Gospel Story Finder

My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.

At one stage in my life, I had just finished a tertiary course in horse husbandry. I had one job offer and another person keen to interview me. Not sure which job to take, I prayed fervently. I was strongly prompted to return home and pursue a completely different career. Not really wanting to go and not sure I was going to be able to get a job in the accounts field, I relied on the Lord as the prompting was so strong. I have never regretted that decision as I now have an excellent job.
The Lord will guide you. He has never failed me.
Natasha Abram, 20Auckland, New Zealand

“Are we going to make someone’s day today?” David asked as he fastened himself in his car seat.
“We’re going to try to make someone’s day,” Mother answered.
Mother buckled baby Jeffrey into his car seat. Jeffrey squealed his let’s-get-going squeal.
“Who are we going to surprise?” David asked.
“Remember Mrs. Martin?” Mother said. “She just got home from the hospital.”
“I can sing for her,” David said. “Singing helps people feel better.”
“Mrs. Martin will enjoy hearing your songs,” Mother said. The car stopped. Jeffrey squealed his get-me-out squeal.
“May I carry the cinnamon bread?” David asked.
“Sure.” Mother laid the loaf of bread in David’s arms, then unbuckled Jeffrey.
David breathed in the buttery, cinnamony smell. He felt the bread warm his arms and hands.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” a quiet voice called. Mother opened the door.
Jeffrey tried to grab the bread. He squealed his let-me-have-it squeal.
“Well, look who’s here,” Mrs. Martin whispered from her chair.
“Hi, Mrs. Martin,” David said. “Here’s some cinnamon bread for you, and it’s swirly inside. I sprinkled on the cinnamon.”
“Thank you, young man,” Mrs. Martin said. “I love cinnamon bread.”
David put the bread in the kitchen so Jeffrey couldn’t get it.
“We came to help a bit,” Mother said. She held Mrs. Martin’s hand while they talked about hospitals and medicine.
Jeffrey pulled himself up to the low table by the couch and pushed off all the papers. David picked them up.
A few minutes later Mother started washing dishes. After David dried the knives and forks and spoons, he plunked them into the drawer bins. Jeffrey tugged on his mother’s pant leg.
Mother swept the floor, and David held the dustpan. Jeffrey squealed his let-me-do-it squeal. So she helped Jeffrey dump the dustpan.
Mother tied up the trash, and all three of them carried it outside. David and Mother put a new plastic bag in the wastebasket. Jeffrey pulled a long train of bags out of the box. He squealed his see-what-I-can-do squeal.
Mrs. Martin laughed.
“Is it time to sing now?” David asked.
“It’s always time to sing,” Mrs. Martin said.
David sang “Two Little Blackbirds” while Jeffrey’s thumbs helped with the actions.
Then David did the actions as he sang, “Eency weency spider went up the water spout.” Jeffrey made a pretend spider climb up his arm, too.
David, Mother, and Jeffrey danced in a circle and sang:
“Happy helpers sing a song,
Happy helping all day long.
Happy helpers help you, too.
(They pointed to Mrs. Martin.)
Happy helpers now are through.”
Then all three happy helpers fell to the floor and laughed.
Mrs. Martin clapped a clap so tiny that no sound came with it. But a big smile did. She opened her arms to hug all three helpers.
“You have made my day,” Mrs. Martin said. l

A bright orange sun was sinking low on the horizon as we parked our van near our campsite. There were nine of us on the Scout outing plus our two leaders. I was 14 and was nearing Eagle rank.
Like most boys my age, I had exciting plans for the future. Little did I know what terror the next 24 hours held for me and how much my future lay in jeopardy.
Before breakfast the next morning I did my blood sugar testing to see if there was any excess sugar in my system. I’ve been diabetic since I was seven, so it was a daily habit for me to take care of my testing and insulin injections.
The test showed my blood sugar was in the lower range of normal. I prepared a syringe with insulin and gave myself a shot in my leg about eight inches above my knee. It was a daily routine and not much fun, but I was used to it.
“Time to get this camp straightened around,” our Scoutmaster shouted.
We all pitched in and set things in order. Then we gathered near the fire for a breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash brown potatoes, and hot chocolate. I went easy on the hot chocolate figuring a small amount would be okay since my sugar level was low that morning.
It’s hard to pass up goodies all the time. My doctor told me often that the only time diabetics should really have sugar is to bring them out of insulin reactions, and then they need to have it fast.
I felt great after eating breakfast. Along with the other guys, I jumped into the van for a drive along the bay and around the peninsula to the Pacific shore. We hiked in farther than we had planned, and some of the guys went for a swim.
I began to feel something I’d felt a few times before. It was a feeling of tiredness and dizziness, and I knew an insulin reaction was coming on. I’d taken too much insulin that morning and then done more exercise than usual. I had some orange juice in my canteen and drank it right away hoping there would be enough to correct the problem. I hated being different and didn’t want to tell anyone about the reaction.
Our Scoutmaster had to hike back to get the van. He gave us instructions about walking the short distance to the campsite and said to walk together. The guys decided to enjoy the beach for a little while longer before heading back. I still had not told anyone about my insulin reaction. The orange juice seemed to have done the trick.
Within 15 minutes, however, I started feeling dizzy again. I wished I had brought some sugar cubes with me like I usually did. I knew I had to get something sweet or the reaction would be worse. I decided to go back to camp to get what I needed.
Leaving the group was a big mistake. We had all been told by the Scoutmaster which direction to go. However, in my confused state I figured it would be quicker to head inland a few hundred yards and then cut directly across to the campfire. It was one of the most foolish decisions I ever made.
Feeling dizzy I headed over the bank of dunes and, all of a sudden, I was alone. There were sand dunes everywhere—miles and miles of sand. I knew I couldn’t wander around or I’d be lost. So I picked a course and tried to stay with it. I worked to keep my fear under control, but I started to shiver even though it wasn’t cold.
As the minutes passed, I became more and more tired. It wasn’t long before I fell, and I didn’t want to get up again. It seemed as though I lay there for a long time trying to fight off sleep. For a while the shivering stopped, and I dozed. When I opened my eyes, I felt frightened again and wondered if I should stay where I was until someone came looking for me. I needed help. All the teaching and training I’d had made me kneel and pray.
“Heavenly Father, please help me. Let me live through this. Please give me the strength to make it.”
I looked around for the highest dune and climbed to the top of it. From up there I was excited to see beach houses that didn’t look far away.
At least four or five dunes lay between me and the houses. When I climbed back down, I couldn’t see the houses anymore. I started wondering if my imagination had played tricks on me—if I had seen the houses at all. My thinking was getting more confused. It had been hours since I’d eaten, and I was in real trouble. The feeling suddenly came over me that I was going to die.
Once again I prayed with more feeling than I ever had before, and a comforting feeling came over me. I could hear a voice saying, “Keep going, Barry. No matter what, you must keep going.”
My feet dragged in the sand, but I felt as if I had help. I slid down the dunes because, if I walked, I knew I’d fall. And, if I fell down hard, I was afraid I might never get up again.
I kept listening to the faint voice that told me to keep moving, and somehow I got to the edge of the dunes. Birds were chirping there, and I saw the houses in the distance. I headed for them.
Dizzy and staggering I fell on the sand. My arms wouldn’t support me, and I fell on my face and felt sand in my mouth. Through the blackness of my fear, I prayed once more with all my heart. And suddenly I heard a seagull call. The sound made me look up. As my eyes shifted from the bird, I saw something moving. The form was fuzzy because my eyes weren’t focusing very well. It was our assistant Scoutmaster, and I called out to him. At first he didn’t see me, and then he turned and ran toward me waving his arms. When he reached me, he gave me a big bear hug and pounded me on the back.
“Gee, it’s good to see you, Barry. You had us scared to death. What happened?” he asked. “How did you get lost?”
“Had to get sugar,” I mumbled. “A reaction … trying to get back to camp.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “I’ll help you. Just lean on me.”
He put his arms around me, and I half-walked and was half-dragged, leaning against him. Just as we were both nearing exhaustion, we saw a man by one of the houses. We yelled to him for help.
He called an ambulance then ran to help us. He picked me up and carried me the rest of the way to his house. His wife ran to the kitchen, returning with sugar and some root beer. She got some into me, and then everyone just waited and watched.
Pretty soon I began to come out of the reaction even though I still felt dazed.
The man at the house told us other people had been lost in the dunes. “There are 13 square miles of them out there in this one area alone,” he said. “Barry’s lucky to have found his way out.”
“It seemed like a miracle to me,” the assistant Scoutmaster said. “There were a thousand different directions I could have gone to look for Barry. The chances of finding him so quickly seemed slim. But I seemed to walk straight to him.”
I didn’t say anything as they talked on. I was thinking about my fervent prayers to my Heavenly Father. It was with deep gratitude that I knew those prayers had been answered.

