Gospel Story Finder

Razafindravaonasolo’s father was called as the branch president. One day he met with me and encouraged me to prepare for a mission. I didn’t think I could serve, but he reassured me that I could. I accepted the call to serve in the Madagascar Antananarivo Mission. I am married now and I have two kids. I am grateful for my family, and I have had more experiences than I can share that have helped me know that this Church is true.
After joining the Church, Rakotomalala (right) served in the Madagascar Antananarivo Mission, and Razafindravaonasolo (left) served in the Democratic Republic of the Congo Kinshasa Mission.

Tom’s family had exercised faith in the face of illness before and had seen miracles as a result. Tom’s younger brother Ailama was sick some years earlier. Their father, Elisala, had a dream in which he was given specific directions on what to do to care for Ailama: find a wili-wili tree, remove some bark, and pound out the juice. Elisala did this and brought the juice to Ailama, who drank it and soon recovered. So Tom had seen how acting in faith can help overcome sickness.
During the 1918 influenza epidemic, Tom exercised faith as he worked hard to care for the people of the village. “Every morning I went from house to house to feed and clean the people and to find out who had died,” he said.
He fetched buckets of water from a spring and brought water to every house. He climbed coconut trees, picked coconuts, husked them, and opened them to collect the juice to bring it to the sick. He also killed all of the chickens in the village to make soup for each family.
The 12-year-old Tom Fanene helped nurse his village to health during a pandemic.
Illustration by James Madsen
During this pandemic, around one-fourth of all of the people in Samoa died of influenza. Some of the people in Tom’s village died as well. Tom helped dig graves and bury more than 20 of them, including his own father, Elisala.
But thanks to Tom’s hard work and loving care, many people in his village survived. He made a big difference to those people and to the building up of the Lord’s kingdom in Samoa. He was “laying the foundation of a great work.”
And in your own way, so are you.
You may not be called upon to do the kinds of things Tom did, but you are, in fact, exercising faith in various ways that will make a great difference to you, to others, and to the work of building God’s kingdom.
You’re setting an example for your family, friends, and others by showing virtue, patience, kindness, and love. You’re serving others. You’re engaging in scripture study and prayer. You’re sharing the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
During this past year, many of you have even been doing these things while enduring the effects of a pandemic. Maybe you haven’t fetched water and coconuts and nursed 400 people back to health, but you have brought people comfort, hope, joy, and peace in many other ways.
Your age matters less than your faith and your willingness to work and serve others. Examples from the past, such as Tom Fanene’s, can help you see that you are needed in laying the foundation of God’s great work.

A few years ago I was teaching an Old Testament Gospel Doctrine class. I had to be absent for a couple of Sundays and so I sought someone to substitute in my absence. I found a sister who was excited to teach the class until I told her that the two lessons she would teach would be the first two lessons from the writings of Isaiah. Her eyes glazed over and I thought she was going into cardiac arrest! She said, "You have to be kidding! I can scarcely understand Isaiah. How will I ever be able to teach those lessons?"

In no way do I consider myself an authority on the teachings of Isaiah. However, like you, I recognize the powerful feelings I receive when I read and study his sacred record. Although I cannot be certain that I always comprehend the full extent and continuing impact of his teachings, I bask in the warm glow of truth as the Spirit bears witness of its relevance.

President Eyring reinforced this message at BYU–Hawaii during a question-and-answer panel discussion.
A student referenced President Nelson’s statement “In coming days, it will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.”46 The student asked where they would need the direction of the Holy Ghost.
President Eyring asked me to respond, and I cited the importance of choosing a major, career planning, and where we live after graduation. I had answered this question in similar forms many times in other university settings, and I thought I had done a reasonable job in my response.
Then President Eyring pasued on the phrase “survive spiritually.” President Eyring proceeded to explain that we are living in a season of great confusion about God’s truths and that students would need the Holy Ghost so they would not be misled.47

