Gospel Story Finder

Brethren and sisters, after what I’ve heard here today—certainly a full coverage of the subject—I am reminded of an experience I had some years ago. I believe it was one of the few times, if not the only time, that we General Authorities were asked by the Brethren to treat a certain subject at a stake conference. That week I went to Richfield, and Brother Clifford Young went over to Monroe. They had a chorus of young folks from the school sing at Richfield while I was there in the morning, and then they went over to Monroe in the afternoon and sang where Brother Young was. It happened that I talked about the assigned subject in the morning, and Clifford talked about it in the afternoon. When we made our report to the Council of the Twelve, Brother Young said it had been a fine occasion; the only bad thing about it was that those students had had to listen to the same subject twice. President George F. Richards, then president of the Twelve, said, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I don’t suppose they knew you were talking about the same subject.”

Jenny reached for the nearest pans to put them into the water. “Oh, no!” she thought. “Not the muffin tins!” The muffin tins were always hard to clean. She would have to scrub out each section one at a time and keep checking to make sure they were completely clean.
As Jenny worked, she started thinking about muffins. Her mother had made banana muffins for breakfast that morning. Banana muffins were her favorite kind, and this morning they had been hot and delicious. Jenny had never made muffins before, but she knew her mother had to get up early to make sure they were ready before school. And her mother probably hadn’t gotten much sleep last night because of Elizabeth’s crying. Jenny rinsed the muffin tins carefully and set them out to dry. Somehow, washing the muffin tins didn’t seem like such a chore anymore.

I remember standing before the bier of a young man whose life had been bright with hope and promise. He had been an athlete in his high school, and an excellent university student. He was a friendly, brilliant young man. He had gone into the mission field. He and his missionary companion were riding down the highway when a car, coming from the opposite direction, moved into their path and crashed into them. He died in the hospital an hour later. As I stood at the pulpit and looked into the faces of his father and his mother, there came then into my heart a conviction that I had seldom before felt with such assurance. I knew with certainty, as I looked across his casket, that this young man had not died, but had merely been transferred to another field of labor in the eternal ministry of the Lord.

This story happened in Malaysia.
Janeelyn swiped her thumb across the phone screen. Videos flashed by. She paused to watch one, then scrolled again. Then she stopped at another video. It had a lot of bad language, but it was funny, so she kept watching. And then kept scrolling.
“Janeelyn! Want to come draw?” Her younger sister Jojo waved a piece of paper.
Janeelyn glanced up. “Not right now.”
“OK.” Jojo frowned and set the paper down.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Videos of cute animals. Videos of famous people. Videos of kids dancing. And a few videos Janeelyn knew weren’t good to watch. OK, maybe more than a few. Janeelyn started to feel like she should stop watching them.
But people also post a lot of good things, she thought. She’d even learned new ways to draw from a few videos.
“Janeelyn,” Mom called.
“Hmm?” Janeelyn didn’t even look up this time.
“We’re having seafood fried rice tonight,” Mom said. “Will you help me make it?”
Janeelyn loved seafood fried rice. But she didn’t want to get up right now.
“Can I just set the table?” she asked. “I can help with dishes after too.”
“That’s fine,” Mom said. “But you need to set it right when I ask you. And then it’s time to give the phone back. Deal?”
“Deal,” Janeelyn said.
Janeelyn kept watching videos. Again, she felt that she shouldn’t be looking at them. But she really wanted to see the next video. And the next. And the next. Scroll. Scroll. It was hard to stop!
At last Janeelyn put the phone down. Well, maybe she could just finish one last video . . . .
No, Janeelyn told herself firmly. The Holy Ghost had prompted her, and she wanted to listen. Her hand still hovered near the phone. It was so tempting! Janeelyn squeezed her eyes shut.
Dear Heavenly Father, she prayed silently. I’m trying hard to listen to the Holy Ghost, but I need help. I want to stop watching these videos, but I’m not sure how. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Just then, Mom called her to set the table. Janeelyn hopped up and smiled. That was one way to help get her off the phone.
Janeelyn set the plates on the table. “Mom, I saw some bad things on the phone,” she blurted out.
Mom looked up from her cooking. “What kinds of things?”
“Just like, bad words and bad videos.” Janeelyn shrugged. “But it’s not all bad.”
“What did you do when you saw the bad things?” Mom asked.
Janeelyn was quiet for a moment. She set a cup at each place.
“I kept watching,” she said. “I don’t know why. But the Holy Ghost told me to stop, so I said a prayer for help.”
Mom set a steaming platter of seafood fried rice on the table. “Sometimes it’s really hard to stop doing things even when we know they are bad,” she said. “And when that happens, the best thing we can do is pray.”
Janeelyn grinned. “So I did the right thing.”
“You sure did.” Mom handed Janeelyn spoons to put on the table. “And the internet isn’t all bad. It can help us connect with friends and share ideas. But it can be hard to stay away from all the bad things too. From now on, if you’re going to watch videos, let’s only watch them together. That way Dad and I can help if you see something bad.”
Janeelyn nodded. Next time she’d watch videos with Mom and Dad. But until then, there were lots of fun things she could do without the phone.
“Will you tell everyone it’s time for dinner?” Mom asked.
“Yup! And after dinner, I’m going to draw with Jojo!”
Illustrations by Mitch Miller

