Gospel Story Finder

In our hectic and fast-moving world, accidents can in an instant inflict pain, destroy happiness, and curtail our future. Such was the experience of young Robert Hendricks. Healthy and carefree three years ago, a sudden, three-car accident left him with brain damage, limited use of his limbs, and impaired speech. Summoned to his side by his mother, who pleaded her despair, I gazed at his almost-lifeless form as he lay on the white hospital bed in the critical care unit. Life supports functioning, his head swathed in bandages, his future was not only in doubt, but death appeared certain.
The hoped-for miracle, however, did occur. Heavenly help was forthcoming. Robert lived. His recovery has been labored and slow—but steady. A devoted friend, who was bishop at the time of the accident, has cared for Robert each week, getting him ready and driving him to his Sunday Church meetings—always patient, ever faithful.
One day Robert’s former bishop brought him to my office, since Robert wanted to meet with me, not having remembered that I saw him that night of crisis in the hospital. He and the dedicated bishop sat down, and Robert “talked” with me through a small electronic machine on which he spelled out his thoughts and they were then printed on strips of paper. He spelled out on the machine the love he has for his mother, his thanks for helping hands and willing hearts which have aided him, and his gratitude to a kind and caring Heavenly Father who has sustained him through his prayers. Here are some of his less private and personal messages: “I’m coming along pretty good, considering what I’ve been through.” Another: “I know that I will be able to help people and make some difference in people’s lives, and that’s great.” Another: “I don’t really know just how fortunate I am, but in my prayers I am told to just keep pushing on.”
At the conclusion of our visit, the bishop said, “Robert would like to surprise you.” Robert stood and, with considerable effort, said aloud, “Thank you.” A broad smile crossed his face. He was on the way back. “Thanks be to God” were the only words I could utter. Later I prayed aloud, “Thanks be also for loving bishops, kind teachers, and skilled specialists.”
Today, Robert, through the help of his former bishop, his current bishop, and others, has been to the temple. He has learned the computer. He is enrolled in computer study at college. He was also aided along the way by Deseret Industries helpers who provided encouragement and taught him essential skills. Now, with the support of a cane, Robert walks. He has learned to talk, though in halting phrases and with great effort. His progress has been phenomenal.

Jeff Wright swung the empty fruit basket and smiled at his buddy Pete Adams. “That’s the last of the apples,” Jeff declared, “and we still have two streets to do on our route. Shall we call it a day or go back to the Scout hall for a refill?”
“Not all the way back there, please!” Pete groaned. “We’re on the edge of town now, and I’ve just about had it.”
“We’ve done OK so far,” Jeff remarked, “but I hate to miss the chance of selling a few more apples before we report back. If we want that camp built next summer, we’ll need all the money we can get.”
Squaring his shoulders, Pete agreed. “OK, let’s go get a refill. When we’re at camp next summer, we’ll think it was worth it.”
“Let’s take the shortcut through the McAuley farm,” Jeff suggested.
To the left of the barren field they were crossing was an orchard with tangled grass and weeds springing up among the trees.
“Do you see what I see?” Pete asked. “Look at all those trees thick with apples just begging to be picked!”
“Probably all wormy, too,” Jeff replied. “It’s not likely that Mr. McAuley has sprayed them.”
“Why doesn’t he look after the orchard?” Pete asked.
“Oh, people in town say that he’s just lost interest in the farm. It’s too much work for him on his own, and he probably couldn’t afford help even if he could find pickers. He’s as independent as all get-out, though. Folks used to offer to help him, but I guess they got fed up after he became so hard to get along with.”
“Seems like an awful waste of good apples,” Pete observed as they reached the lane leading to the road. “Especially right now. We could have filled our baskets!”
“Not with rotten apples, thank you!” Jeff said wryly. “It was a good farm years ago, but after his son was killed in a tractor rollover, the old man became a recluse.”
“Speaking of the old man,” Pete said, pointing toward a woodpile behind the barn, “is that him?”
“Yeah.” Jeff stood still, watching the gaunt figure chopping into a log as if every stroke of the ax was too much for his strength. “He looks terrible, Pete. Let’s go see if we can help him.”
As the boys approached, Mr. McAuley stopped chopping and mopped his face with a bandanna.
“Mr. McAuley, can we do that?” Jeff offered. He introduced himself and Pete and explained why they happened to be in the area.
As they took over the wood chopping, after only a mild protest from Mr. McAuley, they told him more about the Scout camp project. But when the farmer invited them to fill their baskets with his apples, Pete blurted, “But aren’t they—”
“Wormy?” Mr. McAuley finished the question. “No.” Seeing Pete’s embarrassment and Jeff’s questioning look, he added, “Tom Sims sent his sprayers over when they did his orchard, so the fruit should be good.”
“Are you going to have the crop picked, then?” Jeff asked.
“I meant to,” Mr. McAuley replied. “But I’ve had the flu, and it’s about knocked me flat.” He piled small branches into the wheelbarrow while the boys chopped seasoned apple limbs into stove-size pieces.
After the firewood had been stacked, Mr. McAuley led the boys into the big farm kitchen where they got a good fire going in the black potbellied stove. Soon they were drinking steaming mugs of hot cider.
Jeff watched the color creep back into the old man’s face, but all the boy said was, “I’ve been thinking about all those apples going to waste. I noticed that you have plenty of apple hampers in the barn, Mr. McAuley. If Pete and I talked our troop into coming out after school and weekends for a while, we’d get most of them picked for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that, Jeff! I couldn’t afford to pay them, and—”
Both boys brushed that aside. “I’ll ask my dad to see about a trucker to take the apples to the storage sheds,” Jeff continued. “It’d be a neat project, right, Pete?”
His friend nodded eagerly.
The old man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, boys, I’d almost given up since my son was killed. Nothing seemed to matter after that, what with his mother gone so long and just me left.”
“But, sir, you can’t quit on life,” Jeff said kindly. “My dad always says that you can’t stay still. You have to go forward or backward. There’s no in-between.”
“Well, this old man is going forward again, thanks to you two. I’ll let you help me with this fall’s crop, if the other lads agree. Then I’ll get the farm in shape in the spring again.”
“Good!” the boys said in unison.
“Go pick a basket each of the best apples, and finish your route,” Mr. McAuley told them.
Their baskets filled, Jeff and Pete went back to the house to thank the old man and tell him that they’d be back later with their troop buddies.
As they started down the lane, Mr. McAuley shouted. “Jeff! Pete! I’ve just had a great idea!”
They waited, puzzled at the old man’s excitement.
“You’ve helped me to see things more clearly today, boys, made me see that I have to start over. Now, I can do something for you in return! There are four or five acres of scrub land behind the orchard, with a little creek running through it.” He grinned. “It’d make a perfect campsite for a troop of Boy Scouts! It’ll need a good cleanup before summer, but—”
Whoops and yells cut him off as the boys raced off to finish one project and get started on another!

When I was sixteen years old, I was a printing apprentice. A fellow apprentice was totally engrossed in motorcycles. In those days, we rode British motorcycles, and he had a very powerful one.
One sunny summer day, he said to me, “Would you like to come for a ride on my motorcycle?” That seemed to be a good idea. In those days we didn’t wear any protective clothing; and thus, very lightly clad, I became the passenger on his motorcycle. He weaved through the streets of the city and then came to a long, straight road. He leaned back and said to me, “Have you ever traveled at 160 kilometers an hour?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Well, you’re going to.”
I said, “We don’t have to.”
He began to rev the engine, and the motorcycle roared forward. The skin on my face pulled tight, and my clothing whipped in the wind as we went past 150 to 160 kilometers an hour. I had accepted an invitation that put someone else in control of my safety. In fact, it put me in a dangerous situation. I determined that day that never again would I let somebody else control my life.

The story is told of a man who simply would not work. He wanted to be taken care of in every need. To his way of thinking, the Church or the government, or both, owed him a living because he had paid his taxes and his tithing. He had nothing to eat but refused to work to care for himself. Out of desperation and disgust, those who had tried to help him decided that since he would not lift a finger to sustain himself, they might as well just take him to the cemetery and let him pass on. On the way to the cemetery, one man said, “We can’t do this. I have some corn I will give him.”
So they explained this to the man, and he asked, “Have the husks been removed?”
They responded, “No.”
“Well, then,” he said, “drive on.”

Mary Elizabeth Rollins was just a young teenager when she went to a missionary meeting at the Isaac Morley farm. Isaac Morley had the only copy of the Book of Mormon in that area at the time, and Mary Elizabeth pleaded with him to let her take it home to read. She pleaded so earnestly that he let her take it, but only if she would return it before breakfast the next morning.
As soon as she got home, she and her uncle took turns reading the Book of Mormon until late that night. At dawn she got up and memorized the first verse before taking the book back to Brother Morley.
When she gave it to him, he was surprised to see how much of it she and her uncle had read. And when she recited the first verse and the outline of Nephi’s history, to her delight he told her to take the book back with her and finish it. He would gladly wait for it, knowing that she cherished it as he did.

My father could remember the very day, even the very hour, that his family—father, mother, and four children—left the Church, many never to return again in this life. He was 13 years old, a deacon, and in those days families attended Sunday School in the morning and then sacrament meeting in the afternoon. On a beautiful spring day, after returning home from Sunday morning worship services and having a midday family meal together, his mother turned to his father and asked simply, “Well, dear, do you think we should go to sacrament meeting this afternoon, or should we take the family for a ride in the country?”
The idea that there was an option to sacrament meeting had never occurred to my father, but he and his three teenage siblings all sat up and paid careful attention. That Sunday afternoon ride in the country was probably an enjoyable family activity, but that small decision became the start of a new direction which ultimately led his family away from the Church with its safety, security, and blessings and onto a different path.
My father was fortunate to marry a good woman who encouraged him to come back to the church of his youth and begin again to progress along the path. Their faithful lives have blessed all of their children, the next generation of grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren.
Just as the simple decision to attend or not attend one of their Sabbath day worship meetings made a significant difference in the lives of my grandparents’ family, our everyday decisions will impact our lives in significant ways. A seemingly small decision such as whether or not to attend a sacrament meeting can have far-reaching, even eternal, consequences.

In the George household, there are cherished memories about their ancestors that help strengthen the faith of family members. Elder George relates one beautiful story his grandfather told them:
“One man told my Grandpa about being in a stake conference when he was twelve years old, and he became nervous when Elder Kimball [then an Apostle] asked all of the twelveyear-old boys to come to the front. Elder Kimball lined them all up and gave each one of them a crisp, new one-dollar bill. He told them that that was the start of their missionary fund. The man never forgot that experience and he said that it helped give focus to his life.”

“I spent eighteen years teaching and fulfilling my responsibilities as a priest,” says Hsieh. “I was very busy, but I wasn’t happy. I had had the opportunity to study in Europe; I had been a teacher, a student, a professor, a chaplain, a seminary director—my life was colorful—but there was a spiritual void.”
And there were rules and customs within the Catholic church with which Hsieh was uncomfortable, such as the ban on certain books—and he liked to read and study all he could. Another problem that bothered him as an ordained priest was the Lord’s statement: “It is not good that the man should be alone” (Gen. 2:18).
“This particular scripture became a vivid reality for me once when I was seriously sick and there was no one close to take care of me. I felt very alone. I realized the need for a companion to share my life. I decided then that being alone forever wasn’t right.”
This combination of feelings built up over time. Finally, in 1973, he asked to be released from his priestly vows. He resigned from Fu Jen University and was immediately hired by National Cheng Chi University in Taipei. There, one year later, Hsieh met, courted, and married one of his university assistants. He was about fifty years old at this time.
“But giving up the priesthood was difficult for me,” he says. “I had been a priest for so long. Now I had given up everything that I had lived for up to that point in time. I missed sharing my knowledge and understanding of the gospel, something I had been able to do as a priest. I thought about becoming a minister in another church that allowed priests to marry. But because of my belief in the Catholic church, I couldn’t make that change.”
Three years after his marriage, Hsieh was alone in his home when two young men knocked on his door. “They asked to talk to me, and I said I had no time and no interest in whatever they wanted to talk about.
“But as I thought about them, I became more curious. I wanted to know who they were and what they were doing in Taiwan, so I looked out from the balcony of my apartment and saw them going from door to door. I waited for a long time for them to come out of one of the apartments, and then I called to them to come back to mine.
“The first question I asked them was, ‘Are you missionaries?’ When they answered yes, I questioned them about their religion. Many of my questions were left unanswered, and I didn’t feel satisfied with our first conversation.
“That evening, as I discussed their visit with my wife, she reminded me of the Lord’s admonition to ‘beware of false prophets.’” (See Matt. 7:15.)
When the missionaries made a return visit, Hsieh was not going to let them in, but he didn’t want to be impolite. For the entire evening, Hsieh explained to the missionaries what true religion should be. He did not tell them that he had been a Catholic priest, but they felt encouraged by his knowledge of Christianity.
One of the missionaries, Donald B. Cenatiempo, wrote of the experience, “I felt as if we were the students and he was the teacher. We could tell he was a very intelligent and religious man.” The missionaries asked if they could return, and Hsieh said yes. The visits became a weekly ritual.
“I didn’t want to send them away,” Hsieh remembers. “I thought that if their church were true, it would have a prophet and continuing revelation. I asked them why their church didn’t have crosses or crucifixes, and they said, ‘Because Christ is risen; Christ lives. If one of your friends or parents dies,’ they said, ‘do you take out a photograph of them dead and show it to everyone?’ I was spiritually touched by the wisdom of their response.”
Hsieh started to read the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants, which he especially liked because it is a record of the Lord speaking to man in these latter days. He asked for other books to read, and the missionaries gave him a copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, by Elder LeGrand Richards.
“We told Brother Hsieh that it was possible for him to receive the priesthood and perform certain duties within that priesthood,” Elder Cenatiempo wrote. “Brother Hsieh understood as well as anybody could in his stage of spiritual progression what it would mean to hold the priesthood—the true priesthood of God.”
Hsieh explained to his wife what he had read, and she found it very interesting. Together, they began to study and pray for understanding. Eventually, Hsieh’s wife announced to the missionaries, “We have prayed and we feel it best to be baptized together.” They were baptized in December 1977.
In the years since that special event in their lives, they have developed strong testimonies that they enjoy sharing with others.
“We have always said that we would be willing to do whatever the Lord wants us to do,” says Brother Hsieh. “And we’ve always tried to use every opportunity and every talent he has given us to help build up the kingdom of God on the earth and to share the gospel message.”
Some unique opportunities have opened up to Brother Hsieh to do this. He has lectured seven times at the International Conference for Christian Professors. “They are interested in the Church because it is quite new and unique in modern Christianity,” he says. “The Lord has given me many opportunities to bear my testimony to these scholars.”
Currently, Brother Hsieh, a member of the Mu Cha Ward, serves as a high councilor in the Taipei Taiwan West Stake and has assisted in work on a second Chinese translation of the Book of Mormon.
“The gospel is the love of God,” he says. “It is important that all men and women hear this message. What we do, we do for the glory of God and the salvation of souls. Friendship is the method by which we share the gospel. The final goal for all is salvation and exaltation.”

Her name was Millicent, and she was my closest friend—literally. Millicent was a big, bulky back brace I wore in the ninth grade to help straighten the abnormal curvature of my spine. I called the brace Millicent because—well, because someone suggested I give it a name just for fun, and because that was my least favorite name at the moment.
I just wanted to fit in that year, but my days of melting into a crowd were over, at least until I stopped growing. Now I was stared at—a lot. Most of the time I tried to ignore the extra attention, but inside it really bothered me. And sometimes, more often than I would like to admit, I would even glare back.
But one time was different. I was with my family in the airport, eagerly waiting for my brother to get home from his mission. We talked in excited anticipation before his arrival. As we were talking, I glanced across the airport terminal and saw a woman watching me intently. This time, instead of scowling, I smiled and returned to my family’s conversation.
A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the woman standing beside me. “I couldn’t help noticing the brace you’re wearing,” she said. “I had to wear one years ago when I was in high school, only mine was a lot more obvious than yours!” We chatted for a few minutes about our respective experiences, and then she wished me well and went on her way.
That experience got me thinking. I was encouraged to know there were others who knew how I felt. But it also made me realize I had always assumed people had negative reasons for staring at me—that they thought my brace was funny looking or strange. I’m sure some did think that. But there were probably plenty of other people who were not thinking negatively. And maybe I could have made some new friends if I had acknowledged them with a friendly smile.
I realized then how easy it is to jump to conclusions about people. We don’t always know what they’re really thinking or what their motivations are. And a smile will open more doors than a frown or glare ever will.

As I began talking to you tonight, I was remembering the family I grew up in. In closing, let me tell you something else I remember about that family. When I was only nine years old, our one-day-old baby brother died. We were so sad and disappointed and crying so hard. And do you know what our father did? He gathered us together, and we knelt in family prayer. He thanked Heavenly Father for this little baby that we’d had such a short time, and then he asked the Lord to bless this little baby, David, who was now in heaven. Daddy asked Heavenly Father to bless our mom, who was very sick. Mother regained her health, and we’ve all tried to live so that we can be reunited as a family with David one day. I always pray for David. He will always be my brother. We are an eternal family because our parents were married in the temple. You can give your children that same gift, the blessing of belonging to an eternal family. It is the most priceless gift you could ever provide for them. Plan to do it. Prepare to do it. Live worthy of it. May He bless you to do so, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I heard a story about a father who noticed his young daughter kneeling beside her bed, praying that Heavenly Father would protect little birds from entering a bird trap her brother had built and placed in the backyard. Later that day, the father grew concerned. He knew the trap was a good one. He had helped his son build it.
“I heard you praying this morning that Heavenly Father would protect the little birds from your brother’s trap,” he said to his daughter. “But sometimes sad things happen even when we pray that they won’t.”
She responded, “I just know he won’t catch any birds, Daddy.”
“I admire your faith, sweetheart,” the father said. “But if he does catch some birds, I hope that won’t hurt your faith.”
“He won’t, Daddy,” she said. “I know he won’t.”
The father asked, “How can you have such great faith?”
“Because after I said my prayers,” his daughter replied, “I went out back and kicked his bird trap all to pieces.”

A latter-day example of willful rebellion with a happier ending is the story of William W. Phelps. Phelps joined the Church in 1831 and was appointed Church printer. He edited several early Church publications, wrote numerous hymns, and served as a scribe to Joseph Smith. Unfortunately, he turned against the Church and the Prophet, even to the point of giving false testimony against Joseph Smith in a Missouri court, which contributed to the Prophet’s imprisonment there.

Later, Phelps wrote to Joseph asking for forgiveness. “I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me.”

In his reply the Prophet stated: “It is true that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior. … However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Heavenly Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, for friends at first are friends again at last.”

With sincere repentance, William Phelps buried his “weapons of rebellion” and was received once more in full fellowship, never again to fall away.

On a beautiful summer morning, our family attended the Special Olympics to watch our son Scott participate. The Special Olympics are held each year to allow people with disabilities to enjoy friendly competition. We observed that as the runners were taking their positions for the fifty-yard dash, they were being encouraged by special friends affectionately known as huggers. Seconds before the start of the race, these huggers took their places at the finish line of the race. It didn’t matter who crossed the finish line first. What did matter was that every runner completed the race and that every runner received a congratulatory hug. Both the courageous runners and the caring huggers taught important principles of truth.

One day after school, one of our daughters came into a teenage son’s room. It looked as if a big wind had blown through. He was sitting in the midst of it all. She felt the anger rising within, but remembered her resolution to look for the good. Searching desperately, her eye finally looked upward. “Your ceiling’s really clean, Adam!” she was able to say quite honestly. He laughed; he got the message, and he cleaned up the room.

I will never forget the day my mother taught me how to love a mean lady.
She was my neighbor, and I was afraid of her. She had long white hair that stuck out everywhere, and she was missing some teeth. Her name was Maggie.
We lived in a yard of seven little cottages. (In England, a yard is a tiny street.) Because there was only one way out of the yard, we had to pass Maggie’s cottage every day on the way to school. If she saw us, she would come to her door and shake her fists and shout. We couldn’t understand a word she said, but she seemed angry and scary. Everyone ran past Maggie’s house or tried to avoid it.
Everyone, that is, except my mother. She seemed to be the bravest person in the world because she wasn’t afraid of Maggie one bit. She even went into her cottage! If Maggie was sick, Mum took her dinner. If Maggie was lonely, Mum went and talked with her. Mum said that sometimes she even understood what Maggie was saying.
One day I was walking home from school when I saw Mum in the yard with Maggie. Maggie’s clothes were hanging on our washing line. As usual, Maggie was pointing and shouting. Then she stomped off.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Mother. “What was she saying?”
“Oh, I’ve done her washing for her, and she says it isn’t clean,” Mum said.
I gasped. Mother’s washing was always very clean. “How could she say that? She’s so ungrateful! You should never help her again!”
Mum turned to look at me, and I could tell that she was thinking carefully about what to say. Finally, she said something that I will always remember.
“Love, I don’t do things for her so that she’ll be grateful. I do them because she needs me to do them.”
Mum went on to explain that Maggie hadn’t enjoyed the same good things in life that we had. Sad things had happened to her that made it hard for her to think and act properly. She needed people to show her love and care, and not pay attention to how different she was.
I realized that Maggie was a very important person. She was one of the “least” that Jesus spoke about when He said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto me.”* Not only did Maggie need us to help her with everyday work, Heavenly Father also needed us to show her that she was loved. When we unselfishly served Maggie, we served Heavenly Father too. My mother understood this, and I’m glad she took the time to teach me.

As a child of record, my commitment to the gospel’s principles has been something I try to pay keen attention to. However, there’s always been a lingering sense of inadequacy surrounding family history work. My wife and I would earnestly set goals each year, only to fall short time and time again. Opening my family tree brought a wave of discouragement, leaving me unsure of where to even begin. Then, a pivotal moment occurred during an employee devotional where a colleague from the Family History department delivered a poignant talk on the significance of this sacred work. It was like a spark ignited within me, propelling me to take decisive action. Immediately after the devotional, I reached out to my aging parents in the village, hoping to glean some insights despite their foggy memories due to illness.
Miraculously, as the call with my dad continued, it felt as though unseen hands were guiding me, directing my questions and what exactly to ask. This unveiled much history about my ancestors I knew less about. With each revelation, my excitement grew, and for the first time in ages, I felt a renewed sense of purpose for family history. Armed with newfound determination, I delved into tracing my wife’s lineage, eager to unearth connections that would bridge our family histories.
Calling upon her older sister, who had introduced her to the Church, proved to be a pivotal moment. Though initially unsure, she promised to assist and, after just a few days, inundated me with a treasure trove of ancestral information. Sharing this with my wife, I witnessed a radiant glow envelop her face as she discovered the names and connections of most of her ancestors for the very first time.
In that moment, the transformative power of family history work became abundantly clear. It wasn’t just about names and dates but also about weaving together the threads of our shared past and strengthening our familial bonds in the present. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the colleague whose words had sparked this journey within me.
Through their inspired message, I found the courage to begin, and in doing so, unlocked a profound source of joy and connection that continues to enrich our lives to this day.

You and your mom are on a scavenger hunt as part of a Primary quarterly activity to help you appreciate all the natural goodness Heavenly Father has given us. You have a list of things to check off when you find them. In addition, letters of the alphabet have been hidden in some of the places.
You are the first team. Go to Start. Follow the directions along the way, and you will find the letters. As you find each one, write it in order on the blanks at the bottom of your list. The letters will spell a word that tells what you’ll be enjoying after the hunt.
No letter here, but fill your canteen at the water fountain, check off “Water” on your list, and go to the big oak tree.
Write down the letter in the hole, check off “Oak Tree,” and hurry over to the pond.
That isn’t a letter—it’s a frog on a lily pad. Check off “Lily Pads” and look for the large boulder.
That isn’t a letter, either—it’s a snake. Rest here a bit while you check off “Boulder,” then find a pile of leaves.
Jump in, then write the letter on the brown leaf, check off “Leaves,” and head for another big pile—acorns this time.
No letter here. The squirrel wishes you’d go away so he can finish storing these nuts, so check off “Acorns” and head for the hollow log.
Another letter for your checklist. While you write it and check off “Hollow Log,” your cap blows off. Luckily, you see it at the apple tree, where you should go next.
On a low branch, there’s an abandoned nest with a green apple in it but no letter. Check off “Nest” and try the next place, over by those moss-covered stones.
Aha! Another letter! Write it and check off “Mossy Stones.” Do you see the wild strawberries? The last letter may be there. …
Nope—no letter, but the berries taste wonderful. You eat just a few so that the others can have some too. Now check off “Strawberries,” then look under the big pine tree.
Hurray—the last letter! Write it down, don’t forget to check off “Pine Tree,” then hurry over to join the leaders and wait for the other children.
Scavenger Hunt List
Water
Oak Tree
Lily Pads
Boulder
Leaves
Acorns
Hollow Log
Nest
Mossy Stones
Strawberries
Pine Trees
___ ___ ___ ___ ___
Answer:

I met B. J. the Saturday we moved to Pinedale. I was walking down the snowy street with my ice skates when a kid with glasses slipped and slid into me. He was chasing a fuzzy little dog.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling me up and brushing the snow off my pants. “Mrs. James’s dog, Snuggles, escaped from her apartment, and I told her I’d catch him. I’m B. J. Are you new around here?”
“Yeah. We just moved into that blue house,” I answered, pointing across the street. “I’m Jack.”
“Hi.” B. J. grinned, and I felt my mouth curve into a smile. He was a funny-looking kid with hair that stuck out from under his hat like straw, but his friendliness made me feel good. I didn’t know anyone else in the neighborhood yet.
“Do you like to ice skate?” I asked. “I’m going over to the rink.”
“Help me catch Snuggles,” B. J. said, “and I’ll show you the best ice in town.”
“Sure!”
“Come on then.” B. J. was already running down the street. “Snuggles always heads over to the flower shop. He has a crush on the poodle that lives there.”
B. J. cut down alleys and zigzagged through town as if he were in a maze. “I’ve lived here all my life,” he told me. “I know the best shortcuts.”
A few minutes later, we found Snuggles curled up in a furry ball against the flower shop door. B. J. scooped him up and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Sorry to interrupt your date,” he told Snuggles, “but Mrs. James is waiting for you.”
After we took the dog back and got B. J.’s skates, he led me to an awesome pond. The frozen surface looked as smooth as polished silver. Kids raced around it, their winter jackets blurs of bright colors.
“I usually skate here,” B. J. said as we sat down on a bench near a tiny building. “That’s the chalet for warming up. They sell snacks inside, too.”
After we laced our skates, B. J. introduced me to Mike, Leroy, and Jenna. He seemed to know the entire town. Before long, we were all playing tag, and I felt the sting of the icy cold air on my cheeks as I flew across the frozen pond.
B. J. had just tagged me when a little girl in a pink coat slipped and fell. She started to cry, and B. J. whipped over to help her up.
“Is this your sister?” I asked, skating up to them.
“No, it’s Emma,” he answered, holding her hand to steady her. “She hurt her knee. I’m going to take her inside and get her some hot chocolate.”
“Oh,” I said. “What about our game?”
“I’ll be back—go ahead and play.”
“Come on, Jack,” Mike hollered. “You’re it.” So I skated off to tag him. I figured Emma must be B. J.’s cousin or something like that. Why else would he take care of her?
Over the next few weeks, I got to know B. J. a lot better. He lived with his mother and sister in an apartment downtown. I could tell when I visited that they didn’t have much money. Nothing about the place was fancy, but B. J. didn’t mind and neither did I. His mom laughed all the time, and he was quickly becoming my best friend.
We both loved skating and collecting coins. We both built model airplanes, too. In fact, we got along great! But I couldn’t understand why B. J. did some of the crazy things he did—like letting Jenna play his trumpet solo in the Christmas program.
“Why did you let Jenna play the solo?” I asked him. “You were going to steal the show.”
“Jenna’s dad is coming to town just to see her,” he told me. “She’s really excited about it. He hasn’t been around much since her parents got divorced. It’s important to her.”
“But what about you?”
“I don’t mind.” He shrugged. “Let’s finish our homework and go sledding. I’ll show you the hill we call Double-Decker.”
When we went sledding, he loaned his sled to a couple of boys who didn’t have one and doubled up with me. I didn’t bother to ask him why. Afterward we went for a snack to a little restaurant he knew about. Before we left, he swept the floor for the owner. “He has arthritis,” B. J. whispered to me, “and sweeping hurts his hands.”
On the way home, we passed a theater, and a man in a long robe stumbled and fell down in front of us. I helped him up. He had long brown hair, and he was wearing sandals in the snow. He looked like the paintings of Jesus Christ I had seen in Primary.
“Are you all right?” I asked. I knew he was an actor, but he looked so much like I thought Jesus must look that I wanted to help him as much as I could.
“I’m not used to wearing sandals,” he said, thanking me. “I have to go now. They’re waiting for me inside.”
“Have a good day,” I said as I watched him hurry inside.
“Did you see that actor?” I asked B. J. “I felt like I was helping Jesus.” B. J. smiled.
“Now you know my secret,” he said. “I always try to treat people as if they were Jesus Christ. Then it’s easy to help them, and I feel happy, too.”
That night, I thought a long time about what B. J. had said. Then I decided to get up early in the morning and shovel the sidewalks for my dad. He might wonder why I’m being so helpful, but now that B. J.’s secret is my secret, the idea makes perfect sense to me.