Joseph Smith counseled all the members living in Missouri to gather to either Far West or Adam-ondi-Ahman for protection. However, Jacob Haun, who was the leader of the settlement of Haun’s Mill, didn’t want to leave his property. He counseled the others living there to stay; they would defend themselves if necessary.
On October 30, a mob of about 240 men approached Haun’s Mill with the intent of carrying out the governor’s extermination order. While the men in the settlement sought protection in the blacksmith shop, the women and children fled into the woods as the mob attacked. David Evans swung his hat at the mob and cried for peace, but the mob only shot at him. The mob also fired on the unarmed women and children.
Amanda Smith grabbed her two daughters and escaped across the millpond on a walkway. When the mob finally entered the blacksmith shop, seven-year-old Alma Smith saw them murder his father and brother. He himself was severely shot in the hip. His mother later found him, and through prayer and by following the instructions of the Spirit, he was healed. At least seventeen people were killed at Haun’s Mill and thirteen others were wounded.
Things were getting more tense in Far West also. The state militia took over the city. In November 1838, many of the Church leaders were arrested and taken to prison. It was at this time that Joseph Smith and other brethren were taken to Liberty Jail, where they spent four difficult months. While they were there, the rest of the Saints got ready to leave Missouri and move to Illinois. As they prepared to leave their homes, Amanda Smith and many others were harassed by the mobs.
But the Lord was watching over them. One day Amanda had gone into a cornfield to pray. As she was leaving it, a voice spoke to her, a voice as plain as any she had ever heard. It repeated a verse from a hymn: “The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose / I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; / That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, / I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!” (Hymns, 1985, no. 85.)
From that moment Amanda had no more fears. Like the other Saints who remained faithful and obedient, she knew that the Lord would watch over her.

President Thomas S. Monson tells of a Robert Blatchford who, 100 years ago “in his book God and My Neighbor, attacked with vigor accepted Christian beliefs, such as God, Christ, prayer, and immortality. He boldly asserted, ‘I claim to have proved everything I set out to prove so fully and decisively that no Christian, however great or able he may be, can answer my arguments or shake my case.’ He surrounded himself with a wall of skepticism. Then a surprising thing happened. His wall suddenly crumbled to dust. … Slowly he began to feel his way back to the faith he had scorned and ridiculed. What had caused this profound change in his outlook? His wife [had] died. With a broken heart, he went into the room where lay all that was mortal of her. He looked again at the face he loved so well. Coming out, he said to a friend: ‘It is she, and yet it is not she. Everything is changed. Something that was there before is taken away. She is not the same. What can be gone if it be not the soul?’”