I was just starting my junior year of high school. The homecoming dance was approaching and I was so excited to get asked. There were several people I wanted to go with, and I couldn’t wait to be asked by a cute, fun guy.
One day, I was about to walk into my English class when a senior boy, Chris, stopped me. “Meagan, will you go to homecoming with me?”
Chris has Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism that makes social interaction difficult, and he was constantly bullied and teased. I was about to turn him down, but then something stopped me—a sentence I remembered from my patriarchal blessing. As I looked into Chris’s hopeful eyes, I said, “I’ll let you know, Chris.”
I soon realized how selfish I sounded. God had not given me a trial. He had given me an opportunity to serve Chris. When I told Chris yes, I watched joy come over his face.
As the dance neared, I began to worry because I thought our date might be awkward. The day of the dance came, and as I picked up Chris to meet our group, he met me at his door with flowers. These were the first flowers anyone had ever given me. He ran to open my car door, and he was a true gentleman.
As we arrived at the restaurant, we were a little early, and I had the opportunity to talk with Chris. I learned that Chris had been through a lot of hard trials. I felt guilty for all the times I’d laughed when others teased him. The group arrived, we ate, and then we went ice blocking. Every time I went down the hill, Chris ran down, carried the ice block up the hill for me, fixed the towel, and set it up for me to go down again. I’d never been treated like such a princess!
Later, as we entered the dance, I watched as a group of guys gathered around Chris and began to shove him, mock him, and dance around him. “Stop!” I yelled as I began to cry. I thought this was going to end in disaster. Then several guys from our group stepped in and moved the crowd away from Chris.
As the guys left, Chris came over to me and asked if I was OK. I’d stood here watching him get teased and mocked, and he wanted to know if I was OK! Who was this guy?
After the dance, I took Chris home. While we were driving, I felt truly humbled. I’d gone on this date thinking I would be helping Chris, when he’d really been helping me. Going to the dance with Chris taught me how wrong we are when we judge others unrighteously. God loves Chris just as much as He loves everyone else. I’d been so busy looking at the outside that I’d looked past the wonderful inside attributes Chris possessed. I believe all of God’s children have attributes like that. No matter how different people may appear to be, they still have feelings and God loves them just the same. I thank Heavenly Father for the opportunity I had to go to the dance with Chris. It has forever changed my outlook on life.

My wife practiced law for over 20 years. As an attorney, she often worked with others who explicitly advocated opposing views. But she learned to disagree without being rude or angry. She might say to opposing counsel, “I can see we are not going to agree on this issue. I like you. I respect your opinion. I hope you can offer me the same courtesy.” Often this allowed for mutual respect and even friendship despite differences.

I can say as Nephi said, that I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). During World War II my father was captured by the Germans when they invaded our country of Belgium. He escaped from them and disappeared into the Underground (a group opposing the invaders). As a young child, I remember seeing my father only once or twice. He made very short visits, then disappeared again into the Underground, where he was a radio operator.
Even when the war was over, he didn’t come home right away but went to Germany with the Belgian Army. Then he was assigned to another city in Belgium. Fortunately my mother was a very strong and faithful person. When my father was away, she was the head and the strength of the family.

