Gospel Story Finder

Elder Marcus B. Nash, First Counselor in the Africa West Area Presidency, presided over the semi-annual conference of the Accra Ghana Adenta Stake held on January 20 and 21, 2018.
As part of the conference, the Adenta Stake was divided due to an extraordinary growth in membership. Daniel Kabason was released as president of the Adenta Stake, as were his counselors. With the leadership reorganization of the Adenta Stake, the Accra Ghana Madina Stake was created. The new Madina Stake is the 23rd stake created in Ghana. It is also the 95th stake organized in West Africa since the Church was introduced in 1978.
The newly called Adenta Stake president is Michel Djimedo Avegnon, with first counselor James Belale Yeri, and Richard Paapa Dadzie as second counselor. Samuel Enos Eghan was called as president of the Madina Stake. Yaw Adjin Danso will serve as first counselor, with Edwin Kobina Ewudzie as second counselor of the Madina Stake.
Elder Marcus B. Nash commented on the historic Sunday morning event. “This conference was a sweet confluence of the faith of the pioneer members, current members, as well as the faith of the rising generation,” Elder Nash said.
“We enjoyed the simple and powerful testimony of Brother Opare, the first stake president in Accra,” said Elder Nash. “As a result of the humility and faith of those who have gone before, the faithful labors of inspired and capable leaders today, and with the help of parents and children who choose to obey the Lord, the Adenta and Madina stakes will contribute in miraculous ways to the Church, both in Africa and throughout the world.”

During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poor English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy, and at age 18 asked permission to live in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to find a life elsewhere. He spent nine very difficult months in a refugee camp near Vienna before going to the American Embassy to seek permission to come to the United States. He arrived and, while living in Massachusetts, was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not know everything I was looking for.” One day, he saw something about the Mormons on TV. Warmed by what he saw, he thought he should learn about them. He arrived at an LDS church and introduced himself. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age 25 was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”

When Neil was older, he wanted to serve a mission. But he was a little worried. “How can I serve a mission when I know so little?” he prayed.
He felt the answer in his heart. “You don’t know everything, but you know enough.”
That answer gave Neil courage. He obeyed and served a mission in France. Before he left, he went to the temple. There he made special promises, called covenants, with Heavenly Father. He was blessed for going to the temple.

An example of this is Brad Hall. He was an outstanding missionary, happy and successful. One night he and companion heard a noise in their apartment complex. They got up and found an armed burglar. In the course of events, a shot was fired and Elder Hall was struck. In an instant, he became a paraplegic—paralyzed from the waist down, and has since been confined to a wheelchair. He returned home, and went to college. He had to make the difficult adjustment both to college life and to getting around in a wheelchair through winter snows.

In the spring, when college awards were presented, Elder Hall was among the top scholars. He proved that you can overcome many difficulties and learn to cope with those you can’t change.