The leaders at the Sandy Utah Hidden Valley Stake youth conference can’t hear themselves think, and as you might expect, it’s the youth making all the noise. So are the advisers doing anything to stop this racket? Hardly. Actually, they’re encouraging it.
Why? Because this is a construction site, and the young men and women are busier than a swarm of honeybees. They’re building a dairy and hay barn next to Brigham Young’s farmhouse at This Is the Place State Park in Salt Lake City, Utah, and they’re doing just about all of it themselves. They’re throwing up walls, laying down shingles, and much more, all while dressed in long pioneer clothing. It’s hot and the work is hard, but you won’t find anyone complaining here. They’re having too much fun.
The Hidden Valley youth decided to build the barn as both a service to the park and a way to kindle their own pioneer spirit.
“Everyone pulled together,” said Lance Banks, 18, a member of the stake youth council who helped plan the event. The whole stake got into the act. Materials and labor were donated by members who had the means or the right skills. “A lot of prayers were answered right there,” Lance says.
Today’s the big day for most of the physical work, but the youth have done a lot just to prepare for this event. First they dug the footings by hand, and then they helped assemble the structural frame. Now they’re hauling and cutting the lumber—which came from a 1904 railroad trestle that once spanned the Great Salt Lake—and using it to build the walls and a loft on each side. Just a little hammering, right?
Not exactly. Each of the nails being used is three inches long and thicker at the bottom than some nails are at the top. Not only that, but several are required to secure each board. They’ve been fashioned by a blacksmith to resemble nails used by the pioneers, and they’re making for some pretty sore muscles.
“It took a lot of strength,” admits Rob Hunt, 16. “I had to switch arms.”
After pounding for several minutes on the same nail, many of the young men and women are beginning to wonder how the pioneers ever got anything built. That’s where cooperation comes in.
“Teamwork is the most important thing here,” says Allison Berrett, 14, and she’s not joking. To finish driving some of the nails, quite a few of the young people are taking turns with the hammer, giving each other a break. Not only does the work go fast, but spirits are lifted as well, and several of them say that the hammering will be their most memorable part of the day.
With fatigue, heat, and constant noise all around, one might expect to see a slower pace as the day wears on. Not here. You’d be hard pressed to find someone willing to give up their post, even when it’s time to give someone else a turn.
“[The leaders] were telling us to get out of there because other people needed a chance to work,” says Kelly Peterson, 17, when her time was up. “I wanted to do more, but there were just too many people.”
It’s obvious that everyone wants to contribute, maybe because they’re beginning to realize the great pioneer legacy they’re becoming a part of. They’re grateful for what the pioneers gave them, and they’re learning to appreciate things the early Salt Lake settlers had to do without, like modern tools.
“It’s hard because you don’t get to use all the electric stuff you can, like a nail gun,” says Amanda Robinson, 16. “It teaches us how hard it was for the pioneers.”
“It makes you appreciate what you have,” says Robert Burton, 15.
Nate Smith, 16, sees another important lesson in these trials. “The sacrifices [the pioneers] made are things we can really turn to when we feel like we have it hard,” he says. “If they can do it, with the Lord’s help, why shouldn’t we?”
While they’re here, the youth are learning more about the pioneer lifestyle by touring Brigham Young’s home and visiting an authentic pioneer village. They’re also doing other small service projects, like weeding around the village, mowing Brigham Young’s lawn (tell that to your grandchildren), and tying quilts for a homeless shelter. Not many of the youth have ever tied a quilt before.
“It makes you feel like a real pioneer,” says 14-year-old Laura Campbell. “We’ve known about [quilting], but we just haven’t experienced it.” That seems to be the key: To fully appreciate what the pioneers went through, sometimes you have to be there.
“We’re pioneers ourselves,” says J. D. Price, 14, and he’s right. Never before has a group of nonprofessionals been allowed to do anything like this in the park, the place marking the spot where the first pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley. Whether or not others are invited in the future will depend on how everyone behaves today. No pressure, right?
Some of these youth are lucky enough to have pioneer heritage in their ancestry as well, and while it’s not necessary to gain an appreciation of pioneer history, it never hurts. Take Alicia Bruening, 18. She tells the story of how her great-great-great grandfather crossed the plains and helped build the great doors for the Salt Lake Temple. How does that make her feel?
“It’s really great, because one day when I get married, I’ll be so excited to go stand in front of those doors,” Alicia says. “It’s neat to see that my ancestry actually contributed to the temple. Part of me is in the temple.”
Back at the barn, the walls and the loft are nearly done, as young men and women continue to swarm around every corner of the building. The events of the day have given them a newfound appreciation for those who came before, and now they feel as if they’ve given something back.”
“It’s almost as if we’re rebuilding part of the past,” says Kelly Peterson. “Brigham Young walked around these grounds. He probably walked right where I was walking. He probably had a barn here at one time. We’re bringing it back to life.”
For these youth, this barn is a piece of their own history, a new legacy. “It’ll be cool to come back when you’re older and take your grandkids,” says Rosie Simmons. She and many others, including all of the stake Primary children, each signed their names to the back of one of the shingles adorning the roof. “It will be neat to go and say, ‘My name’s up on that,’” Rosie adds.
As the day winds to a close, many of the youth are taking the opportunity to step back and look at what they’ve added to the landscape here. Some are even drawing a comparison between barn and testimony construction.
“We’re starting out with the framework, and that’s the gospel,” says Abbey Daw, 15.
Her friend Rianna Berger, 14, continues the analogy. “The nails help strengthen your testimony,” she says. “A nail could be a talk that you heard, and a board could be something that someone said that really helped you.”
Put them all together and you’ve got a shelter to protect you from spiritual storms, just as a barn protects from physical elements. Building such a shelter is never easy, but that’s often what makes it worthwhile.
“You can’t do it unless it’s hard work,” Abbey says. “Hard work is the only way to gain a testimony.”
Now there’s something you can build on.

I’d like to begin by sharing the story of a great friend we met here in Hawaii. One day, not long after we arrived, David Nagaishi came to see me at the mission home. He asked for permission to have the missionaries teach him at his restaurant in Waikiki. His wife, Wendy, was serving as the Primary President in our home ward in Kahala, but he had never been interested in the Church – in fact, he was somewhat antagonistic. But somehow, the missionaries had made contact again, and this time, he was prepared to be taught, but he didn’t want Wendy to know! His request was a bit unusual, but we made the necessary arrangements, and the missionaries began teaching him in earnest.