Illustrations by Casey Nelson
My neighbor Elsa was intimidating. Still, I decided I should get to know her better. I thought, “There must be good in there somewhere,” and I decided mowing her lawn would be a good way to bring it out.
After only a couple of weeks of mowing, Elsa approached my mom. She accused me of trying to kill her grass and told me to stop mowing. I couldn’t understand! I was trying to do something good for her, but she didn’t like it.
I went about a month without mowing. One day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was convinced she’d like her lawn to be cut, whether she knew it yet or not.
I worked quickly, making sure not to cut the grass too short, and never to make a divot. I was getting near the end when I heard her door slam. I wanted to run, but I held my ground. And then I saw her walking toward me.
She was carrying a small box of chocolates! “Here,” she said in a thick accent. “You take chocolates.”
After that Elsa and I became friends. She told me stories from her childhood in Germany, and I really enjoyed talking to her.
Because we became friends, I realized she wasn’t scary at all but was a very kindhearted lady. All it took was a little bit of service.

Soon afterward Bent returned to Denmark, and we were concerned that he might lose touch with the Church. But he attended church in Denmark, and it happened to be a fast Sunday. He was sitting at the back of the chapel minding his own business when he was asked to bear his testimony, something he had never done before, in either English or Danish. He wished he could disappear, but instead he stood and told how Svend Hansen had challenged him to read the Book of Mormon. As soon as he mentioned Svend’s name, people looked up in surprise. After the meeting Svend’s many friends wanted to know how he was doing.
Suddenly Bent had many new friends, and he felt right at home. He has since worked many years with the youth and served on the high council of the Århus Denmark Stake.

When I was a student at the University of Vienna in Austria, two missionaries came to my door, saying, “We have a message for you from God.” I invited them in, wondering why I did so because I didn’t have any interest in religion. Deeply affected by the Hungarian Revolution of 1956—which sent thousands of refugees streaming into Austria—I had been seeking to know the meaning of life. But I didn’t expect to find the answer in any church.
The message of these missionaries was the message of the Restoration. I think I loved the Prophet Joseph Smith from the first moment I heard about him. I was especially touched by the circumstances of his Martyrdom. Later, as I spent time reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I received through the power of the Holy Ghost a joyful, peaceful assurance that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith was the Prophet of the Restoration, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s restored Church on the earth, led by living prophets who prepare the world for His Second Coming.

Illustration by Allen Garns
One Sunday during sacrament meeting, I sensed something that disturbed me. I did not know what it was, but the feeling would not leave. I looked nervously at the clock and longed for the end of the meeting. This was unusual for me.
After the closing prayer, the feeling was still there. I glanced around the chapel and noticed a man clutching his chest. I went to him, and he asked if I would take him to the train station. I told him I should take him to the emergency room instead. He said he had medication at home that would help him. I told him I would drive him home because taking a train in his condition would be too dangerous.
I helped him into my car and asked again if I should take him to the doctor. He said that was not necessary and that I could just go to his home. I silently prayed, asking my Father in Heaven to help him be all right and to help me drive him home safely! I drove carefully, opened the car windows, and tried to calm him down. After some time, he leaned back in his seat and slowly began to relax.
When we arrived at his home, he invited me in. I was glad because I wanted to make sure he got his medication and that it worked. He took his medication and started to feel better. He said his chest still hurt a bit but that he felt safe at home.
He invited me to stay for dinner, and since that afternoon, we have become good friends. We often go on outings together and help each other. Before this experience, I had many friends who were not a good influence on me. But my friendship with this man has blessed my life.
Sometimes out of a crisis, a great friendship can arise. If I had simply put him on the train, I wonder if he would have made it home. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened to him. I am grateful to my Father in Heaven that the Holy Spirit led me into this situation and that, in the process, I was able to gain a true and dear friend!

When Elder Richard G. Scott was young, his father was not a member of the Church. His mother was a member, but she didn’t go to church very often. When Richard turned eight years old, he didn’t get baptized. Then his Grandma Whittle came to visit.
Grandma Whittle was a very good example. She helped Richard and his brothers learn how important it is to be baptized and go to church. Soon Richard and his older brother were baptized.