My mother says we came from Dublin, Ireland, with a bundle of clothes, a well-read Bible, and each other. And in our hearts we brought love and hope.
When I was barely ten, we moved to a small cottage with a plot of land near the junction of the Susquehanna and Juniata canals in Pennsylvania. Father, who was tall and muscular, pulled our plow. And Mother, small but determined, guided the prong as it turned the soil. They sang as they worked, and I was happy to follow behind and shove potato eyes into the rich black earth. Sometimes we gathered berries by the river in pails.
“I watched the canal boats today, Father,” I said, smiling. “They were full of all kinds of goods.”
“Yes, it’s a wondrous land we’ve come to, Michael,” Father agreed.
Although we sold the potatoes and berries in town, we never seemed to have enough money. When I was nearly twelve Father left for a time to look for work. Before he went, he kissed Mother and, smiling at me, led me to my cot where he raised the mattress and pinned a dollar to the ticking. “There,” he said, quietly. “I’m going away to find work. I don’t want to go, but a man must feed his family. Take care of your mother while I’m gone, and if you ever really need it, remember the dollar.” Father patted the mattress and asked, “Do you understand what I mean, Michael?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand, Father.”
Mother and I stood near the fence and waved until Father disappeared along Old Post Road. Then she wiped her eyes and turned back to the house. “While your father’s gone, Michael, we’ll plant potatoes and pick berries just as before.”
I nodded and went to the head of the plow, determined to do my part. But no matter how hard I tugged and pulled, the furrows never looked deep enough.
Time passed—mules pulled the canal boats, potatoes sprouted, I picked berries and chopped wood. But Mother no longer sang.
Then one afternoon I saw a canal boat loaded to the brim being slowly pulled along. The mule driver cursed and beat the lead mule, but the mule balked and brayed.
“You lazy mule!” the driver shouted, and he whipped the poor animal till it struggled forward. When they neared a bend, I saw the mule drop to its knees and move its head wearily from side to side. I thought of myself behind the plow and ran to where the driver was unfastening the mule’s harness.
“Lazy, worthless mule! You’ll be sold for glue now! That’s a fact!” the driver roared.
“Oh, no!” I pleaded. “Please don’t sell him for glue. He tried the best he could.”
“Go home, boy!” the driver growled. “I can’t leave a dead mule to block the path!”
“He’s not dead yet!” I cried, “Only tired.”
“He’ll be dead soon!” the driver said as he reached for his gun.
“Please!” I begged, raising my hands.
“Get out of my way, boy!”
“I’ll buy him,” I stammered quickly.
The driver threw back his head and laughed.
“I—I have a dollar.”
The driver stopped laughing and rubbed his chin. “A dollar? I suppose that’s all I’d get from the glue factory. All right, it’s sold!” he nodded. “Done!”
I ran home and lifted my mattress, wondering if Father would think it a foolish waste. I glanced toward the canal and thought of the mule. Surely any life is worth a dollar! I decided.
The driver laughed as he grabbed the dollar, then waved me away as he guided the mule train along the path. “Remember,” he shouted over his shoulder, “he’s your problem now! It’s your responsibility to get him off the path!”
I watched the canal boat disappear around the bend, then knelt and coaxed, “Come, you’ve got to come home.”
The mule rolled it’s big brown eyes up at me and my own eyes clouded as he stood and tried to walk, then fell into the high grass. After dinner I put a few carrots in a gunnysack and hurried back to the weak animal. Looking at me sadly, he ate just one carrot.
“It’s all right,” I sobbed. “Rest, old mule; I’ll not beat you.” I tried to cover his bony back with the sack and hurried home.
A week passed and I tended the mule in secret, praying he wouldn’t die. Then one day as I turned to go home, the mule stood on wobbly legs and brayed. I turned in surprise. “Come,” I urged. “Come home with me.”
The old mule pointed its ears, took a step forward, then stopped. I hugged its neck and whispered, “It’s all right, mule. Rest.”
I hurried home to plow a plot of land, and as I slipped my arms into the harness straps, Mother stood between the handles. Suddenly I heard the mule braying and looked up to see it coming straight across the field toward me! Gently it shoved me aside with its nose and took my place in front of the plow.
“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that! Whose mule is that, Michael?”
“He’s ours, Mother!” I laughed. “I bought him for a dollar!”
The mule plowed all morning—one straight, deep furrow after another—and never got tired. Mother smiled from the cottage window as she baked bread while the mule and I plowed.
Then one evening as we sat down to supper, we heard a knock at the door. Mother opened it, and the mule driver stood scowling. “You have my mule!” he shouted, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve come to take him back!”
“I bought him for a dollar!”
“That’s when he was dying!” the driver growled. “Someone saw him well and plowing! Here’s your dollar!”
“Mother,” I pleaded through my tears.
“My son does not want his dollar back,” Mother declared. “A bargain made is a bargain kept!”
The driver’s face turned purple with anger and he threw the dollar on the porch. “I’m taking my mule!” he shouted.
I ran to the shed and latched the door, but the driver shoved me aside and flung it open. He grabbed the mule’s halter and raised his whip, but the mule braced its feet and balked. Then from out of nowhere, I saw a tall shadow come round the house and a powerful hand twisted the whip from the driver’s grasp.
“Who threatens my family and home?” my father’s voice boomed angrily.
The driver looked at my father, then released the harness. “Ah,” the driver mumbled, “that ol’ mule never would work anyway!”
Father stood with his arm about Mother’s waist as the driver stumbled toward the canal. “Is it a useless mule, Michael?” Father asked.
“No. He’ll work for me,” I explained.
“Then you’ve used the dollar well,” Father assured me. “I worked and have only two weeks’ pay in my pocket, but I sorely missed my little family. I’m home to stay. We’ll get enough to live somehow,” he said, smiling hopefully.
“We’ll have enough to live just fine,” Mother agreed, beaming happily. “The mule does most of the hard work, and the garden’s bigger so there will be more potatoes to sell. I can bake pies with the berries, and you can build a cart for the mule to carry our goods to town.”
“Wait,” Father laughed. “First I want a hug from my family.”
There was still barely enough money, but we were together again. I knew for sure that all riches aren’t to be laid upon a table for counting, or carted to town for selling and trading. Some riches, like the love and honest work of my parents and the loyal, faithful work of my mule, cannot be bought with money. They are precious gifts, freely given when earned. And if the riches of the heart could be counted, then all the world would know how very prosperous we were as my mother and father sang and as I grew to be a man.

Some of you who are familiar with Oxford University may know that it’s the world’s oldest university. The building that I lived in as a student was built in 1410—beautiful to look at, uncomfortable to live in. When I arrived at Oxford, I realized it was going to be difficult to be an active member of the Church. The Rhodes Scholarship Trust, which had given me my scholarship, had a lot of activities for the recipients of the scholarship.
As I looked at the extent to which I wanted to be involved in church, I realized that I didn’t know the Book of Mormon was true. I had read it several times but usually as an assignment—from my parents or a Brigham Young University instructor. But this time I desperately needed to know if the Book of Mormon was true. So I decided that I would commit every evening from 11:00 to 12:00 to reading the Book of Mormon to find out if it was true.
I wondered if I dared spend that much time because I was in a very demanding academic program, studying applied econometrics. I was going to try to finish the program in two years, whereas most people in the program finished it in three. I didn’t know if I could afford allocating an hour a day to this effort.
But nonetheless I did. I began at 11:00 by kneeling in prayer near a little heater in the stone wall, and I prayed out loud. I told God how desperate I was to find out if the Book of Mormon was true. I told Him that if He would reveal to me that it was true, I then intended to dedicate my life to building His kingdom. I told Him that if it wasn’t true, I needed to know that for certain too because then I would dedicate my life to finding out what was true.
I read the first page of the Book of Mormon. When I got down to the bottom of the page, I stopped. I thought about what I had read on that page, and I asked myself, “Could this have been written by a charlatan who was trying to deceive people, or was this really written by a prophet of God? And what did it mean for me in my life?” Then I put the book down and knelt in prayer and asked God again, “Please tell me if this is a true book.” Then I sat in the chair, picked up the book, turned the page, read it, paused at the bottom, and did the same thing. I did this for an hour every night, night after night, in that cold, damp room at Oxford.
One evening, by the time I got to the chapters at the end of 2 Nephi, I said my prayer, sat in my chair, and opened the book. All of a sudden there came into that room a beautiful, warm, loving Spirit that surrounded me and permeated my soul, enveloping me in a feeling of love that I had not imagined I could feel. I began to cry. As I looked through my tears at the words in the Book of Mormon, I could see truth in those words that I never imagined I could comprehend before. I could see the glories of eternity, and I could see what God had in store for me as one of His sons. That Spirit stayed with me the whole hour and every other evening as I prayed and read the Book of Mormon in my room. That same Spirit would always return, and it changed my heart and my life forever.
I look back at the conflict I had experienced, wondering whether I could afford to spend an hour every day apart from the study of applied econometrics to find out if the Book of Mormon was true. I use applied econometrics maybe once a year, but I use my knowledge that the Book of Mormon is the word of God many times every day of my life. Of all the education I have ever pursued, that is the single most useful piece of knowledge I ever gained.