I pitched my helmet onto the shelf in the garage, hung my pads on a hook, and scuffed into the kitchen.
“What’s the problem?” Mom asked as I came in.
I flopped down on the nearest chair. “I was ten minutes late for practice and Coach Cooper gave me a lecture on being reliable and prompt.”
“Did you remember to take the bread over to Mr. Sams?” Mom asked as she poured me a glass of lemonade.
“Yes, and that’s why I was late,” I replied. “That old man just kept on talking and I couldn’t get away.”
“He’s rather lonely,” Mom said, “and seeing you in your football uniform probably reminded him of when he was a young man and able to play ball too.”
“If he’s so interested in the game, why doesn’t he come and watch us?” I asked. “The park is just around the corner, and the fresh air and exercise would be good for him.”
“He’s probably afraid to go down the stairs alone,” Mom said. “That’s how he broke his ankle last year.”
I took a big gulp of lemonade.
“Anyway,” I went on, “I was so late I don’t get to start in Saturday’s game. All the guys are mad at me because we’ll be playing the toughest team in the league.”
“Didn’t you tell Coach Cooper you were on an errand for me?” Mom asked.
“No,” I answered. “He would have said I was using you as an excuse, and then I’d get another lecture on responsibility.”
It was a long three days before that big game, but Saturday finally arrived. I was up early that morning to straighten the garage and take out the trash. I even checked with Mom to make sure there wasn’t anything I had forgotten.
On Saturdays I usually take soup to Mr. Sams, so I left ten minutes early to allow some extra time to visit with him.
“Well, you’re early today,” Mr. Sams said when he opened the door.
“Yes, sir,” I answered as I carried the soup over to the stove in his kitchen. “Today is a big game and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Sams began. “That would never do. Why, I remember when I played back in …”
He sat down by the table and motioned for me to join him. Then he started to tell me again about some of his experiences playing football years ago.
When I figured that the ten minutes were over, I slowly got up from the chair and said, “Mr. Sams, I’d better get going so I won’t be late. I’ll pick up the soup pot after the game.”
“I’ll bet you play a good game,” he said as I gathered up my gear. “You’re a strong-looking boy.”
“I do my best,” I replied, heading for the door. He hustled along after me.
“I remember once when I was playing,” he said. “We were up against the toughest team in the state. It was the third quarter. I remember it like it was yesterday! Jason Clemons, our left guard, was …”
“Why don’t you come over to the park and watch a game sometime, Mr. Sams,” I suggested.
“I’d like to,” he said, “but I don’t get out much anymore. I watch all the games on television, but it’s just not the same as watching a live game.”
When Mr. Sams said that, I looked at him for a minute and I thought he might start to cry. He turned his head away and stared out the window. I remembered Linda and how unhappy she had looked and what she had said about being proud.
Now I knew what Mom meant when she told me that sometimes you have to listen with your eyes.
“Look, Mr. Sams,” I blurted out. “Why don’t you get your sweater and come to the game with me right now?”
I was late again! The team was on the field warming up when I came through the gate with Mr. Sams walking beside me. Coach Cooper looked upset. I took Mr. Sams to the bleachers and got him seated. Then I ran to the dressing room and put on my gear.
Just as I reached the bench, the referees blew their whistles signaling the team to clear the field.
I won’t get to play anyway, I thought, so it doesn’t matter if I did miss the warm-up.
“Tim! Coach Cooper shouted, and I ran over to him. As I got closer, he lowered his voice and asked, “Were you late for practice the other day because of the old gentleman you brought with you today?”
I looked over at Mr. Sams. His whole face was covered with a big grin as he sat on the edge of his seat eager for the game to start.
“Yes,” I admitted, and I was actually glad about the whole thing.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Coach Cooper asked.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand,” I replied.
“I’m a lot more understanding than you think,” he assured me.
Then Coach Cooper motioned for the team to come and join us. After explaining the circumstances, he said I could play in the game after all. Everyone seemed pleased about that—especially me!
I waved to Mr. Sams as I ran out onto the field for the kickoff, and he was smiling bigger than ever as he waved back.
Mr. Sams didn’t make a sound, but I could hear his happiness all the way across the field.

Benjamin Ballam, who has spina bifida, is a special child of Michael and Laurie Ballam, of Logan, Utah. He has been a blessing to them and many others. Having had seventeen surgeries, Benjamin knows all about hospitals and doctors. Once, when an overwhelmed attendant became vocally upset—not at Benjamin, but over stressful circumstances—little three-year-old Benjamin was an example of the Lord’s commandment to be “full of love” (Mosiah 3:19). He reached out, tenderly patted the irritated attendant, and said, “I love you anyway.”

“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But that is not remarkable because even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped at their eyes at its finish.

Cheryl Pence, who plays the part of Mary Beth, is a senior in computer science at the University of California at Irvine. She is most definitely not ugly. In fact, she is downright pretty. But her performance in the play gives chilling evidence of how stooped shoulders, downcast eyes, and a frightened expression can transform even a pretty girl into a drab shadow of herself. “It has been difficult at times to play the role of ‘the ugliest girl in school,’” she says. “If you’re not careful it can start influencing the way you see yourself. It must be devastating to suffer from that kind of a label in real life.” Back to her attractive self again after the shooting, Cheryl is not even recognized by most people as Mary Beth, but her alter ego has had a profound effect on her. “Being in the video has given me a greater appreciation for my fellowman and made me more thoughtful of others.”

I am a cross-country and track distance runner. Sometimes three miles on rough terrain can seem like an eternity. I have learned to endure to the end and to tolerate hard work and many physical and emotional challenges. Sometimes my mind screamed to stop and quit the race or the difficult practice, but I had to mentally and physically endure to the end. I have found that no matter how hard it was to run a race or finish a tough practice, nothing beats the satisfaction I get from knowing that I didn’t give up.