When you’re six-foot-seven and tower over all your high-school friends, it’s easy to be noticed. When you’re marching in a band, pounding on drums, you tend to attract a fair amount of attention. When you’re one of only a few members of the Church in your entire school, you stand out even more. Such is the lot of Ryan Mortimer of the Kettle Moraine Ward in the Milwaukee Wisconsin South Stake, or Mort as his friends call him—a moniker that has morphed into Mort the Mormon to most of his classmates. “Friends come up to me all the time with questions they have about the Church. They’ll say, ‘Hey, Mort, what’s this all about?’ Or ‘I saw some of your missionaries the other day,’ and I’ll say, ‘I’m going to be one of those guys in a couple years.’”
Most of the time Ryan likes being the guy with a reputation.
“At my high school people know how I’m going to act and how I’m not going to act, what I’m going to say and what I’m not going to say. They know because of a lot of repetition. You have to keep doing the same things over and over again. You have to watch your language, watch the jokes you tell, you have to act a certain way and present yourself in the way an LDS person would present themselves, and you have to keep doing it over a period of years. It’s nice to know I’ve kept that reputation.”
But sometimes the pressure of always being the example—of always being the “good” guy, especially when there are those around you trying to make you slip up, can become overwhelming. That’s what happened to Ryan when he was traveling with his marching band. “Sometimes I get made fun of a lot because I don’t swear or tell dirty jokes. I’ve actually had people say they were going to get me to crack before the end of the band season.”
At one point about two years ago during an extended band competition, the harassment got so bad that Ryan reached a breaking point. “I was crying on the bus. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to go home.” When the bus arrived back at the school where the band was staying, Ryan told a friend he was going for a walk and left to find a quiet place to pray.
“I found this spot behind the school, and when I knelt down and started to pray, I broke down. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to get through this. I must have prayed for a good 30 minutes where I was literally pouring out my soul. It was really the first night where I felt as if Heavenly Father was near to me. When I felt that, I’ve never felt so much at peace in my life, and I knew right then that I would get through this.
“Before I prayed I was like, ‘I can’t take it,’ and afterward it was one of the most calm and peaceful feelings I’ve ever felt. Then there were tears of joy and tears of happiness. What I felt was truly the gift of the Holy Ghost helping me get through what I was going through.”
Ryan says that as he felt the loving presence of his Father in Heaven, everything changed. Ryan had felt alone and insignificant; now he felt loved and empowered. “I’m a son of God,” Ryan said to himself. “I’m a priesthood holder—a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. That night I really felt like I was someone important to my Heavenly Father.”
“The interesting thing about that is that same night one of the girls who I never would have thought would be interested in the Church came up to me and said, ‘How can you handle that?’” She told Ryan she had noticed that he was different and asked what it was that made him act the way he did. They ended up talking about the Church for two hours, with Ryan sharing scriptures and his testimony with her.
The very next day, the band was traveling on a small ship on Lake Michigan. Ryan was in the “quiet” room reading Jesus the Christ, cross-referencing passages with his scriptures, when one of the band directors came in carrying his own Bible. “We talked for about three hours about the differences in our religions and about the Book of Mormon,” says Ryan. “I bore my testimony to him and talked about Joseph Smith’s First Vision.” After those three hours, Ryan’s director said, “I’m very surprised at how well you know your church and your faith. It’s nice to see a 17-year-old with such a testimony of his church.”
The competition circuit continued for another week, and those who had been badgering Ryan stopped. He’d weathered the storm, his testimony now strengthened, his reputation intact. Plus he’d had a few opportunities to share the gospel with others.
One of Ryan’s favorite scriptures is Romans 1:16, which reads, “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.”
“The reason it’s one of my favorite scriptures,” says Ryan, “is because I’m not ashamed to say who I am, I am not ashamed to be who I am, and I’m not ashamed to say what I know.”
So that’s how it is to be known as Mort the Mormon. Ryan has spent years being an example of the believers and gaining the respect of his bandmates and classmates. He likes knowing that his friends know what he stands for and why he acts the way he does. It’s not always easy being the one who’s noticed when everyone’s expectations are so high. But that’s just who Ryan is: he’s a big guy, and he’s tall enough to stand that high.

The enthusiasm the dogs have for pulling is obvious the minute Tawnya walks outside with harnesses in hand. The dogs prick up their ears and begin barking and jumping. They’re eager.
“I learn lots of things from these dogs,” Tawnya says. “Enthusiasm for what you’re doing is one of them. Another is obedience. You don’t use reins with them, just voice commands. If they didn’t listen to what I told them, I could have had some really bad accidents. Once, if the dogs had followed their instincts and kept running, rather than stopping right when I told them to, we would have gone right between a mother bear and her cub. I don’t think any of us would have survived that.”