Sister Bingham told the story of a girl who saw a home with shining golden windows. Her own home seemed shabby in comparison. One day, the girl rode her bike across the valley to visit the house. When she got closer, she saw it was abandoned and falling apart. When she turned around, she was surprised to see a house with golden windows across the valley. It was her own house! The sun on the windows made the difference. When we count our blessings instead of comparing ourselves with others, we’ll see the goodness of God in our lives.

Carla reached into the hat and took out a small paper. Quickly she unfolded it.
“Lane eight, heat one,” she read. Great!
She looked around the room, her eyes inadvertently landing on the starting block that loomed majestically over the end lane. That was her favorite position, and for this meet she needed all the advantages she could get. She had to win this one!
Carole, the girls’ team coach, walked over. “Which lane and heat?” she asked.
“Eight, heat one,” Carla answered.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you’d loosen up. I’ve never seen you so tense. You can’t win like that. Any problems?”
“No,” Carla said too quickly, and then added, “It’s just that this race means a lot to me. It’s my last chance. The Western Division Trials only come every four years, and next time around I’ll be too old.”
“But it means a lot to the girls in the other seven lanes, too. Remember that.”
“Wow! What encouragement!” Carla tried to joke.
“All anyone can do is try her hardest, but if you don’t loosen up, you won’t stand a chance. You’re wasting good energy!”
Carla laughed as Carole walked away, but she knew that what Carole said was true. However, it didn’t change how she felt. This was more than a race, more than just a question of proving herself.
For five years she had been preparing for this one race, and finally it was here. Now was her chance to prove herself or find out if her five years had been wasted.
The hollow mechanical echoes of the huge natatorium seemed deafening. Carla kicked her foot into the water as over the loud speaker a deep voice boomed, “Attention, swimmers.” And the room hushed to a murmur. “The girls’ 200-meter breaststroke qualifying heat number one will be next. Swimmers, report to your lanes.”
Carla took a deep breath. It was now or never!
“Good luck.” She jumped at the voice from behind.
“Oh, Dave,” she said. “You scared me!”
“Sorry! I just wanted to wish you luck.” He smiled, and for the first time all morning she felt almost at ease.
“Thanks.”
Quickly Carla hurried to her lane, removed her sweatshirt, and started shaking her arms, trying to loosen the tense muscles. There would be four qualifying heats, and to make the final round she had to have one of the eight fastest times. In this heat she would be racing time, not the other swimmers, so she couldn’t judge too much on her position.
“Judges ready?” the starter shouted, and 16 hands popped up at the ends of the pool. “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Carla climbed onto the block and curled her toes around the edge. “Get set.” She stooped precisely, her arms back as if she were about to take off in flight.
“Bang!” the starting gun fired, and Carla threw her arms forward, pushed with her feet, and strained each muscle to get every inch she could out of the dive. Her arms and legs slapped the water to keep her on top as she landed, and then in a precise, four-count rhythm she started stroking.
It was a good start that put her out in front, but she knew her turns were weak. She had to make time in the stroke. Her arms pulled at the water as if it were something that could be conquered, and her legs pushed powerfully as she spurted down the lane.
At the end of the fourth lap she still had the lead, but the girl in lane three was barely behind. Carla pushed a little harder, even though she knew she had to save something for the last two laps. Two more laps and lane three passed her by half a body length and lanes one and six were too close for any assurances.
She made the next to the last turn and then gave just a little more. Lane one slowed, lane six spurted, and lane three began to pull out even farther. The last turn. Carla’s muscles ached, but she wasn’t yet aware of it. Forcefully she now gave it everything she had. Lane three had pulled out too soon and was now lagging, lane one slowed even more, but six was suddenly a contender. Carla pulled wide and hard as she drew three more strokes then slapped the bank with both hands. Six had come on fast, but her spurt wasn’t soon enough. Carla finished first.
Her teammates gathered around the starting block and pulled her out of the pool.
“Good work!” Dave grinned.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “Do you know the time yet?” She was panting for breath, but she was too excited to stop and catch it.
“Two minutes, forty-seven and two-tenths seconds! You’re sure to qualify with a time like that.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
“What time does your heat start?”
“We’re next.”
“I’ll wish you luck, but to tell the truth, I don’t think you need any. There’s not a soul here who can beat you.”
The other girls on the team began to crowd around. Ann put a towel over Carla’s head and pulled it back and forth.
“Way to go!” she shouted. “What a time! Hope I do as well.”
“You will.”
Carla pulled the towel down to her shoulders, grabbed her sweatshirt, and ran into the locker room. She had two more events, freestyle and the team relay, but they weren’t for another hour. She lay down on the bench and waited uneasily for the results. Finally the loud speaker clicked on. Carla jumped up and ran out to the pool.
“The eight best times for the girls’ 200-meter breaststroke are Kathy Winn 2:46.6, Leslie Jacobs 2:47.1, Carla James 2:47.2 …”
Carla didn’t hear anymore! She had made it.
That night Dave came over after dinner.
“Thought you might like to go for a little ride,” he said.
“Sounds great.”
They got in the car and rode awhile without saying anything. Then finally Dave spoke.
“Are you a little more relaxed now?”
“Yes.” She paused before she went on. “You know for some reason those time trials are more frightening than the final race!”
“You’re not upset about not qualifying in the freestyle?”
“Not too much. I’m weak in freestyle. I was hoping to qualify, but at least the relay team qualified, and two out of three isn’t bad.”
“I agree.” Dave laughed.
“But I will be upset if I don’t win that race tomorrow!”
“Be careful! You can’t let the whole world ride on one race.”
“My whole world already does.”
“Oh?” Dave feigned hurt.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Besides, I feel good about tomorrow. I’ve trained harder than any of the others, and I’ve been at it longer. I deserve to win.”
“This doesn’t sound like you, Carla.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to explain it! It’s not that I mean to be conceited. It’s just that … well, like Kathy Winn. She’s only been competing for three years, and you and I both know that she jumps in and out of training like a hopscotch pro!”