Even before Dad called Sister Willingham by name, I knew it was her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to waste a perfectly good Saturday in her yard. I felt myself stiffen with resentment and rebellion, and my cheeks colored and warmed with a frustrating tide of irritation. Grabbing a slice of toast, I began spreading it thick with jam while Dad talked.
“Sure, I think he could help you out,” Dad said, nodding his head. “Well, he does have a ball practice in the afternoon, but I’m sure he can have things taken care of at your place before then.”
When Dad came back to the table, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a sip before saying anything to me. Since Mom and the three younger kids had left earlier to do some shopping and wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, Dad and I were the only ones home.
“That was Sister Willingham,” he remarked casually, setting his glass down.
I munched my toast without responding.
“She wondered if you would mind helping her out for an hour or so.”
I cleared my throat. “I have a talk to prepare for sacrament meeting,” I mumbled tersely.
Dad picked up his glass again and sipped his juice, watching me the whole while. “It should only take an hour or so, Ryan. Couldn’t you spare that much time? She said she’d pay you.”
“Pay me!” I growled, pushing back from the table. “She never pays me, not in full. Oh, she counts out a few quarters and maybe peels off a dollar bill once in a while, but it’s not pay, not for the time I put in. And then she always asks, ‘Is that enough, Ryan?’” I looked up and asked, “What am I supposed to say, ‘No, it’s not enough. I make three and a quarter an hour when I work at the store?’ or ‘Mel Richardson pays me ten dollars for a couple hours of work?’” I shook my head. “She might as well ask me to do it for free,” I complained. Dad didn’t respond. “And why does she always ask you to relay the message to me?” I continued sourly. “I’m not a little kid. I’m 17. Why doesn’t she ask me? I can answer for myself.”
Dad sighed, finished his juice, and began clearing off the table. “You should feel flattered that she trusts you.”
“I wish she’d flatter somebody else,” I grumbled, pushing back from the table and taking my plate and glass to the sink.
“I’d go myself,” Dad spoke up, “but Bishop Hall asked me to go with him over to the welfare farm this morning to hang some doors on that new storage shed.”
“So I get stuck with Sister Willingham.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that she might hate asking you as much or more than you hate being asked?” I didn’t answer. Dad began rinsing the dishes off. “For almost 12 years Sister Willingham’s been a widow. All her life she’s been able to do things for herself. Now she can’t, so she has to depend on somebody else. She’d pay you three and a quarter an hour if she had it. She probably pays you twice as much as she can afford. You’re worth the pay. I’m not denying that. Brother Richardson hires you so he can spend an extra afternoon playing golf, not because he really needs you. He should pay you a good wage.”
I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, but my conscience was pricked and I felt a touch of shame. “Maybe it’s just the way she goes about it,” I muttered. “Why doesn’t she ask me personally? She knows I live here, that I can answer the phone as well as you. I’ll tell you why,” I argued, attempting to justify my reluctance. “Because she’s afraid I’ll turn her down, and she wants you to make me go.”
“I’ve never made you go, have I?”
I laughed dryly. “I’ve always gone because I knew if I didn’t you’d probably make me or tell me I couldn’t take the car or something else. You would, wouldn’t you?” I asked pointedly.
Dad smiled wanly and wiped his hands on a paper towel and tossed it in the garbage under the sink. “Maybe I would,” he admitted. “I’ve always been proud that you’ve gone on your own.” He knit his brow. “I suppose I’ve—well, I guess I’ve—” He shook his head. “I’ve hoped that you would want to help Sister Willingham on your own.”
“For the pennies she pays?”
“Maybe there’s more in it than pennies. If I were interested in the money, I’d see if Brother Richardson would hire you more often.” He turned from me and put the juice and butter in the fridge. “Some things we do because—” He pondered. “Some things we do just to help somebody out. I’ve wanted you to help Sister Willingham. I don’t deny it. I suppose I’ve wanted you to get more out of it than money. Perhaps something money can’t buy. But as long as you do it just for the money—well, as long as you take the money, the money’s all you get.”
Dad left me in the kitchen and went to get his tool box and coveralls. A few minutes later the bishop pulled into the driveway and honked once. Dad hurried to the front door. He opened it and then paused in the doorway. Without turning to face me he called, “Ryan, it’s up to you what you do with Sister Willingham. I won’t make you go. And in the future I’ll let you talk to her. I won’t commit you to something you don’t want to do.”
I stayed in the kitchen and finished washing the dishes, not that I had to or that anybody really expected me to, but at least that way I was busy, and being busy was justification for not going over to Sister Willingham’s. But the dishes were soon finished, and I was still pestered by persisting thoughts of Sister Willingham. Finally in exasperation I sighed and grumbled, “I could use a little money. Troy’s birthday’s coming up. I might as well earn a couple of bucks as sit around the house all day.”
Five minutes later I was knocking on Sister Willingham’s screen door. As I hammered on the screen’s wooden frame, it creaked and shuddered on its loose hinges. I noticed that the paint was beginning to chap and peel and the screen had pulled out at the bottom. I looked behind me at the front yard. The grass needed trimming, the shrubs could have used a good pruning job, the irises along the front of the house needed thinning and weeding. I looked away; the whole sight made me feel just a little uneasy, a little ashamed for being so reluctant to come.
The front door opened slowly. “Why, hello, Ryan,” Sister Willingham said, squinting at me through the rusted screen and pushing her slipping glasses up on her nose. She chuckled. “I’d almost decided you couldn’t come.” She pushed the screen door open. It whined and rattled closed behind her as she stepped outside. “I’ll show you what I need.”
Sister Willingham was a frail-looking, gray-haired woman in her middle seventies. Her cheeks were sunken, her face creased with countless wrinkles. When she walked, she shuffled along with her shoulders stooped, her pale-blue eyes peering through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Her voice was always a little high-pitched and irritating in tone, and yet she was a pleasant enough person—perhaps too pleasant for me this morning because I was almost looking for an excuse to dislike her. I would have felt better had she been cranky and complaining. Then I could have justified my irritation. As it was she made me feel guilty.
We went around the house to her backyard garden. Brother Al Willingham had always had a garden, probably the best on this side of town. After he died Sister Willingham tried to continue the tradition, more as an honor to him than because she really wanted it. I never went to her yard when she didn’t reminisce and brag about the earlier gardens of her husband’s, and I always knew that in her eyes nothing I did would ever rival his work.
“The garden needs weeding, Ryan,” she remarked, her shrill voice cracking as it did quite often. “We’ve had so much rain this spring that I haven’t had a chance to weed it.”
I stared out across the garden without speaking. From where I stood it looked like a tangle of weeds and grass, no garden at all. Of course, the garden was still young. The spring rains had allowed the weeds to thrive and almost choke the vegetables out completely. I could only see the four rows of corn struggling in the midst of the carpet of weeds, and even they were being overrun.