She catapults helplessly through darkness and she is screaming, screaming, screaming. “Wake up, Amy!” Scream. “Wake up! You’re having a bad dream.”
Amy struggles to look at her father who is smiling even though it’s the middle of the night. She feels beads of sweat, newly formed along her brow, trapping her hair. Her voice trembles, “What time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, Dad.” Amy frowns as she slides back under the covers.
“Don’t worry. I was getting up at four anyway.” Amy’s dad goes to the flower mart early so he can choose the freshest blooms for his shop himself. “Looks like I’ve got some free time; want to talk about these bad dreams you’ve been having?”
“I’m pretty sleepy, Dad. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” he says, watching Amy rub her eyes. “Okay,” he sighs, “after school then.” He kisses Amy’s cheek. “Pleasant dreams.”
Amy stays awake. Pleasant dreams, sure, she thinks.
Later that morning at the breakfast table her little brother makes slurping noises. “Can’t you be a decent human being?” Amy asks.
Her brother, Markie, opens his mouth to defend himself, but Amy’s mother interrupts their morning ritual with one word: “Amy.”
Amy reads the ingredients on the cereal box. “Yuck, this cereal is full of poison! I can’t eat this stuff.”
“Amy,” her mom strains to speak patiently, “you need to eat something. The cereal is not poisonous.”
“It’s full of chemicals and preservatives. It’ll give me some incurable disease or something.” With that, Amy grabs her books and heads out the door for school. As she walks, a passing car reminds her of a recent nightmare. She was in a car and there was a horrible accident.
At school Becky invites her to go snowboarding Saturday on the last spring snow. “It’ll be great and I’ve got a snowboard you can borrow.”
“I can’t.”
Becky squeezes her face into an expression of disbelief. “Why not?”
Amy doesn’t want to go because she has never done it before and she’s afraid she’ll break a bone, probably an important one. “I have to finish my research report this weekend.”
“All you need to do is type the bibliography, remember?”
“I, uh, you know, had to make some major changes in it.”
“Okay, suit yourself. I’ll just ask someone else.”
Amy watches Becky walk toward a group of girls. She decides this would be the ideal time to finish her current events assignment. After a while the news stories begin to bear a striking resemblance to her nightmares. There are shootings and stabbings, drunk drivers killing innocent people, kidnappings, and tornadoes tearing apart entire communities. The bell rings and Amy nearly hits the ceiling.
Walking home after school, she takes a detour to see if her dad’s truck is at the flower shop. Seeing it, she goes inside the shop and sees the manager. “Hi, Amy, how are you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Jepperson. I’m okay.”
Mrs. Jepperson looks up while filling some balloons with helium. “Just okay?”
“Yeah.” How can anyone be any more than that? she thinks. There’s a horrible war on the other side of the ocean and there are town-eating tornadoes. No one has a right to be anything more than okay under the circumstances. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s probably at your house by now. He ran out for a while. Oh, before you go, take these.” Mrs. Jepperson reaches for a scrambled bunch of flowers, the leftovers she would soon throw out.
“Thanks, but no.” Amy pushes through the door. “They’re just going to die.” That’s the trouble with flowers, Amy thinks as she walks up the hill to her house. They always turn brown and shrivel up.
Her dad is drinking ice water in the kitchen. “Amy, I need to go back and get the truck. Why don’t you come with me?” Amy knows what that means. He wants her to run with him, so she begins to formulate her excuse-for-the-day, but remembers that it won’t do her any good. She could give a hundred good reasons why she can’t run with him, and he’ll give her two hundred reasons why she should. It’s another family ritual.
“Okay,” she sighs, and goes to her room to change.
As they start down the hill he asks about her day. She tells him about all the horror stories she read in the newspaper and about how she couldn’t go snowboarding. Then he asks her if she knows why she’s having nightmares. “I really don’t know,” she says. “I just wish they’d go away.”
“Keep running hard and you’ll sleep like a baby.”
“But babies wake up crying every few hours.”
“Okay, I’ll think of another comparison,” he says as he playfully shoves his daughter into the grass.
“Dad! You got grass stains on my shorts!” They walk in silence the rest of the way to the shop.
She waits outside in the truck while he talks to his employees. When he comes out he’s carrying the armload of leftover flowers. He doesn’t even put them in the back; he just climbs into the driver’s seat with all the flowers. Some fall over onto Amy’s lap; they feel cold. “Dad, how can you see to drive?”
“I’m just going to breathe these in for a moment.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ah, that’s wonderful.”
“But they’re not fresh. They’re going to die, like, probably tomorrow.”
Her dad opens his eyes and looks at her for what seems like hours. He puts the flowers down and begins to drive. “They’ll be gone, maybe tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them today.” He doesn’t drive toward home.
She wishes he’d take her home. She’s in grass-stained shorts and a sweaty T-shirt. What if someone sees her? Her dad turns on the radio. It’s his favorite program, some old-fashioned comedy. He’s laughing hard. When the commercial comes on she switches the station to the news. They hear reports of a capsized boat and how the coast guard is looking for survivors. They hear about some famous couple getting divorced, and then they hear reports of atrocities in a war-torn country.
“Can I switch it back to my station now?” he asks Amy.
“It’s the news, Dad. It’s reality. We can’t bury our heads in the sand.”
“That’s true. But we don’t have to wallow in misery,” he says as he pulls over.
“Who’s wallowing in misery?”
Amy looks up to see pink and yellow flowers as far as she can see. “I’m just aware of what’s going on.”
“Being aware is one thing, but you can’t let it get to you.”
“Why not? It’s a miserable world. I have reason to be miserable.”
Amy’s dad gets out and opens Amy’s door. She gets out reluctantly. He takes her arm and leads her toward the rainbow of endless flowers. They stop at a patch of ground surrounded by flowers, and he digs into the dirt. Yuck, Amy thinks. Mud covers his fingers and an earthworm squirms away.
“Imagine,” her dad says, “if flowers decided that since they only live a short time they shouldn’t bother being beautiful and fragrant.”
“Yeah, but how can we go around being happy when so many people are suffering?”
“Does being unhappy help the people who are suffering?”
“Well,” Amy turns toward the truck.
“Does being unhappy help you in any way?”
Amy tries to think of a response. She looks at her dad for a clue. He isn’t even paying attention. In the middle of his lecture he’s stooping over, smelling flowers.
“Do you remember that scripture about ‘Man is that he might have joy’?” He stretches his arms out and looks like he is offering some kind of salute to the flower kingdom.
“But that’s for after we get through all the misery of this earth.”
“Is it? Amy, I have two assignments for you. One is for Saturday while you’re sitting around with nothing to do when you could have been snowboarding. I want you to answer the following question using your scriptures and other Church books. Think about this. Could it be that it is a good thing to be of good cheer?”
“And the other assignment?” she asks.
“Race me to the car!”
They run all the way, the colorful images of the flowers flashing past in such a blur that Amy almost laughs out loud, especially when her dad passes her along the skinny path looking like some kind of hairy gnome in running shorts. The fragrance is energizing, and she wonders if the things her dad said are true.
That night she helps her mom fold towels and asks her, “Why is Dad always so happy? Hasn’t he ever experienced anything really hard?”
Her mom stops folding and looks at the towel she is smoothing. “Oh, he’s had some hard times. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Your dad’s mother—your grandma—died when he was 12. That was really hard. He lost the first business he started. Then he was diagnosed with a liver disease and diabetes all in the same year.” She pauses, begins to lift a stack of towels, puts them down, and continues. “He was sent to fight in Vietnam when he was 19. He’s told me some about that, but I know he hasn’t told me everything. His brother was killed there. That was probably the hardest for him; he used to wake up with nightmares.”
Amy doesn’t say a word. The rest of the weekend she hardly says anything at all until her research is finished. On Sunday her dad asks her to sit down and make a report to him.
“Dad, terrible things happened to Christ, but he spent his time lifting others. And there are others who were like that too. They did terrible things to Joseph Smith and his family, but even though he had the right to be really miserable he still found time to arm wrestle and play with the kids and things like that.”
“So, did you learn from your research that it’s okay to be a happy person?”
“It’s more than okay. I think Heavenly Father wants us to find joy in our lives while we’re here. Maybe it’s like a skill. If we learn it here we’ll be better at it in eternity.”
He smiles. “So your research really helped.”
“Actually, I think I learned the most from example. There’s this man, you see, and he’s had some hard things happen to him. But he likes to get up early every morning and go to the flower mart, he listens to corny comedy on the radio, and he’s been teaching me all along that being happy is an important skill.”
Her dad isn’t smiling anymore. She doesn’t remember ever seeing him look this serious. “We have our agency,” he says. “We choose how to react to the hard things in life. We can grow and have gratitude for our blessings, or we can be miserable and stagnate.”
“Dad, will you lighten up!”
“Here, let’s give these to your mom.” He takes an armload of wilted flowers from a large grocery bag, and the two of them carry the gift. Amy fully breathes in their fragrance.