“But she had half a second on you this morning.”
“But I’ve got faith. I’ve done everything just the way I should. That’s got to mean something.”
Dave smiled at Carla, his soft brown eyes full of concern. “I hope you’re right. But after hearing your philosophy, I’d better get you home before you break curfew tonight.”
“Me and my big mouth!” Carla laughed. “And how do you feel about your races tomorrow?”
“I don’t! That’s one of my secrets. If I win, I win; if I don’t, I don’t.”
“Even with a race as important as tomorrow’s? I just don’t think it’s that easy.”
“It is, though. All I can do is try my best. If that doesn’t work, then I at least have the satisfaction of knowing I did all I could.”
The little blue Pinto pulled into Carla’s driveway.
“End of sermon!” Dave laughed.
“Thanks for coming by,” Carla said as they walked to the door. “I really appreciate the talk.”
“Well, just think about it. And now, fair lady, I bid adieu!” Dave made a sweeping bow, his tall, thin body almost graceful.
“See you in the morning, goof!” Carla laughed.
“All right. I’ll pick you up at 7:00.” And Dave left.
By 10:30 the next morning, Carla’s relay team had failed to qualify for the Western Division Trials by just four-tenths of a second. Dave had qualified in the 400-meter backstroke and missed the 200-meter freestyle by three-tenths of a second, but his relay team had qualified, with him as the advantage-giving backstroker.
Of all things, Carla’s race was the next to the last, and she had drawn lane four. She hated that middle spot. Then to top it off, by the time the race was announced Carla was so nervous that the entire natatorium seemed to have taken on an electrical charge. Try as she might, she couldn’t lose the thought; this was her last chance to win a spot in the division trials.
She shook her arms and legs impatiently as she quickly scanned the gallery for her parents and then the decks for Dave. He wasn’t hard to find. His tall, browned body and sun-blonde hair stood out. He waved and she nodded back.
“Judges ready?” the starter began. “Swimmers, take your mark.” Carla climbed onto the block. “Get set.” Bang!
Her start was stiff, which lost her some time, but that could be overcome. Kathy Winn in lane six, Leslie Jacobs beside her in lane three, and a girl in lane eight were all ahead of Carla. In her mind she counted a rhythm, pushing a little harder than she should at the beginning. One, two, three, four.
Laps one, two, and three passed with the swimmers seemingly in a precision drill, then Kathy began to pull ahead of Leslie, lane three began to lag, and then one of her own teammates, Ann, in lane seven passed Carla.
Carla had to finish first or second to qualify, and she had to gain at least the third spot now or she’d be in no position to pull ahead in the last lap. She pushed a little harder, but the tense muscles were showing.
However, after lap six she had managed to pull into the third spot just behind Kathy and Ann. Leslie was close behind and gaining. Carla made the last turn and let go with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. She finished third.
Carla’s eyes stung as she climbed out of the pool. Her muscles felt like jelly, and there was a sickly hollow spot where her stomach should have been. Her teammates buzzed excitedly around Ann, and she knew what she should do, but she just couldn’t bring herself to congratulate Ann.
“It can’t be!” she kept thinking. “It just can’t be. I’ve worked so hard for this. It isn’t fair!”
As fast as she could, she made it to the locker room, and, half-stunned, she dressed and left without even drying her hair. She caught the bus at Second Street and sat down with a sigh of relief at having managed to avoid Dave and her teammates. By the time the bus stopped, however, she felt very foolish. But it was too late now. Slowly she walked the two blocks home, but she didn’t go in. She sat on the step to think, even though she felt as if there was nothing to think about anymore. It was just a habit by now. Everything was over. Five years wasted, five years of exercise, practice, and training. She wished she had waited for Dave. He would understand, but by now he’d be at the banquet. He was a winner, and winners had to be there.
Suddenly a small, blue car screeched into the driveway. Carla sat up and smiled as she recognized it. Then she frowned as Dave slammed the door and jumped disgustedly out of the car.
He walked over to her, gruffly handed her her sweatshirt, and then spoke in a harsh whisper-voice. “Here, you forgot this.”
His soft brown eyes had turned hard, and his face looked sad. She’d never seen him like this, and it scared her. Then fright turned to scorn. She wanted understanding, not this. What kind of friend was he anyway?
“Thanks, but I don’t need it anymore.”
“Going to run out, huh?” Even his face was different.
“I’m not running out. I’ve wasted five years trying for something that in less than three minutes slipped through my grasp. I’m not running out. It ran out on me!”
“Wasted? Carla, I watched you last summer teaching those underprivileged kids from the east side how to swim—the look on your face! It was then I knew you were more than just a girl on the team. This summer I watched you teach those mentally retarded kids not to be afraid of water, and it made me feel good just to think you were my girl. I watched you save a little boy’s life out at the lake, and I watched you teach your own sisters to race. You call that a waste? You’ve got the talent. It’s you running out, Carla, and all because of one race. I thought you were bigger than that.”
Dave threw the sweatshirt down and stalked away.
“But I explained it last night. I deserved this win. I earned it!”
“Life doesn’t work like that,” he said without looking back. The car door slammed, and he drove off.
Carla sat, stunned, as hate slowly melted to despair, then pity, then scorn, and finally thoughts mellowed as tears gushed wildly and she realized how wrong she had been.
Now the tears came, not because of her own wounded pride, but because she suddenly realized how immature she had been. And now besides a race, she’d probably lost a friend, too.
“Why is it that things are so easy to see when it’s too late,” she whispered. Then slowly a blue Pinto came to a stop in front of the house.
Dave walked to the porch, his eyes soft, his walk slow and deliberate. He picked up the sweatshirt, folded it, and sat down next to Carla. Silently they sat, not needing to speak. But Carla felt a relief that showed in a whisper of a smile.
Finally Dave spoke. “The banquet hasn’t started yet.”
“I can be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll give you six,” he said, “but I expect you to be my partner at the winners’ table.”
An arrow of pride struck at Carla’s heart, but she hesitated only for a moment. “I can make it in four.”
“Then get ready,” he said, but she had already gone in.