“There’s a good morning’s work there,” she grinned at me, “but a big strong boy like you can get it done. I’d do it myself, but it’s so hard for me to bend down and my hands just can’t hold the hoe anymore.” She shook her head. “That’s the kind of job Al just loved. Of course, he would have never let it get that bad. But he liked the challenge of getting the ground ready, fighting the weeds back, and bringing the plants up from the soil. Nobody ever hoed a garden like my Al. He had a green thumb for sure. Why, I think he could have raised a garden on a slab of concrete.”
Sister Willingham looked over at me. I ignored her and stared gloomily out at the tangle of weeds. “The Browns are taking me to the temple,” she explained. “I’ll be gone until six or so, but I can pay you as soon as I get back.”
You don’t have enough to pay me to do that garden, I thought to myself. I’d be here a week and still not clean that mess up. I swallowed. “I doubt I can finish it,” I said, sounding less irritated than I really felt. “I have a talk to prepare for tomorrow and a baseball practice this afternoon.”
“Well, do what you can.” She smiled. “Every little bit will help. But if you can, get the ditches cleaned out. That’s the important thing. My irrigation turn is Monday.”
For ten minutes after she left I browsed through the mat of weeds in search of anything worth salvaging. I found the carrots, radishes, and beets hidden completely in the weeds. The zucchini and cucumbers were easier to find because they were in hills and had grown almost as fast as the weeds. The green beans, the peas, the tomatoes, and the bell peppers were almost choked out of existence. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even want to start. But after showing up, I was committed to do at least a little bit.
She had said that what she needed most was to clean out the ditches for her irrigation turn, so I decided to do that and leave. “That’s all she’d pay me for anyway,” I murmured. “Someone else can do the weeding for their service project.”
I got her shovel and attacked the main ditch running along the top of the garden. The shovel ripped and tore through the mat of weeds and grass. I didn’t clean the ditch really well. I didn’t worry about getting the weeds and grass along the edges or up on the bank. I concentrated on the weeds in the bottom of the ditch, just so the water could pass through for a week or so.
After the main ditch I began ripping jagged little ditches up and down the rows and around the hills of cucumbers and squash.
The sun was hot and unmerciful and beat down with a fury. Drops of sweat trickled down my face, but I didn’t stop to rest or find refuge in the shade. I just wanted to get the job done and get out of there.
By ten the ditches were semiready. At least they’d get her through her first irrigation turn. I leaned the shovel and hoe against the back of the house and left, not once turning back to admire my work. There wasn’t anything to admire, and I knew it.
I was in the bathroom washing my hands when Dad came home. He came in behind me, his hands dirty. “Well, the bishop and I hung the doors,” he announced jovially. “It wasn’t as big a job as I’d thought. I see you made it over to Sister Willingham’s.”
I shook the water off my hands and grabbed a towel. “I put in a good hour and a half. I did five dollars worth of work, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that should make Sister Willingham happy.” He glanced over at me and smiled. “There’s always a good feeling that comes with helping someone. Not because you have to but because you want to.”
“I just wished she’d chosen a day when I didn’t have to prepare a talk for sacrament meeting.”
Dad laughed and dried his hands. “Preparing a sermon is easy. Living one is what’s hard. You’ve lived one this morning. It will be a cinch getting one for tomorrow.” Dad hung up the towel and slapped me on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “Ryan, don’t expect a big wage from Sister Willingham. In the long run the money isn’t the important thing anyway. Some things you can’t ever buy with money. That good feeling is one of them.”
I went to my room to work on my talk. I opened the scriptures and perused the pages, but I kept seeing the unfinished garden and thinking of what Dad had said. An uneasiness erupted and festered inside me. I couldn’t shake the nagging guilt, a guilt I didn’t even think I deserved. Irritably, I tossed the scriptures aside and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling trapped.
Suddenly I became resentful. There were lots of kids around, kids that had done a lot less than I had to help Sister Willingham. Why should I have to feel guilty when they escaped without the slightest prick to their consciences? How many times had I mowed her lawn, raked her leaves, pruned her shrubs? At least I’d helped out a little. That was more than anyone else.
I grabbed my scriptures again and turned to Moroni, determined to forget Sister Willingham and her annoying garden. I had a talk to prepare, I argued. The bishop had given me the assignment long before I knew anything about the garden. My first responsibility, I insisted, was my talk.
The bishop had asked me to talk on faith and had suggested Moroni 7 [Moro. 7] for a reference. I thumbed leisurely through the pages of Moroni, reading very little from the blur of words but contemplating faith in general. Faith seemed like a safe topic. I could easily extol the virtues of faith without committing myself to action, but still I found myself struggling to study.
“I just won’t let her pay me,” I finally grumbled in exasperation, unable to shake the tenacious guilt that continued to raise its accusing face. “That should satisfy everyone. After all, Dad said I should do it for nothing. That way anything I do is a gift, and not even Sister Willingham can complain about a gift.”
I nodded and hunched over the Book of Mormon and began to skim through chapter 7 of Moroni. For a moment I thought I was done with the garden; then I came to verse eight [Moro. 7:8]. Before I could skip over it, the words leaped out at me and stung me with a poignant rebuke: “For behold, if a man being evil giveth a gift, he doeth it grudgingly; wherefore it is counted unto him the same as if he had retained the gift; wherefore he is counted evil before God.”
I read the passage once, twice, a half dozen times, searching for an out, some scrap of evidence that would free me from the verse’s pointed accusation, but there was none. I knew better than anyone that I had resented and begrudged the giving of the gift. The fact that I didn’t demand a price for my selfish labor didn’t change the real intent of my heart.
I shook my head. Mine was a shoddy gift. I couldn’t deny it. And merely preparing a talk on faith didn’t change the glaring reality of my uncharitable act toward Sister Willingham. Suddenly I remembered something that Paul had said. I couldn’t remember the words exactly, but the message was clear, something about a person having all faith, even enough to move mountains, and yet, if that person lacked charity he was nothing.
I could work all day on my talk for sacrament meeting, and Sunday morning all I’d have would be a sour sermon of empty words. The people in church didn’t need my talk nearly as much as Sister Willingham needed her garden weeded.
As I pondered Paul’s words I could picture Sister Willingham coming over in the evening, prying open her worn coin purse and counting out the quarters and dimes and smoothing out a wrinkled dollar bill. The doleful picture released a trickle of compassion, a trickle that increased as Paul’s and Mormon’s words whispered in my mind.
Slowly I closed the Book of Mormon and stood, knowing that this was one sermon I would have to live long before I attempted to preach it from the pulpit.