In due time through his study and prayers, David gained a testimony and wanted to be baptized. The day came for his baptism. Everyone in the ward knew about it, everyone except Wendy! David was dressed in white and seated on the stand in the chapel. A very large congregation of ward members was secretly seated in the chapel too, but Wendy, with a little assistance from her counselor, was in a Primary “planning meeting” in another part of the building. Pretending to hear a commotion, her counselor suggested they go to the chapel to make sure everything was okay.

Now, you can imagine the scene! Wendy’s absolute surprise as she walked into a chapel full of ward members, and David sitting on the stand in baptismal clothing! In her shock (and to the delight of everyone else), she let out an audible, “He can’t be baptized. He hasn’t had the lessons and he hates the missionaries!” Well, David was baptized that day and began his faithful journey in the Church. A year or so later, David prepared to attend the temple and asked if I would be his escort. What a sacred privilege it was for me to accompany my friend to the temple! Today, he serves as the executive secretary in his ward, and he and Wendy have been sealed for eternity with their family. About a month ago, they took their son, Michael, to the MTC to begin his own mission to Japan. As you can guess, David no longer “hates” the missionaries!

That was just one of the special conversions we witnessed while serving here in Hawaii.

Eugène used to think all churches were pretty much the same. Then the missionaries came to his door and started teaching his family. Gradually he came to understand that the gospel has been restored, and that there’s a great role in it for young men. He was baptized and, when he came of age, ordained a deacon.

“Now, I’m the only Aaronic Priesthood holder in the entire city,” he says matter-of-factly. “There are Melchizedek Priesthood holders, and they help me. But when we have sacrament meeting, I pass the sacrament.”

Even if you’re nearing graduation and feel sure about the answers to those questions, it may be wise to think again. I say that from personal experience. As a senior in high school, I knew exactly the path I would take through college. My goal was to attend the Harvard Business School, just like my father. In answer to my questions about what that would require, he had informed me that the Harvard Business School admissions officers appreciate students with degrees in fields other than business, particularly science and engineering majors. That sounded good to me, because I love geology. For that I am indebted to Ricks College professors who taught me to appreciate the mountains and unique geologic features around Rexburg.

With this clear graduate school goal in mind, I declared geology as my major when I filled out my college application. Everything went according to plan. I enjoyed the geology classes and made rapid progress toward graduation. I also got a summer internship with a large oil company exploring the possibilities of geothermal energy. But I never went on any field trip that wasn’t required for a class, nor did I attempt to get to know my professors outside of the classroom. My grades were good, and I felt confident that the admissions officers at Harvard would be sufficiently impressed with me, notwithstanding my lack of practical experience or enthusiastically supportive faculty mentors.

In fact, I felt so confident that I didn’t apply to any other graduate school. I was thus completely unprepared to receive a “thin letter” from Harvard. For your future reference, acceptance letters often include not only the good news of application success, but also information and enticements designed to win your quick acceptance of the admission offer. These “thick letters” are fat and heavy. By contrast, a statement of rejection is relatively brief, making for a very thin letter. My Harvard thin letter, which weighed less than one ounce, crushed me, as it brought an end to a lifetime of dreaming.

In fairness, my thin letter encouraged me to reapply after gaining at least two years of full-time work experience, as nearly all successful Harvard Business School applicants do. But my devastation wasn’t just a matter of wanting to be admitted quickly. I seriously doubted my ability to get meaningful work experience. The price of oil had fallen by half during my time in college, on its way to falling by half again in the next two years. [2]

In other circumstances, I might have had the patience and optimism to take the Harvard counsel to get work experience and reapply. But experienced, graduate degree-holding professional geologists were being laid off in droves. The woeful joke at the time was that the best natural resource department in Denver, a leading energy hub, was also the shoe department at Sears, the Walmart of that time. Jobs in geology, especially for bachelor’s degree holders, were all but impossible to find.

Now, you may be wondering two things. One is how I could have been so foolish and unlucky in my educational plans. The other is why I am telling you this frightening story. The answer to the first question, about my foolishness and apparent bad luck, is that I can now look back and see that heaven was blessing me in spite of my vain ambitions and overconfidence. We’ll talk more about that later.

For now, let’s focus on the things you can learn from my scary story of bad college and career planning. In my defense, I did one important thing partly well. That thing was choosing a long-range goal to guide my choice of a college major. Rather than just picking a subject that I really liked, geology, I also picked it based on a post-graduation goal: getting into the Harvard Business School.