George T. Johannesen, Sr., of the Kalamazoo Ward, Lansing Michigan Stake, tells about his college classmate, Pete Cavallo, who wanted nothing more than to become an athlete even though he was barely 1.5 meters and weighed scarcely more than 45 kilograms. Cavallo (the name means “Horse”) decided to try cross-country running.
The first year, Pete finished the race, but only long after the stadium was empty. The next year he did a little better, and by the third year he had improved enough to finish while spectators were still left in the stands. By the fourth year, people were saying, “we sure do wish those little Cavallo legs could win this year!” But nobody thought they would.
Still, there was a feeling of expectancy. Everyone was watching the hill leading to the stadium, hoping to see Pete Cavallo at the front of the pack of runners as they made the final dash to the stadium. Then one of those big, long-legged runners charged into view, and a sigh of disappointment was heard. Fans started leaving.
But suddenly there was little Pete running over the hill. The stadium became very noisy, everyone shouting, “Run, Pete! Run, Little Horse!” The winner was forgotten as if Pete had come in first. And perhaps in a way he did, because people still remember today his example of working to do the best he could.

A few years ago, I learned to index during a large indexing activity organized at the Les Abymes meetinghouse, led in part by Sabrina Bastien. It didn’t particularly captivate me as I found the documents difficult to read. Another time, I participated in an indexing activity on a Sunday with young people who had been called to serve as temple and family history consultants. I then began trying to do it alone at home, calling Sister Bastien for help when problems arose, and reading explanations on FamilySearch. I started indexing every Sunday afternoon. It became a way for me to help my family with their genealogy, as we are all part of our Heavenly Father’s family. If I find it easy to locate my close family, it’s because others have done work for me.
So, it’s my turn to return the favor. I noticed that by asking for help from our Heavenly Father, I could read certain writing more easily. This allowed me to have patience. During the first major COVID-19 lockdown, I indexed every day. And then every Sunday. I am happy to be able to help, through indexing, in bringing families together on both sides of the veil.

Rooma didn’t really want to study the scriptures. Vaitiare didn’t really want to go to seminary. And they didn’t have to. But when they chose to, their lives changed.
Why would a teen choose to spend two hours every Thursday night studying the scriptures with his mom? A year ago Rooma Terooatea of Tahiti probably would have wondered the same thing.
Now he might ask why a teen would choose not to.
During three years of seminary, Rooma had never really paid attention when his teachers assigned scriptures to read for the next lesson. “I didn’t want to read them,” he says. “The scriptures really didn’t jump out at me.”
But he wondered why Church leaders in his ward and stake always used the scriptures in their talks and lessons. He watched his leaders. He noticed how easy it was for his stake president to quote from the scriptures.
So when the Faaa Tahiti Stake divided the seminary students into teams to hold scripture mastery competitions throughout his last year of seminary, Rooma decided to give the scriptures a chance.
That’s when his weekly study sessions with his mother began. Each Thursday night they studied together for the class competition the next day, learning where important verses are and even memorizing many of them.
And that’s when things began to change for Rooma. His scripture study strengthened his relationship with his mom. He started to see the parallels between what the scriptures teach and what is happening in the world today. As he prayed about what he was reading, he realized it was of God.
It also helped him lead his team to victory in the stake scripture mastery championship.
Rooma recognizes in the blessings he’s received a lesson he learned in his studying. “In Mosiah 2:24 King Benjamin taught that when we choose to do what the Lord asks, we are blessed immediately,” says Rooma. One of the greatest blessings he has received is that “after studying the scriptures this year, I know that the Book of Mormon is true.”

When I first went to senior high school, there was one thing I struggled with: when a new subject was introduced, I would find it difficult to understand. One evening I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me understand and overcome that challenge. I had faith, and I was able to understand better. Since then, prayer and faith have been on my to-do list in school and everywhere I go. Being in a boys school is challenging because of some of the immoral things students do. When that happens, the words of my parents come to my mind: “Don’t do something that will drive the Holy Ghost away.” I am grateful to my mum, who always reminds me to listen to the Holy Ghost. When we do what is right, God blesses us.
Nyame S., age 16, Ghana