In 2023, members and friends of the Rochdale Ward, Ashton Stake, surpassed all previous fundraising efforts for Francis House Children’s Hospice in Manchester.
In the months leading up to Easter, sisters from the Relief Society, along with friends, began knitting baby chicks. They embellished the chicks by adding colourful ribbons, hats, beaks and eyes.
Members donated chocolate cream eggs, and each was placed inside of a chick, making a unique Easter gift. Approximately one thousand chicks were created.
Via their efforts with loved ones, neighbours, colleagues, and social media, the member’s managed to raise a grand total of £2150.00.
The donation was presented by Rochdale Ward Relief Society President Wendy Orrell to Rachel Nasri, a member of Francis House fundraising team. Rachel expressed her gratitude for all the efforts in raising such an amount.

“Welcome to class, everyone.”
Riley looked up at her new teacher and smiled. He looked younger than her other teachers. His voice cracked as he spoke. He cleared his throat and continued.
“I’m Mr. Berrett.”
A student raised his hand. “Are you new?” he asked.
“Yes. I just graduated from college. You are my very first class.”
Then Mr. Berrett explained what the class would be learning. He spoke softly. Sometimes it was hard to hear him.
Riley could hear kids whispering behind her. That made it even harder to hear what Mr. Berrett said. But Riley did her best to listen. When Mr. Berrett looked at her, she smiled.
At dinner that night, Mom asked about Riley’s first day at school.
“I like my classes and my teachers,” Riley said. “We have one teacher who’s brand new. He was kind of nervous. Some of the kids made fun of him.”
“Sometimes even teachers get nervous,” Dad said.
Mom smiled. “I’m glad you’re there to cheer him on.”
The next day, Riley heard some kids talking in the hall.
“I have Mr. Berrett too,” one of them said. “I couldn’t even hear him yesterday.”
“Did you hear his voice crack?”
“It’s gonna be a long year,” another kid said. They all laughed.
Riley thought about what Dad had said about teachers getting nervous too. Yesterday was Mr. Berrett’s first day of school. That was probably pretty scary. Mom said to cheer him on. How could Riley do that?
When Riley said her prayers that night, she asked Heavenly Father to let her know how to help Mr. Berrett.
The next day, Riley opened her lunch. Inside was a note from Mom. “You’re great!” it said. Riley smiled. She loved Mom’s notes. Her family called them “happy notes.”
That was it! Riley and her classmates could write a happy note for Mr. Berrett!
Riley invited some of her classmates to meet at her house after school. They decorated a big, bright poster with smiley faces and stars. They wrote things they liked about Mr. Berrett. They wrote things they had already learned from him. And they told him they were glad he was their teacher.
The next day, Riley and a few friends got to school early. They hung the poster on Mr. Berrett’s classroom door. Then they hid around the corner to watch what happened.
Soon Mr. Berrett got to his classroom. “Oh!” he said. Riley and her classmates watched him read their notes. A big smile spread across his face.
When Riley saw how happy he was, she felt happy too. She smiled and gave her friends a high five.
As they walked away, Riley heard someone say, “I can’t wait to go to Mr. Berrett’s class today!” Riley couldn’t wait either.
This story took place in the USA.

I didn’t feet much like an expert, but the four men in the small room looked at me as if I were, Reggie, Robert, Charles, and Don, the district president; they needed my help in getting their new chapel built, and I’d been sent for that purpose.
But there are times when the expert doesn’t have any answers. What could I tell these men who wanted an infallible method of gathering the needed funds? Certainly the approved way was by member contributions. But these members said they were incapable of such contributions—or at least they seemed to be. Even the richest among them appeared poor.
But I could think of no other solution. I said, “Of course, we’ll need to get the money from the members.”
They nodded, but said nothing. They knew I hadn’t really solved their problem.
So I took it a step further. “First it is essential that each of you make your own personal commitment,” I said.
“How much do you suggest?” Don asked.
“I’d suggest about fifty pounds.” I could tell by their expressions that I had struck too deep.
“As with the leader, so with the people,” I reminded them. “You cannot ask others to do what you yourself are reluctant to do. After you have made your own commitment, the Lord will help. With that, good planning, and hard work, anything can be done.” They nodded, but I could see they had some reservations. Two of the men had retired on small pensions, and the other two, one a contractor and the other a day worker, had families and small incomes.
Following the meeting, Don drove me back to my hotel, with Charles accompanying us. As I got out of the car, Charles looked at Don and said, “I’ll take a bus from here. I need to talk with Brother Walton.”
“All right,” Don replied. “I will come and get you at seven so that we can get to our meeting on time.” He was smiling but the worry that had come into his eyes at the suggestion of a fifty-pound donation was still there.
Charles and I went up the steps of the hotel veranda and sat down on wicker chairs. I looked into his face and saw a lifetime of grinding toil behind him. We sat there and rocked and looked across the street to the big green park and the Indian Ocean beyond.
At last he spoke. “About the money: I’m on a fixed pension and I have no other source of income. My health is poor. My wife and I struggle every month to have enough to pay our bills. I can honestly see no way to pledge anything—fifty pounds or even less.” He was a humble man, and I regretted having placed him in this position; I also felt his regret that he was not able to carry his share of our burden. “Most of the others are in as difficult a position as I am. It may be that we should wait awhile before we attempt such a huge undertaking,” he said sadly.
I said nothing because I didn’t want to pressure Charles, but I must admit that my mind began to reflect over the many pages of history written about the efforts of people who achieved the impossible. I finally said, “May I suggest that you talk this over with your wife and pray about it. It’s really between you and the Lord, not with me or anyone else.”
Charles stood and we shook hands. He was a small, pale man, with very little strength in his hands, but there was sincerity in his eyes. He walked down the sweeping wooden steps; as he crossed the street he must have felt my eyes on him for he turned and waved.
I was about to go to my room when Reggie drove up, waved, and parked his car. He was young and wiry and came up the steps two at a time. He told me of his small business, his young children, and lack of work, and finally that he simply could not see how he could pledge fifty pounds.
I gripped his shoulder. “Let me suggest that you discuss this with your family and with the Lord. You are not wanting to build this church for me, but for the Lord. Perhaps He has a way in mind for you. But most of all, don’t be depressed. No one expects you to do more than you are capable of doing.”
Reggie was in a hurry, and there was obviously nothing more that I could say. I knew that unless these leaders made their own commitments, their people could not be expected to respond. I did not have much time to think about Reggie; before my visitor was out of sight, a young hotel employee called me to the phone.
The caller was Robert. He was a retired postal worker, a fine man, and a recent convert. He talked slowly and he repeated, over the wires, almost word for word what Charles had said. “We have only a small pension … fixed income …”
I was standing in the lobby at the reception desk. There were other people around and I felt I should not discuss Robert’s finances in a public place. I agreed with all that he said, then reminded him, “But there is someone else that you need to talk to besides me.”
There was a pause, then he answered, “I understand. I will see you at the meeting.”
The members filled the small red brick building they called their Church. We closed all of the windows, but still the neighbor’s radio could be heard through the wall. It was the usual meeting, with few surprises. Despite the events of the previous afternoon, I wasn’t even surprised when the president and his counselors announced that they would each pledge fifty pounds for the new building. Their talks, though short, rang with sincerity, and the audience was moved to participate.
I returned to Sydney the following day with confidence. The money would be collected; the building would be built. All that remained for me to arrange was a Church building supervisor. I sent a telegram to Salt Lake City asking them to send one.
The first few weekly reports from Perth were not encouraging. Money was being pledged, but not enough. Soon I decided to make another visit to see when they would be ready to start construction. Certainly I did not want a supervisor sitting in Perth with no building to build. I sent a telegram to Don, and one week later I sat down again with the same four men. This time there was a definite air of excitement among them that had not been there before. I began to speculate, gave up, and asked Reggie to give his report.
“I didn’t see how I could possibly get the fifty pounds, but my wife and I decided to make the pledge anyhow and hope we could find a way to get it. After pledging the fifty pounds, I contacted a nursery to see what I could do. I got a contract to bring in wild flower seeds—we have the most beautiful flowers in the world here in western Australia. I was lucky; the nursery had just received a request for these seeds from a U.S. company. My family and I have given our Saturdays and every possible hour after work to gathering them. We have not only earned our pledge money, but we’ve also received some side benefits from the work. The children enjoyed the family outings as well as the opportunity to earn extra money. We have started some projects of our own at home that we could never afford before.” He looked at each of us and smiled, “It sure has been a great benefit for us!”
Next I asked Robert to report. He crossed his legs and, with a quiet smile, leaned forward and began to speak.
“Like Reggie, I just didn’t know how I was going to fulfill that commitment. I spent some time before and after that meeting in conversation with the Lord—I really needed help. Well, the next morning I received a letter from an old friend. His son had been admitted to the university here, and he needed room and board. Now that our children are married and gone, we have an extra room. The boy has been with us for the past two weeks, and he has brought light and sunshine into our home. He’s a fine lad, and we are happy to have him with us. He has no church ties, so he’s started coming with us.”
“What about your pledge?” Don asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, yes! Well, his father sent us fifty pounds in advance for his school year. It will be fairly easy to add what little he eats to what Mum and I need—especially with our garden as it is growing now.” He smiled at us, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. “We not only got the money, we got extra sunshine in our lives as well,” he said.
Don turned to Charles. “Let’s hear from you now.”
“I also did not know what to do. I could not conceive of how I would ever get the fifty pounds I committed for the Lord’s house. I, too, spent some time telling the Lord of my problem and asking his help to fulfill my commitments.
“I was in town the morning after that meeting, and, as I crossed the street, a truck came by with a load of reinforcing bars extending well beyond the bed of the truck. I nearly walked into them—and I wasn’t the only one. Several other people had equally narrow escapes. I was so angry that he hadn’t tied a warning flag on the ends of the bars that when I got home I called the chief of police. He told me that there was an ordinance requiring red flags, but it had not been enforced because no flags were available for the truckers.”
Charles took a deep excited breath, then continued. “As of now, my wife and I have bought up all the red cloth in town. It’s all cut into the legal size; she sews a seam and I thread a piece of stout twine through it for tying it to the loads. I contacted some of the truckers, and we have more orders than I can possibly fill. More than that, our usually dull days have turned productive and we have established a little business that will bring us additional money long after the building is completed. Yes, we have fulfilled our commitment; and we will have the strength to do even more now.” He sat back with a satisfied smile that had in it more than a tinge of gratitude.
Don was the next to give his report.
“That Monday morning following our fund-raising meeting, I went to an early morning sales meeting. Afterwards, I overheard our store manager complain about the lack of honest, competent help to take inventory. I stepped forward and volunteered four people—my wife, my two oldest daughters, and myself. We’ve already received our first check, the fifty pounds that we agreed to work for. In six months we’ll take inventory again—just in time to meet the next needs. Oh, and one more thing: our work has brought me favorably to the attention of my superiors. I have already received a pay raise and I was told that I’m next in line for promotion.”
I looked at the men in the room, each of whom had found a way to honor his commitment—with the Lord’s help. And then I knew as never before that even though I may have felt inadequate as an expert, the Lord is never inadequate as a helper. The good Saints in Perth had responded to the challenge with obedience and effort. In turn, the Lord had responded by opening the windows of heaven and pouring out blessings.

“In speaking of my father, who is now in his eighties, I would have to say that he is one of the most brilliant men I have ever known. He is a strong-willed man who can do anything he puts his mind to. A repairman was never called to our home because Father fixed everything. Father always emphasized the importance of work, and he always had chores available for me to do. When I was ten and eleven, I swept floors at my father’s automobile agency, where there was usually more work than I could get done. I used to think Father was a little tough on me, but looking back now, I believe the hard work was a great blessing.
“My mother is the oldest daughter of Hyrum Mack Smith, who was the oldest son of Joseph F. Smith, the sixth president of the Church. Both of my grandfathers were apostles. Hyrum Mack Smith died when he was only forty-four years old, and Grandmother Smith, my mother’s mother, passed away a year later. I never knew either one.
“Mother is a very soft, sweet, tenderhearted person. She has always been a good listener. I think that during my growing up years she was probably my best friend. She is now seventy-eight years old. My mother and I had many good talks. She has always been a good cook, and there was homemade bread or cookies for us to eat whenever we came home from school. The best thing, however, was that Mother was always there after school to greet us.
“One of my fondest childhood memories is of my dog. Mother and Father bought me a collie, and I named him Scotty. Collies are smart, but this dog had an uncanny ability to know what time it was. Every morning Scotty walked with me through the park to the corner and left me there to cross the street on my way to school. He seemed to sense that that was as far as he should go. I live close to school and came home for lunch, and every day at noon Scotty was there to walk home with me and then back to the corner after lunch. At 3:30 he was there again to walk home from school with me. He was as faithful a companion as you would ever want to have. Scotty lived with us many, many years. He and I were inseparable. He was my protector, and ours was a great relationship. I was very sad when he died. I never had a brother, but it didn’t seem to matter because my best pal was Scotty. I hope that other children have pets that mean as much to them as Scotty did to me.”
Elder Ballard concluded our interview by saying, “There are two messages that I would like to give to the children of the world. The first is that even though you are young, you must always strive to do all you can to live the teachings of the gospel and to be as close to the Lord as possible. We never know what the Lord may call upon us to do, and we must be prepared. Some of you may have received special ordinations and challenges before you ever left Heavenly Father’s presence. You must never lose sight of what your destiny is in helping to build the kingdom of God.
“The second thing to remember is that you are never too young to begin thinking about the kind of companion you will marry. To find a girl or boy who is worthy to go to the temple to be married is a very special quest. No decision, as far as I am concerned, is more important than your decision about whom you will marry.
“When you are a child, you can begin developing concepts of what a righteous and loving eternal companion should be. By staying active in the Church, it will be easier and more natural for you to find that right person. It was very clear in my young mind whom I was looking for, and when I found her, I knew that I had found her.”

I’m serving as a missionary, and I love teaching people about Jesus Christ and helping them learn how to follow Him more closely. But sometimes it’s the teacher who learns the most.
One evening, while at a member’s home for dinner, I was asked to pray. As I was doing so, I realized it was starting to sound a lot like the last prayer I’d said at a member’s home. A thought came into my mind, “Whom are you praying to? Them or God?” It shocked me enough that I paused for a moment. I realized that I was praying “to be heard of men” (Alma 38:13) and not out of a sincere desire to communicate with my Father in Heaven. I was doing it out of duty instead of out of love for God.
As I finished my prayer, I silently thanked God for revealing my faults to me. I promised Him that I would pray to be heard of Him and not just to say nice words. As I’ve since kept that promise, I’ve drawn so much closer to Him and have been better able to recognize His loving hand in my life.

Kellene Trentham, 14, was awarded an Outstanding Community Service award from the Chief of Police in Chubbuck, Idaho. Kellene has been the editor and publisher of a community newspaper that has been helping the police instruct citizens about crime prevention.
Kellene’s newspaper started as a get-acquainted effort in her subdivision. One of her neighbors was the Crime Prevention Officer from the police department. At that time, the police were attempting to organize a Neighborhood Watch program where neighbors learn to secure their homes and report unusual activities in their residential area. Kellene started including the information in her newspaper. Soon others were interested in receiving the paper, and local merchants began contributing articles on topics of interest or services. The paper, which is printed once a month, is now being delivered to 1,200 homes.
Kellene has expanded her activities to her local junior high school where, with the help of the police, she is organizing a youth crime prevention group.
Kellene is a member of the Seventh Ward, North Pocatello Idaho Stake.

Just as I did on every other day, I arrived at work on 2 May 1997 at 8:00 A.M. I was going to begin work when the boss said he wanted to talk to me. Throughout our conversation, I sensed he wanted to fire me. He spoke of bureaucratic problems with the employment agency I worked for and of laws I didn’t know much about.
Ultimately, I was let go, and I walked away thinking, What will happen now? I will arrive home and say I have been fired, and my grandmother will be disappointed. She and others in my family depended on me to work and help my family financially.
All at once, I remembered: I could pray to God. Maybe He would help me find work yet today. I walked into some trees, got on my knees, and prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me find work today, so I won’t have to go home and make my grandmother sad.”
I thanked Him, arose, and began walking. With a happier outlook, I thought, If I lost that job, then it must be because I will find a better one. I walked for about two kilometers until I passed a construction job where a friend of mine was working. When he saw me, he asked, “Rui, aren’t you doing anything?”
I explained what had happened, and he said, “If you want to, you can work here.” He was in charge of the job. Of course, I agreed to work there.
And so it was that at 8:00 that morning I was fired, and about 9:30, just 1 1/2 hours later, I was working again. God had heard my prayers, and He blessed me in a short time with even better work.
Great is the power of prayer.

You may ask, Do such things occur even today? Let me share with you the beautiful account of a grandmother and a grandfather who were serving a mission years ago and the manner in which their little grandson was blessed. The missionary grandfather wrote:
“My wife, Deanna, and I are now serving a mission in Jackson, Ohio. One of our big concerns as we accepted a mission call was our family. We would not be there when they had problems.
“Just before we went on our mission, our grandson, R. J., who was two and a half years old, had to have surgery to correct a crossed eye. His mother asked me to go with them because R. J. and I are real buddies. The operation went well, but R. J. did cry before and after the surgery because none of the family could go into the operating room, and he was afraid.
“About six months later, while we were still on our mission, R. J. needed the other eye corrected. His mother phoned and expressed her desire for me to be there to go with them for the second operation. Of course, distance and the mission prevented me from being with him. Deanna and I fasted and prayed for the Lord to comfort our grandson during his operation.
“We called shortly after the surgery was over and found that R. J. had remembered the previous experience and did not want to leave his parents. But as soon as he entered the operating room, he quieted down. He lay down on the operating table, took off his glasses for them, and went through the operation with a calm spirit. We were very thankful; our prayers had been answered.
“A couple of days later, we called our daughter and asked about R. J. He was doing fine, and she related this incident to us: In the afternoon after the operation, R. J. awakened and told his mother that Grandpa was there during the operation. He said, ‘Grandpa was there and made it all right.’ You see, the Lord made the anesthesiologist appear to that little boy as though he were his grandpa, but his grandpa and grandma were on a mission 2,900 kilometers away.”
Grandpa may not have been by your bedside, R. J., but you were in his prayers and in his thoughts. You were cradled in the hand of the Lord and blessed by the Father of us all.