But I should have been looking past graduate school and on to the life’s work for which my degree would prepare me. I should have been making my best guess about what the life’s work would be. Was it to be a professor and academic administrator, like my father; a research scientist, like his father; or perhaps a real estate developer, like my maternal grandfather? Unfortunately, I wasn’t asking any of those questions.

Malcolm Tent was still a young man when he began putting rocks in his pockets. It started one day when his boss, Mr. Gump, got angry at him for something that wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t yell back at his boss, because he might get fired. In fact, there wasn’t anything he could do except be angry inside. “But,” he thought, “I’m not going to forget this. No way.”
On the way home from the bus stop that night, he thought to himself, “I’ve got to remember how angry I am. I don’t want to forget this in the morning.” Suddenly he had an idea. There was a small rock on the sidewalk in front of him. He picked it up and said softly to himself, “I’ll keep this rock in my pocket to remind me of how unfair Mr. Gump was.”
And that’s what he did. That night he put the rock on his dresser with his keys and his comb. The next morning, when he got dressed to go to work, into his pocket went the ugly gray rock.
All that day and the next, the heavy bulge in his pocket reminded him that he should be angry at Mr. Gump. Strangely, Mr. Gump seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. But not Malcolm Tent. Oh no. In fact, during the next two weeks, Mr. Gump made Malcolm angry several more times, and Malcolm decided he’d better get a rock for each time so he could keep better track of these things.
And so it was that Malcolm Tent’s trousers began to look baggy and strange. But at least he remembered not to forgive Mr. Gump or be friendly or anything like that.
Maybe if Malcolm had only collected rocks when he got angry at old Gump, this thing might have died out and been forgotten. But there was the taxi driver who drove right by and left Malcolm standing in the rain. Into his pocket went a shiny, rain-slick pebble from the gutter. (Of course, Malcolm had no idea of the taxi driver’s name, but it didn’t matter.) Then there was the grocery clerk who short-changed him. And the newspaper delivery boy who threw his paper into the lawn sprinkler. And the neighbor whose dog barked late at night. And … well, Malcolm discovered that there were all kinds of people and things in the world that can bother you.
Speaking of discoveries, Malcolm also discovered that when all of your pockets are full of rocks, a plain old belt won’t hold up your pants. (He discovered that fact while his arms were full of grocery sacks.) So he made himself a sturdy pair of leather suspenders to help hold up his pants.
But soon the time came when he didn’t have enough pockets in his pants, so he had to wear a jacket everywhere he went—the kind of jacket with lots of pockets. And it wasn’t long before the jacket looked as funny as his trousers. And smelled just as dusty. And got even heavier because it had more pockets.
Anyone else might have given up at this point, but not Malcolm. He bought one of those big sturdy briefcases like salesmen use. After all, when you start to look for them, there are all kinds of things in life that can bother you. And when you are always tired from lugging so many rocks around, you get angry even easier.
Years went by, and Malcolm’s collection of reminder rocks spilled out of his pockets and briefcase and all over his house. He had rocks on the kitchen sink, and in his closets, and all over the floors. A few times he even put a rock in his bed so he could remember to be angry during the night. Let’s face it. Malcolm had become a strange, unpleasant man. And most people avoided him when they could, which made him even touchier. Rocks are not very good company. They are hard and dusty, and in the winter they are very cold.
Now, Malcolm might have gone on to become a mean old man completely buried in rocks. But one day he received a phone call from a geology professor at the university. Dr. Igneous had heard of Malcolm’s large rock collection (who hadn’t?), and he wanted to bring his geology class on a field trip to see it.
“Well,” thought Malcolm, “at last here is someone who appreciates my rocks. Wait until they see all of these reminders of how often people have wronged me.” An appointment was made for the next Saturday, and Malcolm spent the next few evenings dusting and arranging.
At last Saturday came, and at two o’clock in the afternoon the doorbell rang. There, on the porch, stood Professor Igneous and seven of his best students, all dressed in their best field-trip outdoor clothing. Several had rock hammers dangling from their belts, and one or two carried cameras. And everyone carried a notebook and pencil. Professor Igneous himself looked rather ordinary. But he had a ready smile. And his face was deeply tanned from spending years out of doors. As a matter of fact, there was something about his eyes, too. They looked deep and dark, but they had a sparkle that said he enjoyed life. And when he looked at you, it was the same look he gave mountains and rock formations—as though he were trying to peer inside. This was a scientist who liked people at least as much as he liked rocks.
As the professor and students stepped into the rock-filled living room, Malcolm expected to hear oohs and aahs. You know, like you hear at a fireworks show. Instead, there was an uncomfortable silence. The group just stood there looking around, nudging a few of the rocks with their toes. Then the students looked at their professor, waiting for him to say something. After all, this was not the collection of beautiful gems and minerals they had expected. These were ordinary hunks of limestone and sandstone and quartzite. Why, there were even chunks of broken asphalt and concrete!
Finally, Professor Igneous spoke: “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your collection to us, Mr. Tent. I can honestly say we’ve never seen another collection quite like it.” In the background, his students nodded in agreement.
“Well,” Malcolm began nervously, “I, uh, well … that is …” It had been a long time since he had said much of anything to anyone.
Professor Igneous could see how nervous Malcolm was. The poor man kept swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down. (Some of the students thought he was trying to swallow one of his rocks.)
Trying to help, the professor said, “Why not begin by telling us why you chose these rocks.” He picked up an ordinary gray rock that looked like most of the others. “Why did you choose this particular piece of limestone for your collection?”
“Oh, is that what it is?” Well, I think that’s the one I picked up when the laundry didn’t have my shirts ready on time. Wait! No, I think that’s for the time my favorite TV show got canceled. Or was it the time I ran inside to answer the phone, and the caller had the wrong number? Or …” Here he paused to search his memory. There were so many rocks! And they were so much alike—gray, hard, cold, dusty. Suddenly, Malcolm realized that that was all Professor Igneous and his students could see. To everyone else these were just plain old everyday rocks. Malcolm had to explain, to make them see.
“There’s more to these rocks than you might think. Every one of these rocks represents a time somebody made me mad or hurt my feelings. I picked up these rocks as reminders.”
Now the professor and his students were really amazed. They all began to speak at once: “I never heard of such a thing.” “How long have you been doing this?” “Can I take a picture of you with your rocks?” “Some field trip!”
Professor Igneous spoke again, and everyone became quiet. “Well, Mr. Tent,” he began slowly, “I must admit you’re the first person I ever met who collected rocks for that reason.” He paused and looked around. “You’ve been very kind to invite us into your home. And we don’t want to take up too much of your time. But do you suppose that while we are here we might see your other collection?”
A blank look came over Malcolm’s face. “I don’t have any other collection.”
“Oh, I see. I just thought you might have collected something to remind you of the nice things people have done and said. But, well, never mind. Perhaps we ought to be going now. Thank you so much for allowing us to come into your home. I think my students have learned something important.”
He gathered his students around him, and they moved toward the door. Then, turning to Malcolm once more the professor said, “We still have some time left this afternoon. Could you perhaps direct us to some of the other people with similar collections?”
Once more Malcolm was caught off balance. “I don’t know of any other collections like mine.”
“Oh. I just thought that perhaps some of the people you know would have collected something when you … I mean … if you ever … uh … annoyed them.” Then, quickly, he added, “Yes, well, good-bye, and thanks again.”
Without waiting, the professor and his students turned and marched off down the sidewalk.
Long after they were gone, Malcolm stood there, looking just like one of his rocks—cold and gray and very still. Within him, the professor’s words echoed. Around him, the house was silent. Too silent. He suddenly realized how pleasant the students’ friendly chatter had been. How long since he had had a friendly talk with anyone? Come to think of it, did he even have any friends anymore?
Then, before he could stop it, the thought came into his mind: “I’m becoming just like my rocks.” As Malcolm sat alone in the dark, he finally realized what unpleasant companions rocks are. And how unpleasant he … Well, some thoughts are hard enough to think without actually saying them.
For several days, for hours at a time, Malcolm sat still as a rock, thinking rock-hard thoughts. You might have thought he had finally become petrified. But deep inside him, something was waking up and beginning to grow, like a seed in the spring soil.
If you think it’s hard to find a home for kittens or gerbils or such, you should try finding someone who wants a bunch of very ordinary, dusty, gray rocks. In fact, just try gathering them up when they are scattered all over. Malcolm tried to hire cleaning ladies. They all told him the same thing: “I don’t do windows, and I don’t pick up rocks!” A “Free Rocks” sign in his window brought no results. Finally he realized that this was something he would have to do himself.
The neighbors still talk about the time Malcolm backed a rented trailer up to his front porch, and about the tremendous cloud of dust that rose as the rocks flew out into the trailer. They also talk about how much better Malcolm looks, how his clothes fit so much better (has he lost weight?), and how he actually smiles now.
Malcolm’s neighbors also point with pride to his attractive yard, with trees and flowers and bushes planted everywhere. They don’t have any explanation for his sudden interest in gardening. But one neighbor, Mrs. Kratz, did notice that after she had taken a piece of cake to him, Malcolm went out to the flower bed and planted a single seed.

I can remember many occasions when my perception has crumbled and additional knowledge has wiped away judgment. During my college years I looked at a fellow student, whom I will call Roy, in amazement. Why was he so conceited? His need to be recognized and praised was never ending. Every conversation he had with anyone always centered on his recent achievements and the projects he was now involved in that would ensure his fame. He was underappreciated and let everyone know it. His name became a joke. We came to the conclusion that he was an obnoxious egomaniac who sounded his own praise from morning until night.
One day I learned that one of my friends knew his family. She began to tell me some things. “Roy’s father was an alcoholic. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes. He made their life just miserable. He was a crazy man. Once, when Roy was about five, he walked in the kitchen and saw his father attempting to kill his mother. It was a terrible scene and Roy was there to watch it all.”
The impact of this information on my conscience was instant. All my perceptions, all my judgment shattered, and I saw past the facade into the reality. I saw past the obnoxious adult to the traumatized little boy that I wanted to take in my arms and comfort. I never looked at Roy the same again. I knew his secret, one of his secrets, and I understood.

Lesson two is that we can endure challenges with patience. I worked hard during my undergraduate career to prepare for admission to graduate school. I kept my grades up, worked on research projects with professors, took a GRE prep class, and, like all of you, contributed in campus and community service projects. I carefully selected the graduate schools I would apply to and ensured my applications were complete and submitted early.

After months of waiting for each school to notify me of its admissions decision, I received a rejection letter, then another, and then another until every graduate school had respectfully denied me admission. With help and advice from professors in my department, I submitted a late application to one more graduate school. I was promptly admitted, and, from my present perspective, I am confident that I am going where I am supposed to go.

When I was a boy, childhood diseases appeared regularly in every community. When someone had chicken pox or measles or mumps, the health officer would visit the home and place a quarantine sign on the porch or in the window to warn everyone to stay away. In a large family like ours, those diseases would visit by relay, one child getting it from another, so the sign might stay up for weeks.
We could not blockade ourselves inside our homes or stay hidden away to avoid those terrible contagions. We had to go to school, to employment, to church—to life!
Two of my sisters were stricken with very severe cases of measles. At first they seemed to recover. A few weeks later, Mother glanced out of the window and saw Adele, the younger of the two, leaning against a swing. She was faint and weak with a fever. It was rheumatic fever! It came as a complication from measles. The other sister also had the fever.
There was little that could be done. In spite of all of the prayers of my parents, Adele died. She was eight years old.
While Nona, two years older, recovered, she had fragile health for most of her life.
Nona recovered from measles and rheumatic fever. She lived long enough to benefit from open-heart surgery and enjoyed years of much improved health. Others spoke of her newly acquired energy. She said, “I have a Cadillac engine in a Model T frame.”
As an innocent child, my sister Adele’s life was cruelly interrupted by disease and suffering. She and all the others so taken continue the work of the Lord beyond the veil. She will not be denied anything essential for her eternal progression.

In that company was a Mrs. Jackson. She said:
“About nine o’clock I retired. Bedding had become very scarce so I did not disrobe. I slept until, as it appeared to me, about midnight. I was extremely cold. The weather was bitter. I listened to hear if my husband breathed, he lay so still. I could not hear him. I became alarmed. I put my hand on his body, when to my horror I discovered that my worst fears were confirmed. My husband was dead. I called for help to the other inmates of the tent. They could render me no aid; and there was no alternative but to remain alone by the side of the corpse till morning. Oh, how the dreary hours drew their tedious length along. When daylight came, some of the male part of the company prepared the body for burial. And oh, such a burial and funeral service. They did not remove his clothing—he had but little. They wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in a pile with thirteen others who had died, and then covered him up with snow. The ground was frozen so hard that they could not dig a grave. He was left there to sleep in peace until the trump of God shall sound, and the dead in Christ shall awake and come forth in the morning of the first resurrection. …
“A few days after the death of my husband … the male members of the company had become reduced in number by death and those who remained were so weak and emaciated by sickness, that on reaching the camping place at night, there were not sufficient men with strength enough to raise the poles and pitch the tents. The result was that we camped out with nothing but the vault of Heaven for a roof and the stars for companions. The snow lay several inches deep upon the ground. The night was bitterly cold. I sat down on a rock with one child in my lap and one on each side of me. In that condition I remained until morning.”3

Reflecting on her blessings helps Stefanie Egly of Hesse, Germany, trust in Heavenly Father’s plan and in His timeline.
Stefanie began writing down her blessings after a relationship with a good friend didn’t work out. “Though we hadn’t been dating, I had always hoped our relationship would develop into something more. My hope was destroyed when he told me he had a girlfriend.”
Heartbroken, Stefanie found comfort after reading an article on gratitude in the Liahona. She felt impressed to write down how she had been blessed—specifically how being single had been a blessing.
Her list helped her recognize that just because she hadn’t had the opportunity to get married, it did not mean she had been denied blessings. Stefanie recognizes that the Lord has blessed her with the chance to become an elementary school teacher and work with children. She has traveled, attended general conference, and participated as a counselor in the Especially for Youth program. Some of her dearest friendships developed through young single adult conferences that she has attended.
But the biggest blessing, she says, was being able to spend time with her grandmother shortly before she passed away, something that her siblings and cousins were not able to do because they lived far away or had families to care for.
Five years have passed since Stefanie started documenting her blessings. She still waits for the time when she will have the opportunity to marry in the temple. She says, “I don’t know when I will meet my eternal companion, but I trust the time will come. Until then, I know I will continue to have experiences that will help me learn and grow.” Heavenly Father has blessed her immensely, and she knows He will continue to do so if she is faithful.

We are surrounded by many who have taught us by example the principles of faith, obedience, and sacrifice. In the Lectures on Faith we are taught, “The faith necessary unto the enjoyment of life and salvation never could be obtained without the sacrifice of all earthly things.”12

My grandfather J. Leo Seely received a mission call in 1914 to serve the Lord in Ireland. He left his wife and little children for two years. The depth of his sacrifice has become clear to us as we have read their letters. Upon his return he grabbed my grandmother in an embrace, and his little daughter Ina, who hadn’t seen her father for years, raced out to chastise this unfamiliar man, shouting, “You naughty man, leave my mother alone!”

Because of the power of this man’s example and that of my noble grandmother, my father served a mission, and then over fifty of his grandchildren and now his great-grandchildren have gone forth to serve the Lord in missions that cover the world. Great-Great-Grandfather Bramall crossed the plains seven times and served five missions to England. And Great-Grandmother Sumsion began a great tradition of sister missionary service followed by her daughter, her granddaughters, and now her great-granddaughters. As we watch our children—and as you watch your friends and families—open mission calls, we see the image of God in a person who is willing to follow in the footsteps of the Savior to sacrifice for the salvation of His children. They have the faith and the courage to go wherever the Lord calls them.

On Wednesday afternoons I have a very special job. I bag fifteen newspapers in plastic bags, load them into my red wagon, then go up the street to deliver newspapers and to check on my neighbors.
My first stop is always the Baxters’ house. Every spring a robin builds a nest in the tree by their front door. After the eggs have hatched, I always carefully lay the newspaper on their front steps so that I don’t scare the baby birds.
The next house is Mrs. Kirkham’s. She loves flowers. When I leave her paper, I like to count and see how many tulips have bloomed. One summer she gave me a pink rose to take home to my mother. I carried it straight home so that it wouldn’t get squashed in the wagon.
The Statlers, who live up the block, are gone most of the summer, visiting their grandchildren. I don’t deliver a paper when they’re gone, but once I had to chase a stray cat away from their birdbath.
When it’s really hot, Peg Jackson and her baby, Ryan, wait for me with a glass of ice-cold lemonade. I know I’m half done with my route when I get to their house, so I sit in the shade on their front porch to rest for a minute.
At the end of the street, I cross carefully over to the house with the white picket fence. