. I could not imagine that I would willingly have let my son suffer even in this small way; and our Father “so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son.”
Although we have never discussed it, my son, too, would have the opportunity to appreciate the passage where the Savior explains, “Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.”
Although I would not suggest that anything here can approach the holy Atonement, the scar on my son’s hand is continually before him, and he has the opportunity, if he chooses to take it, to use his scar as a reminder of scars in the palms of the Savior—suffered for our sins. He has the opportunity to understand in his own way the love the Savior has for us in willingly being scarred, bruised, broken, and torn for us.

In the October 2017 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson spoke about the importance of the Book of Mormon:
My dear brothers and sisters, I promise that as you prayerfully study the Book of Mormon every day, you will make better decisions—every day. I promise that as you ponder what you study, the windows of heaven will open, and you will receive answers to your own questions and direction for your own life. I promise that as you daily immerse yourself in the Book of Mormon, you can be immunized against the evils of the day, even the gripping plague of pornography and other mind-numbing addictions. [8]
After conference, I thought about this quote often and said to myself, “I want to make better decisions every day, I want to receive answers to my questions and direction for my life, and I want to be immunized against the evils of our day!” So, I decided to test out these promises made by a prophet of God. I was already in the habit of daily gospel study, but I wasn’t always incorporating the Book of Mormon in that study. I decided that I would start my day by saying a personal prayer and then reading at least one chapter in the Book of Mormon before completing my other gospel study.

In January 2018, I made a New Year’s resolution to read at least one chapter in the Book of Mormon every day that year, and it didn’t take long to recognize the difference it was making in my life. Within a couple weeks, I could literally feel the effect of daily Book of Mormon study. I was happier, and, while all the circumstances in my life weren’t perfect, I felt more peace and contentment. Those good feelings encouraged me to stick with my goal so that by the end of the year I had read at least one chapter in the Book of Mormon every single day. It felt so good that I set that as a lifelong goal and have been reading at least one chapter in the Book of Mormon every day since! This practice has truly blessed my life!

I grew up in a little town called Raymond, in the Western Canadian province of Alberta. As a boy, I always enjoyed it when my father invited me to ride with him in the car. It didn't really matter where we went, it was just fun to go someplace with my Dad. Dad was the town doctor, so sometimes he took me to his office or the hospital with him. Occasionally he would take me with him when he traveled to the neighboring towns of Magrath or Lethbridge. I especially liked it when we went to the town of Magrath because it usually meant we would get to stop at Denny's Ice Cream Parlor.

One Saturday, I was very excited when my father invited me to accompany him as he drove to visit a farmer friend who lived several hours away near the town of Rosemary. It was a beautiful spring day and I thought life was pretty wonderful as we drove across the countryside, passing the many farms and ranches. Dad would always point out important and interesting things to me as we drove along. We had a new white and green 1955 Plymouth that I thought was just the best looking car around. I thought, "How can life get any better than this?" just Dad and me in the new Plymouth.

When we arrived at the farm, we were greeted by the farmer and his children. Several of the children were about my age and they were happy to have a playmate for a couple of hours. As the fathers went one direction and the kids went the other, my father turned to me and said: "Bill, Have fun, but don't take your shoes off."

A spring thunderstorm had passed through the area earlier in the day leaving puddles of water in the pastures. It was warm and the prairie grass smell that comes after a rain storm was energizing. Soon we were playing tag in the horse pasture and having lots of fun. Running and splashing in the puddles got my running shoes and socks all wet so I decided I would just take them off and try to dry them out. I leaned them up against a fence post and pointed the inside so the sun would dry them out. Besides, running through the wet grass felt good on my feet. From my 10th year to my 11th year, I had grown taller and stronger and I remember being impressed with myself and how fast I could run. I was having a great time running around that pasture barefoot.

Suddenly I headed off in a different direction, running as hard as I could go. In a split second my delight turned to panic as I looked down and realized I was entering a prairie cactus patch. I tried to slow down, but it was too late. Barefoot, I ran right into the middle of that cactus patch. Prairie cactus grows low to the ground, and you can't really see it until you're on top of it.

Well, I was on top of it. So there I stood. In the middle of a cactus patch. Barefoot. In real pain. Embarrassed. Wondering why I had taken my shoes off. I also wondered why my Dad hadn't told me about the cactus. You see, we didn't have prairie cactus around my town, but my Dad knew it was different around Rosemary. Why hadn't he told me about the cactus? Why did he just tell me "Don't take your shoes off?"

Dad carried me to the car and laid me down in the back seat of the Plymouth. He told me we'd be home in a couple of hours when he would work on my feet. I had cactus thorns all over the bottom of both feet. The ride home was different than the ride to the farm.

I had plenty of time to think about why I hadn't followed the counsel my father had given.

When we got home, Dad didn't need to take me to the doctor, because he was the doctor. He just carried me into the house and laid me on the kitchen table. He got out his brown leather doctor bag and went to work on the bottom of my feet. I recall that he spent several hours with his tweezers, needle, razor blade and antiseptic as his slowly extracted every thorn from the bottom of my tender feet.

I know Dad thought I was pretty stupid for not heeding his warning. I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you this story, because you probably think I was pretty stupid, too.

However, the experience was a real blessing for me, because it helped me to focus on advise my father gave me from that time on.

In later years, I don't remember my father ever saying: "Remember the cactus patch."

However, I said it to myself many times. Especially when I got advice that didn't seem all that important, or when I could see no harm in ignoring the advice.

Quite often, I would say to myself: "Maybe my Dad knows something I haven't thought of." or "You're a stupid kid if you don't 'Remember the Cactus patch.'"

During my high school years, I had an experience I will always be grateful for. I came across the lyrics of the hymn “Oh My Father.” I had sung it in Church many times over the years, but for the first time, I really took notice and seriously pondered its meaning. The Spirit bore powerful witness to me of these glorious truths, and I understood, as I had never before, what it means to have a “burning of the bosom.” I knew with a certainty that the plan of salvation was true, that I had lived before as a beloved spirit son of heavenly parents with the full potential of my divine nature and destiny. This gave me the desire to prepare for and receive my patriarchal blessing. I wanted to know my purpose in life and what I was foreordained to do on earth.

In school, if the children had been well-behaved, the teacher might reward them by having a railroad spelling bee after the afternoon recess. All the children lined up next to the wall. One day little Mary was at the front of the line, so she could spell any word that she wanted to. She correctly spelled cat. Then Charles, who was next in line, had to spell a word beginning with t, the last letter in Mary’s word. He spelled tail. Laura was next, and she had to spell a word beginning with l. She slowly spelled, “l-i-v-e-l-e-e.” Then, because she had misspelled lively, she had to sit down. The game continued as Henry correctly spelled a word beginning with y. All too soon the railroad spelling bee ended—it was time for the children to go home. But the next day they would return to the one-room schoolhouse to study and play again.

At the same time, we must stand against those who speak contemptuously of sacred things, because the certain effect of that offense is to offend the Spirit and so create contention and confusion. President Spencer W. Kimball showed the way to stand without being contentious as he lay on a hospital gurney and asked an attendant who, in a moment of frustration, took the name of the Lord in vain: “‘Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.’ There was a deathly silence, then a subdued voice whispered: ‘I am sorry’” (The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 198). An inspired, loving rebuke can be an invitation to unity. Failure to give it when moved upon by the Holy Ghost will lead to discord.

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
Are you going to send something to the Friend for the Kindness Garden? I saw you taking Mrs. Craig’s trash out for her again.
Hmm. Maybe I will. What about you?
You’ve been helping that new girl at school catch up on her assignments.
Oh! Yeah.
Let’s both do it.
OK! Something you find in a garden, right?
I’ll find the colored paper.
I’ll get crayons and markers.
LATER—
I did a rose. I love roses. And you did … a potato?
It was supposed to be a gopher, but he forgot to make the legs!

A primary facet of spiritual creation is the ability to see potential even when others see none. My grandfather George Barrack was a first-generation immigrant from Lebanon. As a child of the Great Depression, he and his sister often went hungry, and they would do any odd job to help make ends meet. During the potato harvest season, George would scour the railway tracks to find potatoes that had fallen from trains so that his family could use them to make soup.

With only a seventh-grade education and despite numerous challenges, George imagined something more. He developed a lifelong passion for planes and motorcycles. He would gather rusty parts and pieces of old Harley-Davidson motorcycles in junkyards, at swap meets, or even on the side of the road. Where others saw pieces to be discarded, George saw something to be restored. He would sand, polish, and paint with an artist’s hand. Throughout his life, he restored dozens of beautiful bikes, each a unique work of art. George became well known to many in the Harley-Davidson community. His work was chronicled in magazines, and he was even inducted into the Rocky Mountain Motorcycle Museum Hall of Fame. Where others saw old, broken parts, George saw potential.

Alecia Rosenbrook is a Laurel from, well, lots of places. Since her dad runs a business taking small groups fishing and big game hunting, Alecia calls many locations, including Alaska and Africa, home. Her unique lifestyle has provided her with opportunities to learn more about the world around her and to share the gospel.
“When we go out on trips, it’s just our family, the guests, and the crew. That’s about 14 or 15 people, at the most. We’re together for a week to 10 days, and don’t have contact with anyone else. It’s just simple things we do to share the gospel, like praying at mealtimes and gathering on Sundays for church.”
Alecia’s travels also provide an interesting backdrop for personal gospel study.
“Seminary has been with me all over the place,” she says of her home-study seminary program. “It puts everything into perspective so that I can understand everything better. Also, sometimes when I’m out in the bush and close to nature, I can really see Heavenly Father’s hand in all things.”

“I have received far too many blessings from just keeping my recommend current to not hold it dear to my heart. Twelve months after my baptism I went to my first and only young single adult convention. I was assigned to a service project at a farm, but at the last minute some spaces opened up on the temple service project. I had my recommend and appropriate clothing with me, so I went and while there I met a friend who introduced me to my future husband by the end of the week. For an assortment of reasons, we couldn’t initially be sealed in the temple, so I didn’t get endowed until later. In following a prompting to go to the temple for my endowment, I was blessed with my first child the very same week. Throughout my pregnancy, I continued to go to the temple every month until my son was born. From that, I was blessed with new friendships in a new ward and a stronger testimony and an understanding of God’s plan. Two months after the birth of my son, the temples closed and I went through some of the greatest trials of my life thus far, but because of what I’ve learned in staying worthy of my recommend and using it often, my faith never failed through my trials. I struggled, I felt weak, but my faith remained steadfast.” —Marie Cranston, Melbourne, Australia

A story from the National Baseball Hall of Fame may illustrate how a clearer vision gives us an edge in the fight for right. A generation ago, Ted Williams was a household name in America. The veteran slugger for the Boston Red Sox proved his talent, integrity, and commitment year after year. In 1941, after only three years in the majors, Ted was hitting an incredible .39955 entering the last day of the season. Few hitters have ever come near to batting .400 in a season. Ted’s manager, the legendary Joe Cronin, offered to bench him for the last day of the season so that his average would round up to .400, knowing that if he had a bad day he would miss the mark altogether.
Not a chance, Ted replied. If he couldn’t hit .400 all the way, he said he didn’t deserve it. So he played.
Williams got six hits in eight times at bat during a doubleheader on that last day and ended the season with a .406 batting average. That record still stands. During a career that spanned 22 years, interrupted by 5 years of service as a military pilot in two wars, Ted averaged .344 at bat and hit 521 home runs. Even in his last season, at the age of 42, Ted hit .316, an exceptional average for most baseball players.
Ted Williams’s secret was his keen eyesight. After the pitcher threw the ball, Ted could see the stitching on the ball and could tell by the direction the ball was spinning whether it was a curve, slider, knuckleball, or fastball.
Do not suppose that Ted Williams relied upon his exceptional vision alone. He was known as the hardest worker in the major leagues. He combined personal integrity and tireless preparation with his love of the game to become one of the greatest players ever.

Last year, Lisa dislocated her shoulder and missed a chance to go to the Blue Star Basketball Camp to be seen by college recruiters. She was disappointed, but she didn’t give up. “I knew that I’d kept my body clean and strong and that it would heal fast.” She came back playing even stronger.
Lisa’s coach, John Schneiter, says, “In my 35 years of coaching, I’ve never seen a harder working athlete.”

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

Charles Redd later wrote about the climb up Comb Ridge: “Aside from the Hole-in-the-Rock, itself, this was the steepest crossing on the journey. Here again seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they.”
“By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams. My father [L. H. Redd, Jr.] was a strong man, and reluctant to display emotion; but whenever in later years the full pathos of San Juan Hill was recalled either by himself or by someone else, the memory of such bitter struggles was too much for him and he wept” (in David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1966, pp. 138–139).

After sixty-six days at sea aboard the Mayflower, Ellen Howard is as excited as any of the ship’s passengers to see America for the first time. Her longing for her brother and sister, Roger and Sarah, still living in Holland, and her memory of the near-disastrous ocean voyage are temporarily forgotten as the travelers approach the New World—and a new life.
The long weary journey of the Pilgrims was almost ended. The vast ocean lay behind them, and beckoning ahead stretched a thin strip of land. The Mayflower, as though eager to reach harbor, skimmed along in the spanking breeze.
But as the land loomed larger, Captain Jones made the disappointing announcement, “We’ve sighted the clay highlands of Cape Cod. We’re a three weeks’ sail northeast of Jamestown.”
Ellen looked up at her father with troubled eyes. “Oh, Papa! Does that mean we have to sail on?”
“Perhaps, darling. Perhaps,” he replied.
Both strangers and Pilgrims debated and decided they should head south for the mouth of the Hudson River. But within a few hours the Mayflower tangled with the dangerous shoals and roaring breakers known as “Tucker’s Terrors,” and they were forced to turn back. Winds that had blown them off course and tumultuous waters had decided their destiny.
So, on a Saturday afternoon, November 21, the Mayflower dropped anchor in a Cape Cod harbor too far north to be governed by the laws of the Virginia colony.
“Aye, when we go ashore we’ll use our own liberty,” boasted one of the strangers. “King James’s patent is of no effect here.”
But the Pilgrims and strangers both realized that to keep their freedom they must have rules. Forty-one men aboard gathered in the ship’s cabin, drew up the Mayflower Compact, and signed it. John Carver was unanimously chosen to be governor of the new colony.
When the council meeting was over, several armed men went ashore, staying just long enough to look around quickly and to collect a load of firewood. The next day was Sunday, and everyone stayed on board in Sabbath worship.
On Monday the overjoyed passengers were rowed ashore.
Ellen knelt in the sand and, sifting it through her fingers, exclaimed, “Oh, sand, how good you feel!” Flinging her arms wide, she cried, “Oh, earth, I love you and wish I could hug you!”
Her feelings reflected those of all the passengers, for they fell upon their knees and blessed the God of heaven who had brought them over the vast and furious ocean. Nevertheless, each night was spent aboard ship for safety reasons.
While the men worked on a shallop (small open boat) from the ship, hauling it up onto the beach for repairs, the women went ashore to wash clothes. After the shallop was repaired, Miles Standish, the military captain of the colony, with Captain Jones and a group of men, most of them Pilgrims, set out to explore. Daily they prayed for guidance.
On December 21, the travelers stepped ashore at the site of a deserted Indian village. Old and weathered cornstalks rattled in the breeze where land had been cleared. A brook sparkled and babbled down a hillside. Nearby was an excellent harbor. In one field was a great hill that commanded a view of the sea and land roundabout. Why the place had been deserted was a mystery.
“We’ll build our new Plymouth here,” Captain Standish announced.
When they returned to the Mayflower, William White looked anxiously about the deck for his wife, Susanna. Then he saw her coming toward him. Placing a tiny bundle in his arms, she said, “My husband, our little son was born while you were gone.”
Tenderly, William uncovered the tiny pink face. “So our little traveler has arrived,” he said, beaming.
Standing by, Governor Carver exclaimed, “Aye, William, your little son is the first white child we know of to be born in New England. He should be called Peregrine (traveler).”
“Peregrine White,” William mused. “That is what he shall be called.” Then noticing Ellen’s eager upturned face, he asked, “Do you want to hold the baby?”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. Gently he laid the bundle in her arms, and Ellen smiled with pleasure.
The Mayflower sailed across the bay and cast anchor in Plymouth Harbor on December 26. Work on the new settlement was immediately begun. The lookout hill became Fort Hill, with the cannon mounted on its top. On the sunny side of the hill, they dug shelters and built pens for the chickens, goats, and pigs, which cackled, bleated, and grunted their appreciation. Timber was hewn from the forest, and a common house was built. Then came the bitter cold and snow. Since there was not sufficient shelter for all the families, they remained on the Mayflower, and the men rowed back and forth each day. Many times the stormy waters dashed over them, freezing upon them like coats of iron. Many caught colds that turned into pneumonia. Sickness spread like an epidemic, and almost half the people aboard the Mayflower died. Sailors who had sneered at the praying church folks, and strangers who had quarreled with them, now grew close in their mutual suffering and grief.
Warm weather came at last, and birds sang in the forest. A half dozen cabins were completed, and by the end of March the last of the Mayflower passengers went ashore.
Friendly Indians came—Samoset, Squanto, and Hobomack, all of whom knew some English. Chief Massasoit also came to make a peace treaty with the colonists.
Squanto and Hobomack remained in Plymouth. Squanto went to live with William Bradford, who was now governor. (John Carver had suddenly become ill and died.) Hobomack went to live with Miles Standish.
One day Squanto was visiting with Ellen and John Howland. “This was once my home,” he explained. “Plymouth, as you call it, was a Pawtuxet village. When I was a papoose like you, Ellen, I played in the meadows. When I was a young brave like you, John Howland, Captain Hunt invited me and some other braves to go aboard his trading ship. When we were at sea, strange sailors boarded our ship and tied us up. They took us to Spain and sold us as slaves. I later escaped to England and lived there a long time with good people. Finally, I became a seaman for Captain Dermar. He brought me back to America. At Pawtuxet Harbor, I ran swiftly to see my people, but they were gone—no braves, no women, no papooses! I was sad and alone; my eyes filled with tears. I went to the Sowams, and Chief Massasoit took me in. He said all my people died in a smallpox plague. You came, and my village has people once more. I will be your son. You will be my people. I will teach you Indian ways, and you will become strong.”
Squanto taught the people how to plant corn, and everyone helped with the planting. “If you want to get crops from these old grounds,” Squanto advised, “you must fertilize the fields with fish.” When the herring began their spring run, he showed the settlers how to trap them. Then the men spaded holes in the hillocks, and the boys dropped in three herring, spokewise, with their heads toward the center. Ellen and the other little girls put four kernels of corn into each hill, then covered them. Squanto told the settlers to guard the crops against animals. The children kept watch by day and the grownups by night.
Squanto also showed the villagers how to tap maple trees for the sweet sap, how to trap deer and other game, and where to find eels. Thanks to him, the colony began to thrive.
The six acres of wheat, barley, and peas the settlers had planted with seed brought from England scarcely produced seed enough for the next year. But with the pumpkin and corn from the Indians, the harvest was bounteous far beyond their expectations. And because of the peace treaty with the Indians, the children could gather wild plums, berries, and grapes in the woods as safely as they could have walked the sidewalks of Holland.
One autumn morning as Ellen and the other children had gone to the woods to gather nuts, they were startled by the booming of the cannon from the top of Fort Hill. Kathrine Howard came racing across the meadow, calling and beckoning to them.
“What is it, Mama?” cried Ellen, running to meet her.
“A tall white sail has been sighted off Cape Cod. It’s heading for Plymouth. Governor Bradford fears it may be a French vessel coming to raid us.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“Captain Standish has marshaled every man and boy who can handle a gun,” Kathrine panted.
The vessel, when she hove into sight, ran up a white flag bearing the red cross of the English. A cry of joy went up from the anxiously watching crowd, and everyone raced for the shore. When the first little boat with its passengers ran aground, Ellen rushed into the shallow water.
“Sarah! Roger!” she cried as her sister and brother alighted.
The tears, laughter, and hugging at this joyous reunion were quite a contrast to the sadness at the time of their parting.
The ship, Fortune, with the thirty-five men, women, and children who had come to live in Plymouth, dropped anchor in her harbor just a little less than a year after the Mayflower had anchored at Cape Cod. One of the first to come ashore was Deacon Robert Cushman, who brought with him formal legal rights to the land the settlers now occupied.
When the pumpkins and corn had been harvested, Governor Bradford declared, “We will hold a harvest feast of thanksgiving so we might all rejoice together!”
The colony bustled in preparation. An invitation was sent to the friendly Indians. Chief Massasoit and ninety braves came, bearing five deer to be barbecued. Hunters returned from the forest laden with wild turkeys, geese, and ducks. The women busied themselves with baking, while the children tended the roasts on the spits over open fires. Long tables were spread outdoors, and everyone sat down together. Besides the game from the forest, the table was spread with fish, clams and other shellfish, succulent eels, journeycake, corn bread with nuts, succotash, pumpkin stewed in maple sap, dried berries, plums, grapes, leeks, watercress, and various other herbs.
The celebration lasted three days. Elder Brewster gave a prayer of thanksgiving, and Captain Standish staged a military review. There were games of chance—the Pilgrims competing with flintlocks, the Indians with bows and arrows. There were songs and expressions of worship and praise. After the celebration, the Indians returned to the woods and the Pilgrims to their duties of enlarging the colony and making it snug for winter.
Contentedly, Ellen watched the dancing lights cast by the flickering fire upon the cabin walls. A steady wind whistled outside in the starlit darkness. Sighing softly, Ellen said, “The celebration is over now, but thanksgiving goes on and on. I’m thankful that I’m a Pilgrim and live in America and that Sarah and Roger came so we can all be together.”
Her father patted her hand. “The Lord is good. America is good. She is our sweet land of promise.”

I’ve learned, too, that silence can also be very productive, even though it often makes us anxious. A fine colleague and friend came to my office shortly after I’d been sustained as a General Authority. I greeted him warmly, but, contrary to my usual style, I stayed mostly silent. His eyes brimmed with tears as he finally said that as he listened to conference, he knew he needed to come in to set things right. I resisted the impulse to intervene reassuringly, since I knew of nothing that was wrong. He then continued, saying that he was becoming active in the Church again and knew that he needed to repair certain relationships. Happily, I again resisted stemming his flow of feeling. With courage and tenderness, he indicated that he had at times said things about me that were untrue and unkind and he wanted to seek my forgiveness. Only then did I really respond by telling him of my regard, of my unawareness and unconcern over what he had reported. Most importantly, I told him of my love, admiration, and forgiveness. We embraced. I expressed admiration for his courage and manhood. He then said how difficult it had been to come in that day and how he had almost called to cancel the appointment. We spoke together of the wisdom contained in Matthew 18:15 [Matt. 18:15] and Jesus’ counsel therein as to what we should do when there are impasses in human relationships. I love that man and respect him for taking the initiative, since I had been unaware of the matter. He is fully and effectively active in the kingdom today. He needed to say what he said more than I needed to hear it. I’m so grateful I did not rush in to fill the silence that he used so well.

by Scott Richards
Brian Rasmussen of the High River Ward, Calgary Alberta South Stake, recently became the youngest commercial airplane pilot ever licensed in Canada.
He received his commercial license on March 18, 1981, the day of his 18th birthday.
Brian first enrolled in flying lessons when he was 16 years old, and since that time, he has proven to be a very dedicated and talented pilot. By the time he turned 17, Brian had flown 35 hours and had passed five exams and a flight test to qualify for his private pilot’s license. In receiving his private license, Brian set a record by becoming the youngest private pilot ever licensed in western Canada.
After achieving that goal, Brian set his sights higher and kept on working. Between his 17th and 18th birthdays, Brian logged another 115 hours flight time to bring his “in air” total to 150 hours. He also passed another flight test and written exam and participated in 30 hours of classroom instruction. By the time his 18th birthday arrived, Brian had qualified to become Canada’s youngest commercial pilot. In addition to his flying, Brian also finds time to work on his dad’s farm and participate in Church activities. When he turns 19, Brian plans to serve a mission.

Kate looked at the kitchen table covered with dirty dishes, trying to decide where to start. “It’s hard to believe our school vacation is almost over,” she sighed as she started to stack the plates.
“I know what you mean,” Becky said. “It’s our last week of vacation, and we still haven’t gone to the new water park. Do you think Mom will take us there if we ask?”
“Maybe,” Kate said as she carried the plates to the sink. “But I know Mom’s really busy this week. And we’ve done a lot of fun things during our vacation. We just didn’t go to the water park.”
Becky followed Kate back to the table. She watched her sister gather up the glasses and utensils. “Yes—if you call driving all day to get to a family reunion fun,” she muttered.
“It was fun,” said Kate. “You’re just being ornery.” She picked up four glasses and headed back to the sink. Becky followed.
“It was all right,” Becky agreed, “but I bet we’re the only kids in our whole school who haven’t gone to the water park.”
Losing patience, Kate turned to Becky. “Will you please stop complaining and help me with the dishes?”
Rolling her eyes, Becky started to fill the sink as their mom came in.
“Thank you for doing the dishes,” Mom said. “I appreciate all the work the two of you do.”
“No problem, Mom.” Kate smiled.
“Yeah,” Becky agreed. “We were just saying it’s too bad we never made it to the new water park.”
“That is a shame,” Mom said. She thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll make you a deal. I have some errands to run tomorrow morning. If you two will clean your rooms while I’m gone, I’ll stop and buy tickets to the water park, and we can go when I get home.”
“That would be great!” Becky exclaimed.
“It’s a deal,” Kate said.
The next morning Kate jumped out of bed. Mom had already left. “Good morning,” Kate greeted her grandmother.
“Good morning. Are you ready for breakfast?” Grandma asked.
Kate nodded. “Becky and I are going to clean our rooms. Then Mom is going to take us to the new water park.”
“That’s what your mother told me,” said Grandma. “Would you go wake Becky?”
“What’s the big hurry?” Becky grumped when Kate tried to talk her into getting up.
“We need to eat breakfast and start cleaning.”
“No, we don’t. You heard what Mom said. She’s picking up the tickets while she’s out. After she has already bought the tickets, she won’t tell us we can’t go. So we really don’t need to clean our rooms.”
Kate frowned. “But we made a deal.”
“If you’re so worried, you go clean your room. Tell Grandma I’ll have breakfast later. Right now I need to sleep.”
Kate trudged back to the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked.
“Becky says she’s not going to clean. She thinks Mom will let us go even if we don’t clean our rooms,” Kate explained.
“What do you think?” Grandma asked.
“We said we would clean our rooms,” said Kate, “so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Well,” said Grandma, “you’ve made your decision, and you’ll have to let Becky make hers. Sometimes we want to make other people’s decisions for them, but we can’t.”
After breakfast Kate marched to her room. She decided to start by moving everything off the floor. At first she was angry at Becky for not cleaning, but soon her thoughts turned to the job she was doing.
When Mom arrived home, Kate was organizing books on a shelf.
“Where’s your sister?” Mom asked.
“Watching television,” Kate answered.
“Isn’t she cleaning?”
Kate shook her head.
Just then Becky appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Mom,” she said cheerfully. “Did you get the tickets?”
“Yes I did,” said Mom. “Did you clean?”
“I was just coming to start.”
Mom shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Becky looked at Kate and smiled an I-told-you-so smile. Her smile disappeared when Mom added, “You can clean while Kate and I are at the water park.”
Becky’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t keep your end of the bargain, so you may not come with us.”
Becky couldn’t believe her ears. “But didn’t you already buy me a ticket?”
“I bought tickets for the girls who kept their promises. Did you keep your promise?”
Becky hung her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I thought you would let me go anyway.”
“You made a choice. You’ll have to live with the consequences.”
Tears streamed down Becky’s face. “That’s not fair.”
Mom put her arms around Becky. “I know it isn’t what you want,” Mom said, “but it is fair.”
Becky watched as Mom and Kate left. “I really wanted to go,” she said.
Grandma nodded. “You made a bad choice. What you need to do is learn from your mistake. If your mom had taken you to the water park, you would have thought it’s all right to make promises you don’t intend to keep. And it isn’t. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Now, I have a deal for you, if you are interested.”
Becky looked up. “What is it?”
“If you’ll go clean your room, when you’re done, we’ll bake some cookies for the family.”
“It’s a deal,” Becky said, heading toward her room. “And this time I mean it.”

I didn’t know what to do. President Benson said that we should all read the Book of Mormon, but it isn’t that easy. My mom and dad think that since I’m only five years old, I’m too young to have a Book of Mormon of my own. Since I don’t have my own Book of Mormon, I needed to borrow one.
The first thing I did was look for my father’s Book of Mormon. I was climbing on a chair to get it from the top shelf, when Dad came into the room.
“What are you doing, Melissa?” he asked.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Dad got his book and sat down in a chair with me on his lap and showed me the picture of Nephi stretching out his hand, and the one with Abinadi standing before King Noah, and even the one of Jesus coming down from heaven. Then he closed the book, gave me a hug, and lifted me off his lap.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
He opened his Book of Mormon to one of the front pages. “See this yellow spot?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“That’s mustard from your last hot dog. See this brown smudge on page two hundred twenty-nine?”
I nodded.
“Chocolate from your hot-fudge sundae.”
“Oh.”
“See these last two pages that won’t come apart, even when I shake them?”
“Yes.”
“Peanut butter and jelly.”
Dad put his Book of Mormon back on the shelf and walked away. I decided that I would have to borrow someone else’s.
I went up to my brother’s room. It’s full of all kinds of things, but I rummaged around until I found his Book of Mormon in the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s a small one with tiny print and a real leather cover, and it has his name written in gold on the front. Ryan says that he’s saving it to take on his mission. I was just opening it when he came into the room. When he saw me, his eyes went wide. He rushed over and grabbed it from my hand.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
“Leave it alone!” he shouted, flipping it open. “Look at this!”
“It looks like a crayon mark,” I said.
He turned to another place. “And this!”
“It looks like someone accidentally tore the page,” I said.
He closed the book and put it back in his dresser drawer. I slipped quietly from the room.
I went to my own bedroom and huddled in a corner. After a while my nine-year-old sister came in. “What’s wrong, Melissa?” Gina asked me.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Gina smiled and patted my head. “You can read mine,” she said. I watched her look around the room until she found her Book of Mormon hidden under a pile of blankets. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. It was a big one, with large print.
“Thank you,” I said. I sat down on my bed and opened it. I looked at the words really hard, but I still couldn’t read them. I squinted at the page. I turned the book upside down. I lay on my back and lifted the book above me in the air, but it was no use. No matter what I did, I couldn’t read the Book of Mormon like the prophet told us to. I closed it and put it beside my pillow. Maybe the prophet hadn’t meant for five-year-olds to read it.
That night my mother came up to my room to tuck me into bed. She leaned over and kissed me and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then she looked around the room for my bedtime storybook. The one she is reading to me now is called Katie Curtis in Katmandu, and it’s about a little girl who travels all over the world. Mom looked in the toy box and under the bed, and while she was still searching, I remembered Gina’s Book of Mormon.
“What about this book, Mom?” I asked.
She picked it up. She looked at me, then at the book, then back at me again. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I said.
She opened it to the first page. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” she began.
It was better than Katie Curtis any day.