I left my room and started for the front door. “Where you headed?” Dad asked from the kitchen.
“I got a little job to finish,” I answered simply.
“Do you want a sandwich or something. It will be time for lunch in an hour or so.”
“I’m not hungry,” I called and slipped outside, returning to the garden.
I attacked the corn first. Perhaps because it looked easier. Hunched over with the hoe gripped tightly, I started down the rows. It was slow, tedious work, and I soon discovered that I could use the hoe only part of the time. To really do a good job, I had to pick away at the weeds with my fingers.
When the four rows of corn were completed, I looked back and admired them. The tender stalks, freed from their tangled prison, contrasted drastically with the rest of the garden and allowed me a pleasant peek at the garden’s pending potential.
The squash and cucumbers were next. My hoe ripped and tore at the grass and weeds and broke up the hard ground so the tender roots could breathe and grow. Puffs of dust exploded and got in my eyes and nose. The sun’s heat increased, and it became a constant battle to wipe the sweat from my eyes. My back began to stiffen and then ache and finally throb. Every few minutes I had to straighten up and rub the feeling back into my tortured muscles.
The morning passed and slipped into afternoon. The sun reached its pinnacle and then began dropping to the west, but the heat continued. It must have been around two or two-thirty before I had finished everything except the last three vegetables. All the while I had been dreading the radishes, beets, and carrots. Now my back was tight and stiff; my fingers, cramped and raw. Dirt had pushed itself under my nails and pressed itself into my pores and made my hands dry and chapped. Two blisters had sprouted and burst and were now red tender spots.
For a moment I was tempted to stop and perhaps come back another time to finish. Sister Willingham wouldn’t have room to complain now. I’d done a good job. She’d be content. I shook my head. I knew that when I came back, I came intending to do more than merely squelch complaints. I had come to finish a job. I intended to do it.
Dropping to my knees, I started on the rows of carrots. Though the rows were short, each one required at least 30 minutes to complete. Three o’clock came and went. I didn’t even think of my baseball practice, not until close to five when I was just finishing the last row of beets and staring over at the single row of radishes, the last part of the garden to be weeded.
“Hey, where were you, Ryan?” a voice called to me from the corner of Sister Willingham’s house.
I looked up and saw Dusty Hamilton approach. Groaning softly, I stood and winced at the pain as the blood in my legs began to circulate. I brushed off my jeans and worked my fingers to get some feeling back into them. “I forgot about practice,” I grinned sheepishly. “I had a little job to do here.”
Dusty looked over my shoulder at the garden. “Looks like you’re almost done. Why don’t you take a break and come with me to get something to drink. I’ll die if I don’t drink something soon.”
All I’d had since breakfast were drinks from Sister Willingham’s hose. A cold drink was certainly tempting. “I better finish here,” I said, declining.
“You’ve only got a little left. You can come back.”
I pondered, then shook my head. “Sorry, Dusty. Maybe another time.”
Dusty slapped his mitt against his leg and remarked, “Oh, well, suit yourself. I’ll be thinking about you when I have that nice cold lemonade.”
I watched Dusty walk away and then sank to my knees again.
It was five when I finished the garden. It looked like a miniature battlefield with the dying, wilting corpses of a thousand weeds strewn about the ground and the freed, victorious vegetables swaying gently in the warm breath of wind that passed along the ground. I admired my work and felt a surge of poignant satisfaction course through me. Then I noticed the ditch bank that had been haphazardly done that morning. Now it looked so out of place next to the meticulously manicured garden. I snatched the shovel and attacked it again, this time cleaning the edges as well as the bank itself.
Tired and stiff, sweaty and dirty, I shuffled around the house for home, but when I got to the front yard and saw the uncut lawn, the unpruned shrubs, and the irises along the house, I knew I wasn’t finished.
The lawn wasn’t large and there weren’t a lot of shrubs, so I was finished there within 30 minutes, but the irises were a little different. Once more I took hoe and shovel in hand and set to work weeding and thinning the irises as Sister Willingham had showed me last spring a year ago. After weeding the radishes, beets, and carrots, this was easy.
I was just smoothing out the dirt around the last corner of the iris bed when Sister Willingham pulled up in the driveway with the Browns. The sun was casting long dark shadows and I was partially hidden behind the front steps, so she didn’t see me until the Browns had left and she was starting up the walk to the front door.
“Is that you, Ryan?” she asked, squinting through her thick lenses. “Why, I didn’t expect to see you around, not this late.”
I smiled sheepishly and stood. “Oh, I found some other things that needed doing,” I explained.
Sister Willingham peered at the iris beds. Her gaze went to the lawn and the shrubs. She didn’t speak. She set her bag of temple clothes down and shuffled around to the back of the house to inspect the garden. I didn’t follow her. I dropped onto the front steps to rest. I knew my body ached. I knew I was dirty and sweaty. I knew I’d be stiff and sore in the morning, but all the discomfort was blanked by an all-pervasive warmth, one that made me feel as though I glowed. I smiled and closed my eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” Sister Willingham spoke, her voice breaking. I opened my eyes and saw the tears on her cheeks. “I hadn’t expected you to stay so long, to do so much work. I’ve never seen it look so good, not since Al did it himself.”
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that good,” I grinned. “I can’t grow beans out of concrete yet.”
“I don’t have enough money to pay you right now,” she continued, “but I’ll get it. I promise. I’ll make it right with you.” She pulled out her little coin purse. “I do have some of it now. I’ll give you all I’ve got so that—”
“Sister Willingham,” I cut in huskily, feeling my own voice crack and being so glad that I hadn’t had to watch her pry open her purse with the garden the way I’d left it in the morning. I was so grateful that I’d returned. “I didn’t do it for money.”
“Oh, but I want to pay you.”
I shook my head. “I did it—” I stopped. I wasn’t even sure why I did it. I shrugged and smiled, my whole insides warm and satisfied. “I just wanted to do it.”
“But I have to pay you.”
I shook my head again. “I’m afraid that would ruin it,” I whispered. “I don’t need the money. There’s pay enough in it for me.”
“But I’ll probably need you again. I couldn’t ask you if I knew I hadn’t paid you for the work you’ve already done.”
I smiled wanly and shrugged. “I’ll come again,” I said, standing. “Just give me a call. Or leave a message with Dad.”
I left Sister Willingham in her front yard with her coin purse clutched in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. When I returned home Dad was just cleaning up after having changed the oil in the car. He saw me approach but didn’t speak. I leaned against the fender of the car and looked down at the engine.
“Did you finish?” he asked.
I swallowed and nodded. “Did she pay you?”
“No,” I whispered, “but I got paid.”
We started for the house, not saying anything but communicating so much in our silence. When we reached the front door, he asked, “Did you miss your ball practice?”
I thought for a moment. “No, not really,” I replied, shaking my head. “I don’t think I missed it at all.”