Some years ago I had an acquaintance who had allowed himself to become a compulsive user of alcohol. He drank before he had dinner, and he would have what he called a “bracer” before involving himself in major business decisions. During a routine physical examination one day, a doctor told him that, for the good of his health, he should break the drinking habit. When I asked him what he intended to do, he said, “That’s easy. I’ll just change doctors.”

As all of you are aware, last fall a terrible storm hit Central America. For six days and nights, Hurricane Mitch locked in over that area and particularly over Honduras. The winds blew ferociously, and the rains fell without letup. Rivers swelled and took with them houses that had been built along their banks. More than 200 bridges were washed out in Honduras, destroying means of travel. The soil from the highlands washed towards the sea in a deluge of filthy mud. Houses were filled to the tops of the windows. Yards and streets were filled. People fled in terror, leaving all behind them.
One of our bishops secured a big truck and went about gathering his people, taking them to higher ground. When the truck could no longer get through, he somehow secured a boat. He was looking after his flock.
I went down there to see what had happened and to give comfort, where possible. I beheld a miracle. I witnessed in operation the simple and marvelously effective organization of this Church.
Every member of this Church has a bishop or a branch president. I have only commendation for other relief efforts which came in from across the world. But I have unending admiration for the wonderful manner in which the Church operated. The bishops appealed to their stake presidents, who appealed to the Area Presidency, who appealed to headquarters here in Salt Lake City. Within hours great quantities of basic foodstuffs, medicine, and clothing were on their way from our storehouses.
A warehouse was rented in San Pedro Sula in the area of the greatest damage. It was the bishops who marshaled their people to work shifts in the warehouse putting into plastic bags enough food to take care of a family for a week, clothing to put on their backs, medicine to safeguard them against disease. Every bishop knew his own people. He, with his Relief Society president, knew their needs. These were not faceless strangers working as employees of government. They were friends, each a member of a ward family small enough that they knew one another’s needs. There was no argument, no greedy grasping for food and clothing. Everything was orderly. It was systematic. It was friendly. It was motivated by love and concern, and it was done quickly to meet an immediate need. It was the gospel at work in a quiet and magnificent manner.
The waters finally subsided, but mud was left in a thick and ugly coating on everything. Nothing became more valuable than shovels and wheelbarrows. And together, again under the direction of the bishops, the mud was cleaned from the houses.
We visited a meetinghouse on a Saturday. There were many people there, with a bishop, a loving father to his flock, giving direction. The pews, which had been floating in the water, were taken out and carefully cleaned. Mud was scraped from the walls and the floors. Then the mops came out and the polishing cloths, and before nightfall that Saturday evening, the building had been made ready for worship services on the Sabbath.
I stand in humble gratitude and respect and admiration for the bishops of this Church. In the most dire of circumstances, I watched them in La Lima, Honduras. I spoke with them, shook their hands, loved them. How thankful I am for these men who, without regard for their own comfort, give of their time, of their wisdom, of their inspiration in presiding over our wards throughout the world. They receive no compensation other than the love of their people. There is no rest for them on the Sabbath nor very much at other times. They are the ones closest to the people, best acquainted with their needs and circumstances.