Gospel Story Finder

I know that many of you are concerned about raising your children during these difficult times and increasing their faith. When my wife and I were starting our family in the San Francisco Bay area, we had that same concern. At a critical point our stake members were advised by Elder Harold B. Lee, then a member of the Twelve, that we could raise our families in righteousness if we would:
Follow the prophet.
Create the true spirit of the gospel in our hearts and homes.
Be a light to those among whom we live.
Focus on the ordinances and principles taught in the temple. (See D&C 115:5; Harold B. Lee, “Your Light to Be a Standard unto the Nations,” Ensign, Aug. 1973, 3–4.)
As we followed this counsel, our faith increased and our fears decreased. I believe we can raise righteous children anywhere in the world if they are taught religious principles in the home.

Andrew turned back and climbed into the airplane’s small cabin. Although his father had taken some of the food on the sled, there was still a lot of canned goods left—much more than he would need. As he ate, Andrew thought of taking some food to the Eskimos, but he decided against it. If his father were delayed for some reason, the boy would need the food for himself.
Near the river the Eskimo boy chopped two holes through the ice. After fishing for several hours Ootah finally caught three small fish. He offered one to Andrew. “For your supper,” he said.
“Thank you, but I have food in the cabin of the plane,” Andrew reminded him.
Andrew felt terribly lonely when he returned to the plane and fixed something to eat. Before eating he prayed for his father’s safety and quick return. And as he prayed he remembered that his father had taught him to treat others as he would like to be treated. Guiltily he thought of the kindness of the Eskimo who had offered to share his fish even though they were all short of food.
Andrew flung open the cabin door and shouted for Ootah. When he came running, Andrew began throwing cans of food down to him.
On the sixth day an airplane mechanic flew in with Andrew’s father. While the mechanic repaired the plane, Andrew said good-bye to his Eskimo friends. He and Ootah solemnly promised to keep in touch with each other.
As the plane soared above the igloos, Andrew felt something pushing against his leg. He reached down and with a rush of joy picked up the little brown and white Husky puppy Ootah and his grandfather had left in the plane for Andrew to take home.

When Elder Jeremy R. Jaggi was a teenager, his seven-year-old sister, Kristen, contracted a bacteria that attacked her brain. Doctors said she wouldn’t survive.
Young Jeremy knelt beside his bed in the family’s home in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, and pleaded with the Lord to know why she had to die so young. His sister, however, received a priesthood blessing and lived.
This was a catalyst for 17-year-old Jeremy to “get himself right with God,” leading him to seriously read the Book of Mormon for the first time. Later he served as a full-time missionary in the Ohio Cleveland Mission.

Heather told us about a time she had been invited to a party with the “popular” people of the school. As she walked in the door, the music that was blasting through the house hit her spirit. She felt sick inside. Then friends started disappearing into darkened rooms. Heather said: “At the party I soon realized I had to make a choice: either these people or my standards. I couldn’t have both. I knew I did not want the words I was hearing or the movie scenes to contaminate my thoughts, no matter how popular these people were. I knew I did not belong there. As I was waiting for my mother to come and get me, I looked out the window in the darkened night, and there shining on the hill like a beacon was the temple. It was like the Lord was reassuring me that I was doing the right thing” (used by permission; name has been changed).

I was asked a lot of questions by friends and family when I decided to receive my temple endowment:
Are things getting serious in your relationship?
Is this a wedding announcement?
Are you even allowed to receive your endowment if you’re not getting married or serving a mission?
Although I did have a boyfriend at the time and I’d seriously considered a mission, my decision to go to the temple had nothing to do with those things and everything to do with the fact that I felt inspired to more fully accept the Lord’s invitation to “take hold of my covenant” (Isaiah 56:4). It was a sacred, personal decision, and one that I truly felt was right.
Soon after receiving my endowment, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and temples shut down. I was so grateful for the covenants I’d made and the greater understanding I’d gained in the temple, and I knew that my desire to go was inspired. Although your prompting might not have anything to do with a worldwide disaster, the Lord knows when you will need the sustaining power of covenants. He knows when He will need you in His “holy mountain,” so that He can “make [you] joyful in [His] house of prayer” (Isaiah 56:7).

When I hear someone say they can’t serve because they don’t feel well, I remember a stake I once visited in Mexico. The stake president spoke about a lesson he learned from his wife. He said that a week before the conference, he had scheduled some home teaching visits but came home from work and didn’t feel well. He told his wife that he guessed he wouldn’t go home teaching because he was sick. Her reply to him was, “Go sick!” And he went.

Like in that dream, the veil is sometimes lifted, and members of the Church are blessed with communion with those on the other side: “My grandpa died after being married to Grandma for fifty-seven years. Soon after he died I went in to visit her and said, ‘Has Grandpa visited you often, Grandma?’
“She got a funny look on her face and said, ‘How did you know?’ She told us that he visited her often, and shared with us an experience she had had two days before. She had finished her prayers and was lying in bed thinking when Grandpa appeared at the foot of her bed. ‘Take me with you,’ she told him.
“He shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘It’s not time yet, Ruby,’ he replied. He then said more and left.
“It wasn’t too long after that, however, that the time apparently had come, and we took Grandma to the hospital for the last time. We might have grieved to see her go, but how could we try to hold onto her when she wanted so much to go to her beloved?”

Mr. Icedale got up one Saturday morning and looked out his window. There was snow everywhere, and icicles hung from his rooftop. “Snow!” he snarled. “I hate snow! I might as well go back to bed.” And with that, he jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over himself.
A squirrel crawled across the outside ledge of Mr. Icedale’s window and scratched on the screen. He wondered if Mr. Icedale might have a few crumbs for him that morning. But when he saw Mr. Icedale snuggled under his blankets and quilts, he stopped scratching and quietly crawled away.
Right next door lived Grammie Brown, whose grandson Jeffry had spent the night. Jeffry loved staying with her.
Grammie woke him up earlier than usual that morning. “Look outside—it snowed last night!” Her voice was filled with the wonder and amazement of new-fallen snow. “Quick—come down! We’ll eat some hot cereal and toast, then go for a walk before anyone else makes a print in the snow.”
Jeffry pulled on his long johns, his woolen socks, his jeans, a turtleneck, and a pullover. He raced downstairs without even making the bed and sat down to eat just as Grammie brought the toast and cereal to the table. They ate their hot, brown-sugared cereal in a hurry, then pulled on their boots, scarves, coats, hats, and gloves.
The streets were silent, and the snow crunched under their feet as first Jeffry stepped in Grammie’s footprints and then Grammie stepped in Jeffry’s. They trailed sticks behind them as they walked along. They fell backward into the snow and made beautiful snow angels by moving their arms and legs back and forth. Grammie made a big heart in the snow with the end of her stick and wrote “GB + JB” in the middle of the heart. Jeffry hugged her through all the layers of clothes that they had on. “I love you, Grammie. You’re the best grandmother ever!”
Grammie chuckled. “And you’re the best grandson ever!”
Suddenly Grammie straightened up. “I have a great idea. Let’s go shovel Mr. Icedale’s sidewalk before he gets out of bed!” Jeffry wasn’t sure it was such a great idea—it sounded like work, not fun—but Grammie was already pulling him along.
When they arrived, Jeffry stamped his foot and began to cry. “I want to keep playing! I’m too little to shovel snow, anyway.”
“Oh, Jeffry, I know that you can’t shovel snow. But you can make the snowmen.”
“The snowmen?”
“Yes, Jeffry, snowmen. You just roll snowballs along the sidewalk to make their bodies, and I’ll come after you and shovel up what little remains.”
Jeffry knew that his dad didn’t shovel the sidewalk that way, but it sounded like a good idea. He rolled two huge snowballs, two smaller ones, and two that were about the size of his own head. When Grammie had finished getting the snow off the sidewalks, she helped him roll the snowballs in front of Mr. Icedale’s bedroom window.
After they anchored the two largest in place, they stacked the smaller ones on top and filled in the gaps with more snow. Then they hurried to Grammie’s to get two carrots for the snowmen’s noses, buttons for the eyes and mouths, and two old scarves to wrap around their necks.
The snowmen were finished. Jeffry hadn’t known that shoveling sidewalks could be so much fun! He giggled as they ran back to Grammie’s house for hot chocolate and sandwiches.
Soon his parents came to pick him up. As they sat in the kitchen and talked, his dad looked out the kitchen window. “Who made the snowmen in Mr. Icedale’s yard?” he asked.
Jeffry looked at Grammie and put his finger up to his lips.
“Snowmen?” Grammie asked. “Well, look at that! Someone has made snowmen in Mr. Icedale’s yard. What a nice thing to do! He’s been a bit grouchy lately—maybe that will cheer him up.” She winked at Jeffry.
A few minutes later, as he stretched up to give her a hug and kiss good-bye, he whispered, “Let’s shovel Mr. Icedale’s walks again the next time it snows.”
When they passed Mr. Icedale’s house on the way home, Jeffry looked at the snowmen one last time. And there, with the window wide open, was Mr. Icedale putting out peanuts for the squirrels. He had a smile on his face—the first smile that had been there in a long time.
Jeffry leaned back in his seat with a great big smile of his own.

Two years ago one of our daughters was seriously ill and hospitalized for several weeks. Our entire family was deeply concerned. Michelle suggested in a family home evening that her family fast for their aunt. The family agreed. The next day Michelle quietly fasted. She even asked for permission from her teacher to stay in the classroom during the lunch hour so she would not be tempted to eat. Her little brother Neal did not do so well. He cried when he arrived home from school because he had not been able to resist when a boy offered him a cookie. I was proud of both of them.

In a recent fast and testimony meeting, Charlotte, age six, bore her testimony, expressing love for her parents, the Church, and President Kimball. To her parents’ surprise, 3-year-old Laura followed. She gave a powerful sermon in a few words by saying, “I know my sisters love me. I love my sisters.” And then she sat down.

Tyler, now 5 years old and anxious to start school, prays with the maturity of an adult. His prayers are very personal and always different, as he talks to his Heavenly Father in a meaningful way. His little brother Brandon is following in his footsteps. Although it is difficult to understand him, it is obvious that he, too, loves Heavenly Father.

When I ask my grandsons what they are going to do when they turn nineteen, they all reply, “I hope they call me on a mission.” In fact, all of them have missionary savings accounts and our granddaughters are saving for temple marriage hope chests.

Not long ago my wife and I shared a family home evening with a daughter’s family. The father was a seventy and involved in stake missionary work. To our delight, Robbie, eight years old and newly baptized, brought out his father’s flip charts and gave us a discussion from the missionary lessons. I would like to be that young man’s mission president someday.

Robbie, Dan, and Melissa’s older brother Joey is mentally retarded. He lives at the training school in American Fork, Utah. When they visit him, they play with Joey and the other special children who live with him. To see how they share their love is a sacred experience. They really enjoy the opportunity of making Joey and his friends happy, and they return to their home uplifted and enriched by the experience. It causes them to love one another even more.

As we have attended the baptismal services for our grandchildren, we’ve shared their happiness in becoming members of the Church. After her baptism, Amy innocently wrote in her journal: “When I was baptized, it was fun because I became a member of the Church. … Now it is all over and I don’t have any more sins and I don’t have to worry.” Seeing these precious children reach out to take their fathers’ hands in complete faith and trust as they enter the baptismal font has been one of the most beautiful sights I have witnessed. Then, joining with others in placing my hands on their heads as they have been confirmed and having their fathers give them the gift of the Holy Ghost and a father’s blessing have been experiences I shall never forget.

If I sound like a proud grandfather, I am—just as proud as your grandfathers are of you. Our grandchildren are our treasure—special spirits entrusted to us by our Father in heaven. We know what a royal generation you are! We love you and have faith in you.

I pray that my grandchildren, and grandchildren everywhere, will understand what Jesus taught and will be converted to His gospel. I hope they remain as little children, full of love and faith, so that they all might enter into the kingdom of heaven.

When I was nine years old, my mother announced that she wanted me to learn to play the piano. I thought there were better things for a nine-year-old boy to do, like riding my horse or roaming the hills behind our home. But I did not want to disappoint my mother, so I agreed to take piano lessons.
Every week my piano teacher gave me a new song to learn. I didn’t like to practice, but every day Mother set the timer to make sure I practiced the right amount of time. After a few months, my mother suggested that I learn to play some of the Church hymns. I agreed, and together we chose a hymn and I practiced playing it before my lesson. After that, my piano teacher assigned a new hymn for me to learn every week, along with the other music I practiced.
For the next few years, I learned to play a new hymn every week. By the time I turned 12 years old, I could play most of the familiar hymns in the hymnbook.
When I was ordained a deacon, the bishop taught me about the priesthood and that one of the things a deacon did was serve others. The bishop knew I had learned to play the hymns, so he called me to be a pianist during some of our church meetings. I enjoyed playing the hymns during our meetings. It made me feel that I could make a contribution to our worship services. Even as a young boy, I felt like an important part of the Church because I knew our ward needed me.
By the time I turned 16, our family had moved to Salt Lake City. Our new bishop asked me if I would be the ward organist. I told him that I did not know how to play the organ. “Well, you can learn, can’t you?” he asked. And I said, “Yes, I guess I can.” So I taught myself to play the organ by going to the church to practice.
That calling gave me a sense of service. That wise bishop who called me knew that playing the organ in sacrament meeting would help prepare me for a mission. And later, as a missionary in Germany, I played the hymns nearly every week in small branches that did not have a pianist.
That skill I learned as a nine-year-old boy really set a pattern for my church service through my whole life. Even today, long after I have forgotten the other music I learned to play, the hymns come easily to me. I can play them just like I did as a young boy.
I will always be grateful to my mother for encouraging me and helping me learn to play the hymns. Learning to play that sacred music had a profound influence on me, and it helped me learn to serve in the Church. I think that is the lesson my mother and my priesthood leaders really wanted me to learn. They knew that the sacred music would speak to my mind and my heart, and that the words and music would become familiar friends to bless me throughout my life.

Joe shows up and things are, I’m happy to say, fairly routine around our house. Maybe part of the reason is that the twins are in bed and both my parents are at the grocery store. At last, Joe can glimpse the Grundy household in a nearly normal mode.
We get right down to it, going over the last details of our presentation and Greg’s recipe for kisseli, which we’ll prepare tomorrow at Joe’s, with some help from his mom. After a half-hour, I get up to grab Greg’s slides. The hallway is dark, but April whisks by me, without her glasses. There’s a trace of perfume in the air.
Perfume? Something is not right. April never wears perfume.
It can’t be! I stop dead in my tracks and do a hasty retreat to the den. But I am too late. April is already asking Joe out for the girls’ choice dance.
“… so if you’d like to, it would be fun if we could go together.”
What will Joe say? After he gets up off the floor laughing, that is. April, my sister, who is not even in Joe’s social league, asking him to the dance? Some things are just not done.
I peek in. April is looking nervously at Joe, as if her life hinges on his answer. Joe looks uncomfortable.
But not for the reason I expect. “Gosh, April. I’d like to. I think you’re cool. But I’ve already been asked, and it wouldn’t be fair to back out on a date. Maybe we can get together sometime other than the dance.”
What? Joe sounds as though he’d really like to go out with April. No sign of annoyance, not the slightest hint of put-down in his voice. The only thing I can detect is concern that April’s feelings—and fragile self-image—remain intact. I back away from the door, struggling to comprehend what I’ve just seen. What is it?
Cool, that’s what it is.

On the way to a Sunday meeting, the stake president and I saw a couple walking along the road with a baby and two small children. We stopped to offer them a ride. They were surprised and delighted. When I asked how far they needed to walk to the chapel, the father replied that it could take 45 minutes to an hour, depending on the children’s pace. They faced this journey back and forth, every Sunday, with no complaints—only smiling faces and grateful hearts.

Of great significance for the Church’s expanding missionary effort in Eastern Europe was the establishment of a mission in the DDR. In October 1988, President Monson, Elder Nelson, Elder Ringger, and several local priesthood leaders met with Chairman Erich Honecker to ask permission for missionaries to proselyte in the German Democratic Republic—and for missionaries to be called from the DDR to proselyte elsewhere.
In opening the meeting, Chairman Honecker said: “We know members of your Church believe in work; you’ve proven that. We know you believe in the family; you’ve demonstrated that. We know you are good citizens in whatever country you claim as home; we have observed that. The floor is yours. Make your desires known.”
President Monson’s presentation was simple, direct, and effective. Permission was granted, and on 30 March 1989 the first missionaries in 50 years entered the country and began to share the gospel. Two months later, the first missionaries to be called from the DDR left for service outside their country.5

Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

Among the material things of the past—things that I treasure for sweet memory’s sake and because of pleasant association in bygone days—is a lamp. …
The lamp of which I speak, the student lamp of my school and college days, was one of the best of its kind. I had bought it with hard-earned savings; it was counted among my most cherished possessions. …
One summer evening I sat musing studiously and withal restfully in the open air outside the door of the room in which I lodged and studied. A stranger approached. I noticed that he carried a satchel. He was affable and entertaining. I brought another chair from within, and we chatted together till the twilight had deepened into dusk, the dusk into darkness.
Then he said: “You are a student and doubtless have much work to do of nights. What kind of lamp do you use?” And without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I have a superior kind of lamp I should like to show you, a lamp designed and constructed according to the latest achievements of applied science, far surpassing anything heretofore produced as a means of artificial lighting.”
I replied with confidence, and I confess, not without some exultation: “My friend, I have a lamp, one that has been tested and proved. It has been to me a companion through many a long night. It is an Argand lamp, and one of the best. I have trimmed and cleaned it today; it is ready for the lighting. Step inside; I will show you my lamp; then you may tell me whether yours can possibly be better.”
We entered my study room, and with a feeling which I assume is akin to that of the athlete about to enter a contest with one whom he regards as a pitiably inferior opponent, I put the match to my well-trimmed Argand.
My visitor was voluble in his praise. It was the best lamp of its kind, he said. He averred that he had never seen a lamp in better trim. He turned the wick up and down and pronounced the adjustment perfect. He declared that never before had he realized how satisfactory a student lamp could be.
I liked the man; he seemed to me wise, and he assuredly was ingratiating. “Love me, love my lamp,” I thought, mentally paraphrasing a common expression of the period.
“Now,” said he, “with your permission I’ll light my lamp.” He took from his satchel a lamp then known as the “Rochester.” It had a chimney which, compared with mine, was as a factory smokestack alongside a house flue. Its hollow wick was wide enough to admit my four fingers. Its light made bright the remotest corner of my room. In its brilliant blaze my own little Argand wick burned a weak, pale yellow. Until that moment of convincing demonstration, I had never known the dim obscurity in which I had lived and labored, studied and struggled.
“I’ll buy your lamp,” said I; “you need neither explain nor argue further.” I took my new acquisition to the laboratory that same night and determined its capacity. It turned at over 48 candlepower—fully four times the intensity of my student lamp.
Two days after purchasing, I met the lamp peddler on the street about noontime. To my inquiry he replied that business was good; the demand for his lamps was greater than the factory supply. “But,” said I, “you are not working today?” His rejoinder was a lesson. “Do you think that I would be so foolish as to go around trying to sell lamps in the daytime? Would you have bought one if I had lighted it for you when the sun was shining? I chose the time to show the superiority of my lamp over yours, and you were eager to own the better one I offered, were you not?”

Many teens in the South run to Florida beaches for spring break, but cousins Marty Craig, an elder in the Newnan Ward, Jonesboro Georgia Stake, and John ‘Mac’ Williams, a recent convert and priest in the Woodstock Ward, East Marietta Georgia Stake, headed to Honduras.
And it wasn’t for fun and games. They worked hard to help finish a dam for an 11-acre reservoir to power a generator for a boys’ school. Not only that, but they helped collect shirts, hats, candy, and machinery in Georgia to take down to the school. Oh, and of course they milked cows, helped build a new building, and shoveled and bagged rice. The school, “El Sembrador,” is almost self-sufficient now.
They also brought four copies of the Book of Mormon with them and personally presented them to some of the young men at the school. Marty is now continuing his missionary work full-time in the Dominican Republic. Mac will follow him into the mission field as soon as he graduates.

We moved to a new state and city four months before Christmas. There are ten in my family, five of us teenagers, and this was our first move. We were having a hard time adjusting.
My mother announced that we would be doing a family project of helping a nonmember family in our neighborhood. We didn’t know them very well, but the service project helped us take the focus away from our own lonely feelings.
After Christmas, the mother of that family of five told my mother that her husband was out of work and she was supporting the family on a part-time job. It turned out to be one of the best Christmases they’d ever had.
—Adrienne Pippin, 15Portland, Oregon

That little girl—now sixteen—has been a comfort and joy to our family. She saved her pennies, and at age seven she presented my father with fifty-one cents in the hopes it would pay for him to go to a clinic to be cured of his desires to smoke and drink. This proved to be the turning point in my father’s life. My parents have now celebrated the sixth anniversary of their temple sealing. What a wonderful experience that was to kneel and be sealed as a family.

Several years ago, my family and I decided to hike a mountain trail in Iceland to see a famous waterfall. We had never been on this mountain. We were uncertain about the trail, and we are not experienced hikers.
We watched others start up the trail and followed. Soon, they were out of sight, and so was the trail. We looked carefully and noticed piles of intentionally placed rocks, called cairns, at regular intervals marking the path to the waterfall. We became confident that if we could find the cairns, they would lead us to the waterfall.
Patches of ground near the trail featured white, fluffy cotton grass,1 which grows in marshy terrain. Stepping into the cotton grass always left us with muddy, water-filled shoes. We learned that the cotton grass marked a path we did not want to follow.
The trail was not easy. Sometimes it was steep, and we became tired. But we persisted, paying careful attention to the cairns and avoiding the cotton grass. Finally our efforts were rewarded. We reached the magnificent waterfall and enjoyed the view from the mountaintop and the refreshment of the water.
As we trekked down the mountain, we saw dangers we had not seen before. The cairns had helped us avoid deep pools of water and steep cliffs. We were grateful those cairns led us safely to our goal.
On our summer hike, we were free to choose a different path to the top of the mountain, but a different path might not have, and likely would not have, led to the waterfall. We could have been delayed because we were stuck in the mud, been stymied by dangerous cliffs, or given up because of tiredness. Staying on the path provided the most direct and sure route to our destination.

When I was eight years old and recently baptized, I struggled with nightmares. One night as I sat on my bed, I told my mom that I was afraid to fall asleep.
I had been learning that the scriptures hold the answers to every problem. I wanted to find a scripture to help me, but I wasn’t sure where to look. I couldn’t think of any scripture stories that had to do with nightmares.
My mom told me that the Holy Ghost could guide me. We knelt by my bed and said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to help me feel the Holy Ghost.
After we prayed, I had a thought to look in the Pearl of Great Price. Then I felt we should look in Joseph Smith—History. We read verses 16 and 17, which talk about the darkness Joseph felt when he first started praying. Then there was a bright light, and Heavenly Father and Jesus appeared to him.
The darkness Joseph Smith experienced reminded me of the fear I felt from my nightmares. The light when the Savior and Heavenly Father appeared was like being helped and shielded by the Holy Ghost.
My mom asked me what Joseph did to overcome the feeling of darkness. I said, “Joseph prayed.”
If I pray and have faith, the Holy Ghost can help me feel peaceful and safe. This experience has helped me realize that the scriptures really do have the answers to my problems.