In later life, Elizabeth hesitated to talk to her children about her childhood—her story was too sad to tell, she would say. Yet, the seed of faith that she allowed to be planted in her heart had grown beyond measure. In her wake, descendants for whom Elizabeth set the example, have been stalwarts in wards and stakes, faithfully building the Church wherever they live.

I thought about Sister Shaw’s parting testimony at an earlier sacrament meeting. “This is my last Sunday here,” she had said. “Before I leave I feel impressed to share an experience with you.”
I thought about the story Sister Shaw told.
“I felt loved and secure in my home ward,” she had said. “I had lived there all my life. When my husband and I moved here, I was terrified to attend a strange ward, and didn’t want to go for several weeks. But soon I felt a great emptiness in my life and vowed to attend the next meeting.
“I entered the church with great fear. As people went to their classes, I hoped someone would introduce himself or herself and show me the way to go. I knew I should say something to someone, but my tongue wouldn’t work. People walked by, visiting with their friends. Some even smiled at me. It wasn’t long until the doors were closed and the halls were empty. Crying in despair, I turned and left.
“That night I turned to the one person I knew I could count on: Father in Heaven. ‘Dear Father,’ I pleaded. ‘I have always been active, but I’m afraid to go to a strange ward. I can’t do it alone.’
“The next morning I opened my door to a nervous stranger who said, ‘Hello. My name is Neva Gillman. I really don’t know why I’m here, but I had the strongest impression to come by and ask if you would like to come to Relief Society with me.’
“Smiling through my tears, I invited her in.”

Divine manifestations fill members with joy at the Kirtland Temple dedication.

This counsel from the prophet helped one young man make an important decision.
“The month before this talk came out I was struggling with the decision of getting a tattoo,” he wrote. “I knew that it wasn’t a choice thing to do, but I still wavered in the thought of it being a sin. When the talk came out I knew there would be a wise purpose behind not getting a tattoo. I am so thankful the Lord would care enough about my friends and me that He would send a prophet to give us this message. Because of that talk I now enjoy having a body with no markings, and I have no regrets.”

“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”

Most of us are modest enough to think that our small candle of example might be too dim to be noticed. But you and your family are watched more than you may realize. Some time ago I had the chance to attend and speak at meetings with nearly 300 ministers and leaders of other churches. I visited alone with as many as I could. I asked them why they had been so attentive to my message, which was to recount the origins of the Church, to tell of the young Joseph Smith’s First Vision and of living prophets. In every case, they gave essentially the same answer. They told a story of a person or a family—Church members they knew. Often I heard, “They were the finest family I have ever known.” Often they spoke of some community effort or disaster response in which Church members worked in a remarkable way.

The people I met at those meetings could not yet recognize the truth in the doctrine, but they had seen its fruit in members’ lives, and so they were ready to listen. They were ready to hear truths of the Restoration—that families can be sealed forever and that the gospel can change our very natures. They were ready because of your examples.

I had the same problem you do. I committed a sin that I had to see my bishop about. I learned that it’s better to just hold your breath and jump in.
I understand that you really want to confess, but you’re scared. Maybe you should call your bishop and talk to him over the phone. Tell him the situation and then when you set up a time for an appointment, your bishop will know everything that you told him, so you will already have cleared the first hurdle. I found that’s a lot easier.
Also, remember that your Heavenly Father wants you to be able to walk with him, so if anything, do it so you can someday walk with him in the celestial kingdom.
Remember that Heavenly Father and your bishop are the two best people you can turn to.
Name withheld

Hernando stacked the newspapers neatly at the corner where he worked each day. He glanced to where a bus was pulling up to the curb. As a stream of early commuters streamed sleepily from the door, he rushed forward with a number of papers under his arm. “Paper! First edition!” he cried out, waving one in the air.
A gray-haired man reached into his pocket for change, handed it to Hernando, and took a paper. “Thank you!” Hernando said, then turned to yell again, “Paper! First edition!” until the sidewalk was empty. He sat on the remaining papers and pulled his collar up against the morning’s dark chill.
“Hernie,” his buddy Tyler shouted excitedly from his shoeshine stand down the street, “Margaret’s giving money away again! She must have gotten her welfare check yesterday or something! Come on! She’s right around the corner at the bus depot.”
Hernando frowned. “Someone should stop her, but I can’t leave my papers!”
“I left my stand! Come on!” Tyler hissed. “We have to get in on this!”
Hernando glanced along the deserted sidewalk, then followed Tyler to the corner. When they got there, a police officer was gently leading Margaret to a patrol car.
“Too late!” Tyler groaned. “They’re taking her home again.”
Hernando smiled. “That’s good.”
“What’s good about it?” Tyler barked. “I got a dollar last time. What’s the matter with you—don’t you like money?”
Hernando grinned. “Sure! But not enough to take it from a confused old lady! You shouldn’t accept money from her, either.”
“You’re the one who’s confused! Your mom cleans offices, your sister works in a bakery, and you sell newspapers! Are you too good to take money from heaven?”
Hernando grinned. “If it were from heaven, I’d take it.” Hearing the screech of air brakes, Hernando knew that another bus was arriving, so he hurried back to his stand. Grabbing another stack of papers, he called, “Paper! First edition!”

Elder Bettridge grew up in the Church after his parents, Marge and Paul, converted when he was just two years old. He and his family would catch the bus to church, which was held in various buildings including scout huts, leisure centres and in people’s homes.

Ever since he was little, Jack had wanted a dog. Mom and Dad surprised him with a little tan puppy with big brown eyes and white paws. Jack named his new dog Skout, and soon they became great friends.
Jack worked very hard to take care of Skout and teach him how to be a good dog, but Skout was only a puppy and often made mistakes. One time he chewed up Grandpa’s umbrella, and another time he ate the pepperoni pizza and drank the pink soda at a family party.
Skout lived in the backyard behind a locked fence. Soon he learned how to dig a hole under the gate and crawl out onto the street. Every night Jack tried to patch up the spot where Skout escaped, and every night Skout found a new way to get out of the backyard.
One day Jack’s mother received a phone call. “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds, this is Mr. Hoolihan, your neighbor. I’m calling because your dog has been getting into my yard every night. He has ruined my new flowers and destroyed my garden! If that dog comes in my yard again, I’m calling the dogcatcher to take that naughty dog to the pound.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Hoolihan,” Jack’s mother said. “We’ll make sure that this does not happen again.”
“It better not, or you can say good-bye to that naughty dog!” Mr. Hoolihan yelled.
The whole family felt terrible. After dinner, Jack and his father gathered some large rocks and bricks and stacked them near the gate to make sure Skout could not dig a hole under it or push it open. Everyone was so worried about Skout that they hardly slept.
The next morning before school, Jack ran into the backyard to check on his dog. He was almost scared to look, but there was Skout happily wagging his tail behind the gate. Jack sighed with relief. “Hi, boy!”
But just as Jack was filling Skout’s food bowl, he noticed something—a large chewed-up shoe. Jack had seen this shoe somewhere before, but it was too big to be Dad’s. Then Jack remembered—every night after working in his garden, Mr. Hoolihan left his muddy shoes on his front porch. If this was Mr. Hoolihan’s shoe, Skout must have been out again last night.
Jack ran to the front yard and looked across to Mr. Hoolihan’s front porch. Sure enough, one shoe was missing. Only Jack knew where the matching shoe was.
Jack was worried. If he told the truth, Mr. Hoolihan would be angry and Skout would be sent away. Jack quickly hid the shoe behind a bush and went inside.
“I knew those rocks would work!” Dad said.
“I am so glad that Skout was a good dog last night,” Mom said.
Jack dragged his heavy feet upstairs into his room. He sat on his bed and thought about what to do. Jack knew that telling lies was bad, but this seemed different. Maybe Mr. Hoolihan would think that somebody else stole the shoe. Maybe no one would ask Jack about it, and then he wouldn’t exactly be lying.
He looked around his room for an idea of what to do. He saw his scriptures on his bookshelf, and he saw a photograph of his family on the dresser. He saw his Sunday clothes hanging in his closet, and he saw a picture of the Savior hanging on the wall. The song “I Am a Child of God”* came into his head and he began to hum the tune. Jack’s frown melted away. He knew what he had to do—he had to be honest.
Jack explained the truth to his parents, grabbed the shoe from behind the bush, and walked over to Mr. Hoolihan’s house. Jack nervously rang the doorbell. Mr. Hoolihan answered the door in his pajamas with an angry look on his face.
“Mr. Hoolihan, I am very sorry, but my dog, Skout, was out again last night. He chewed up your shoe and brought it into our yard.” Jack held up the mangled shoe. “I will work to pay for some new shoes for you.”
Mr. Hoolihan grabbed the shoe, mumbled something about calling the dogcatcher, and slammed the door. Jack walked home with a few tears in his eyes. He went to the backyard and gave Skout a hug.
After Jack went inside, the doorbell rang. Mr. Hoolihan stood on the porch, dressed and with a little bit of a smile on his face. “Jack, I’m glad that you came and told me the truth. I owe you an apology for reacting so rudely. You can wash my car every Saturday for one month to pay me back for the shoes. And to pay you back for my bad manners, I would like to help you fix your fence so Skout will be safe in your backyard.” Jack could hardly speak; all he could do was smile.