To be honest about it, the seminary students in the Phoenix Park Ward of the Dublin Ireland Stake were a little worried. More than a little worried. Their stake president and their bishop had approached them about something new. Would they be the first seminary class in all of Ireland to try meeting every day—early every day?
Elaine O’Farrell, 15, put their fears into words. “I thought if we see each other every day, we’ll get on each other’s nerves.” And there was that other obvious worry. Pamela Fagan, 15, said, “No way would they get me out of bed that early.” And Farris Bukhatwa, 17, and Louise Byrne, 17, lived the farthest distance away. It was not going to be easy.
But not everyone was worried about the early-morning class. Jenna Gallagher, 15, was a little bit excited about the idea. Of course, her dad is the stake president. But it went beyond supporting dad. This was going to be her first year of seminary. She said, “I used to hear about early-morning seminary in America. I always dreamed of going to seminary that way. I was really pleased when we were told we were going to do it. I knew if I made a sacrifice, the Lord would bless me.”
Then it happened. Things started to work out. Farris got the car in the mornings and could pick up Louise. Pamela even agreed to getting up extra early to be ready to leave on time with her brother Derek. Elaine changed her mind and said that she liked seeing these people every morning. Jenna was happy just to be in seminary. Brett, 18, and Brandt Crowther, 16, the mission president’s sons, were thrilled to be with other Church members their same ages every day. And best of all, their teacher, Rosemary Richmond, was terrific.
On the last day of early-morning seminary for the year, they were able to look back and see some remarkable things that had happened in their lives during the past year.
At school in Ireland, all students are required to take religion class. Even though they go to early-morning seminary, these Latter-day Saint students are not excused from their school religion requirement. But their study of the scriptures has paid off. Louise said, “We have Franciscan friars that visited our school. When they were asking questions, they would point to me and put their fingers to their lips as if to say, ‘Shhh, don’t answer the question.’ They know I can answer it.”
Elaine has the same story. “I always get A’s in religion class. If my teacher asked what a word means, like covenant, I would answer. He knew I would know the answer no matter what he asked.”
Derek Fagan, 17, has excelled both in school and in seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing. “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get my patriarchal blessing. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That was the time I decided for myself that the Church was true and I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it around with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I just learn very quickly now. It’s unusual to do ordinary level subjects for exams and then move up and take the exam at a higher level. The teachers were rather amazed when I moved from ordinary level to higher.”
Derek has also become the first seminary student in Ireland to learn all the scripture mastery scriptures. As an extra challenge, he memorized the First Vision as found in Joseph Smith—History.
Brett and Brandt Crowther were giving up high school in the United States to come to Ireland with their parents while their father served as a mission president. Brett would miss only his senior year, but Brandt would miss three years of high school. Then, by the time his dad’s mission was over, Brandt would be old enough to serve his own mission full-time. “Some of my friends did tease me about going on a five-year mission.”
Brandt remembers the time right before early-morning seminary started just a few months after he arrived in Ireland. “I prayed almost every night of my life, but one night about eight months ago, I prayed with sincerity and asked the Lord what He wanted me to do here. I needed to know in my heart that the Church was true. And I found out that God does live and He loves me. I gained an understanding of what He wanted me to do. And since then, I’ve been happy being here. I’ve loved it. I’m closer to the Savior now.”
Brandt explains some of the things the Lord told him he needed to do. “I needed to read the scriptures every day and to pray every night and keep the commandments. And be enthusiastic. I needed to get in gear. That night the Spirit was with me. I didn’t want to go to bed. I stayed up feeling that feeling. The best way I can explain it was like I wasn’t alone and I knew it.”
Seminary class often helped give direct answers to Farris. “I received a testimony of prayer and of tithing. I was just praying about things that I really needed to find out about. It would click in seminary. I would understand things better. It is so much better when you get an answer. The Spirit tells you it is true. What is that like? It’s calm, and you understand things. You’re not nervous. You know it’s true. You feel it in your heart.”
One unique thing about this seminary class has been how much the students enjoy being together. It seems every weekday morning isn’t enough. They now get together every Saturday night, too.
It all started when Louise’s mother told Brett that Louise’s friends always ask her to go to the pub with them on Saturdays, but she never goes. Brett said, “We can get a group of people and go out and have some fun. We decided to take the whole class, make it a seminary thing. After that, every Saturday night, we’ve been doing it. It’s good fun.”
What do they do? The first week they went to the cinema, but that quickly became too expensive. So they started going to each other’s houses to play games (the Crowthers taught them to play capture-the-flag) or watch videos or just talk and talk and talk. Elaine explains, “We used to have nothing to talk about; now we don’t have enough time to talk. It’s very fun. When I was in Primary, I never used to mix. I’d stay to myself. When I was in school, I never talked to anybody. But my confidence has grown to talk to people more since I started hanging around with the group.”
For Louise, having something else to do on Saturdays has helped her be comfortable in her decision to stay strong in the Church. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s a reason for me not to go with my friends from work because they go out every weekend. Sometimes, I used to go along. I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t, but it was just being there. It just didn’t feel good. It wears out your spirit eventually. I got so tired of trying to speak up for myself. When I go with the seminary class, I can just be me. And that’s accepted.”
And most of all, “Saturday nights are fun,” says Pamela. “Usually my friends go out on Saturday night. Their standards are completely different from mine. I prefer and feel much better going to the seminary activity. We have great fun.”
Derek adds, “Early-morning seminary has brought us closer, and we’re better friends. Definitely. Saturday evenings we have activities. It’s not planned by any adults. It’s all arranged by us. I’ve gotten a lot closer to everyone in the class, even Pamela, my sister. Most nights the kids at school would go out and get drunk and break the Word of Wisdom. I wouldn’t even consider that as a choice.”
Most of all, this year of seminary has taught them the meaning of faith. Standing before the class each morning is their teacher, Rosemary Richmond, prepared to help them learn from Church history about the faith of the early prophets and members. Her husband, Brendan, suffers from an extremely rare and damaging lung disorder and is confined to a wheelchair. She has the constant worry about her husband’s care and health, yet she is willing and eager to prepare lessons and have the early-morning seminary class come each day.
Louise said, “Members here are very faithful, especially Rosemary, with all the trials she’s been through. It makes you realize how lucky you are. While in seminary, we read about the Prophet Joseph Smith and the pioneers. Joseph Smith did a marvelous thing. He’s a great man. I love him. The testimony that he had never faltered. Can you imagine living back in those days? Some people say these are the hardest days, but I think then it was so much harder. Now if we were called to Zion, we’d just catch a plane. The pioneers had to walk halfway across America just to practice what they believe. I want that sort of faith because I love the Church.”
Louise is developing that kind of faith. Every day she stands up for her beliefs. But with her small group of valiant seminary friends, she doesn’t have to stand alone. None of them do. They have found a way to strengthen each other. And that has made all the difference.

“One day in my early teens a remarkable boy slipped me a coverless edition of English verse with pages torn, worn, and soiled, but it changed my life. This passage was marked: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’
“So wrote Browning decades before I read it fresh that day and took it personally, appropriate to my season for self-discovery, of hopeful idealism and firming philosophy. And I might never have reached if I’d been stopped by the cover.
“That is the blessing of summer—time enough to read and to know what you’ve read. I’d pick a few Italian plums from our tree and rub off the powdery white until the dark skins glistened red-purple. Then I’d retreat to the capitol slope and read in the cool of sprinkler spray splashing off the trunks, soon oblivious to the ka-chugging sound the rainbird made.
“In my summers I had romped through the Anne of Green Gables series and plowed through a Tarzan book or two just to please my brother. I had discovered the Lloyd C. Douglas books and dreamed of my own magnificent obsession. And I had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole and climbed Heidi’s Alpine height seven or eight times by the time I learned of heaven’s reach and the truth, once again, about covers.
“Worn leather volumes containing Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Chaucer were passed into my hands by this boy who understood the grasp-and-reach theory. The public library provided me with ugly, stiff, practical new bindings of Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson and Emerson’s essay ‘Friendship’ with the library number perforated across random pages. Then came the sharing of a simple maroon book called Larry, named after the remarkable young man whose letters and journal notes to Girl, his girl, were collected therein. We read that, and when he died in the end, almost before he had really lived, we wept.
“I loved all these books unabashedly.
“This boy and I couldn’t understand everything we read, but it was so exhilarating trying to understand that it was like coming in with the tide. Stretching our minds in the reading and then struggling to say it back in our own words to each other kept our relationship going one swift summer and was the basis for a lifelong friendship.”

The auditorium is dark. Downstage a spotlight picks out a white telephone. Rrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrring!

Then a deep, penetrating voice asks, “Waiting for a call?” And as the voice continues, figures begin to gather onstage. “They are. They’re waiting for a call from Heavenly Father. They don’t realize he is always calling and ready to listen. All they have to do is lift the receiver.”

The orchestra begins to play ever so softly and is joined by a male voice singing.

It is the beginning of the play “Awaiting Answers,” written, produced, and directed by high school seminary students. But, of course, that isn’t really the beginning. It started one spring at the annual Davis County Seminary District “S-Day” traditionally held at the Regional Center in Bountiful, Utah.

Shirley Anderson of Kaysville, Utah, was there as a chaperone. “The professional music program was good,” she recalls, “but I had the strongest feeling an S-Day program should be something the kids can take home with them.” So Sister Anderson devoted her speech and drama talent to guiding the seminary students for the coming year in an effort to create a really good, seminary-produced play. Two co-directors were appointed, Carolyn Hawkins and Todd Williams, and a committee of representatives was formed from every seminary in the district.

Like the teenagers who did the work, those in the story came out triumphant. With love of God and a growing love for each other, the actors acted, the singers sang, the orchestra played, and the dancers danced; and when they were through and the lights were lowered on the last strains of “Oh, my child, this is Saturday. Blessings are in store, blessings are in store,” there was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or on stage.

Chilean Saints like Guillermo Miranda know Elder McConkie’s prophecy, and they are working toward its fulfillment. “I feel that the Lord has blessed me in my business so that I can be a positive influence,” says Brother Miranda, who owns and manages a successful chain of department stores.
Brother Miranda is a high priests group leader in the city of San Fernando, an agricultural area about an hour’s drive southeast of Santiago. His business, which he believes should be “a light for others,” is respected and renowned for its honesty and strict employee behavior code.
“I want Church members to be good examples for my nonmember employees,” says Brother Miranda, “especially in those areas where the Church is small.”
Brother Miranda considers himself blessed rather than successful, though he has experienced both persecution and professional setbacks since joining the Church in 1982. “I have been the brunt of gossip, and my business has been the object of attack,” he says, recalling a widely distributed flier that claimed his department-store chain was failing. Rather than seek legal action against the perpetrators, he prayed that his business would be protected, and he made sure his tithing was paid promptly. As a result, business improved. These days Brother Miranda, who often is asked to speak about his business philosophy, does not have enough job openings for all those interested in working for him.

When Mom read Grandma’s letter, my twin brother, Bryce, and I looked at each other and cringed. “How can Grandma take care of a garden?” I asked, reaching for my milk.
“Grandma has always had a garden, Peg,” Mom answered, smiling and pushing the plate of cookies toward us.
“But before, Grandpa was there to do the hard work,” Bryce pointed out. “Since he died, Grandma’s been alone. She shouldn’t be out working in the garden.”
“But Grandma loves having a garden,” Mom said. “I don’t think anybody could talk her out of it.”
“Then we ought to help her,” I said. “Bryce and I could help. We help Dad in the garden all the time. We could do the hard stuff that Grandma shouldn’t do.”
“She lives a long way from us—almost seven hundred miles. We can’t drive there every time she needs help.”
“So what are we going to do?” Bryce asked. “We can’t just let her do it alone.”
Mom thought for a long time. “You can remember her in your prayers. Maybe Heavenly Father will send someone over to help her when she needs it most. That’s probably all we can do right now. We’ll visit her this summer. You can help then.”
“But that will be after most of the hard work.”
Bryce and I couldn’t stop worrying about Grandma. The summer before, we had spent three weeks with her and Grandpa and had worked with him in the garden. We knew how hard it was to hoe weeds, keep the ditches clean, and water every week. The sun had burned down, making the sweat pour down our faces. We didn’t think it was fair for Grandma to have to do all that hard work herself. When we said our prayers, we always remembered her and her garden, but we still felt there was something else we ought to do. We just weren’t sure what it was.
The next Saturday Mom sent us to the store for some milk. On our way home, we passed Sister Rogers working in her yard. She was on her hands and knees, digging in her flower bed. She greeted us with her usual big smile. “Out running errands?”
We nodded. “Isn’t it too hot for you to be out working, Sister Rogers?” Bryce asked.
“It is warm, but someone has to do the work. Since Brother Rogers had his operation, he hasn’t been able to do much. In a month or so, he should be well enough to help some. But right now there’s work to do, and I’m the only one who can do it.”
Bryce and I started home. “I don’t think she’s the only one who can do that work,” Bryce muttered. “Maybe we should help her out.”
A few minutes later we were back at the Rogers’s place. “We came to help,” I announced. “What can we do?”
Sister Rogers was surprised. “I haven’t ever had young people stop by to help out. What would you like to do?”
“Anything you need. You tell us what to do, and we’ll get it done.”
Usually working in a garden or a yard is hard, boring work, but that Saturday Bryce and I had the best time. The sun was hot, and the sweat ran down our faces and into our eyes, and our backs ached after we’d pulled the weeds from the flower beds. I wore a blister on my hand, and Bryce ended up with two when we hoed the vegetable garden. But there was something fun about working with Sister Rogers.
It was late afternoon when we finally quit. She tried to pay us each five dollars. “No way!” I told her. “We didn’t do this for money. Taking money would ruin everything. We just wanted to help you out.”
Before she let us go, though, she fixed a huge pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and put a pile of soft, chewy brownies on a plate for us. We rested and feasted on the goodies.
“This reminds me of working with our grandma,” I told her. “She always gave us a treat after we worked in her garden.”
Sister Rogers laughed—a happy, fun laugh. “Did your Grandma ever feed you brownies?”
“No, but she makes the best molasses cookies I’ve ever tasted,” Bryce said. “After we worked, she gave us all the molasses cookies we could eat.”
“Well, Bryce, if you and your sister come back another time, I’ll have a plate of molasses cookies. I don’t know if they’ll be as good as your grandma’s, but I have some grandkids who think they’re good enough to put into a person’s mouth.”
For the next three weeks Bryce and I stopped by the Rogers’s place often. Sometimes the only thing Sister Rogers had for us to do was carry the trash out to the curb, but we still checked on her. We kept her flower bed and garden weeded, mowed the lawn, and helped trim the shrubs along the front of the house. And we found out that she made molasses cookies almost as good as Grandma’s.
“I don’t know what we would have done without your help this summer,” Brother Rogers said one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave. He had hobbled out into the front yard and sat in a lawn chair. “After my operation, I told Sister Rogers that we ought to just forget the garden and yard this year.” He shook his head and smiled. “She wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Usually we’re not crazy about working in the yard and stuff,” Bryce admitted, shrugging, “but this reminds us of working for our grandma.”
That evening as we were finishing dinner, Mom announced, “A letter came from Grandma today.”
“What did she say?” I asked, excited.
“How’s her garden?” Bryce wanted to know.
Mom smiled. “I think your prayers have been answered.”
“How?” I questioned.
“An LDS family down the street from her knew that she needed help, so they decided to make that a family project. At least once a week they go there and lend her a hand.”
Bryce looked across the table at me and grinned. “Maybe we prayed that family over to Grandma’s garden.”
“You could be right,” Mom said, nodding. “And I think that maybe someone someplace else has been praying for their Grandpa and Grandma Rogers. They probably prayed the two of you over to the Rogers’s garden—and you didn’t even know it.”
“Is that how Heavenly Father works?” I asked.
Mom smiled. “When he has work to do, he may use people like the two of you to do it. Even though you wanted to go help Grandma, you couldn’t go there, so Heavenly Father sent someone closer by. Maybe the Rogers’s grandkids would have loved to help them but couldn’t, so Heavenly Father sent the two of you. Doesn’t it make you feel good to know that you could be his answer to a prayer?”
Bryce and I thought about that. “Well, Peg,” Bryce said with a grin, “we’d better get to bed early tonight so that maybe we can help someone else tomorrow.”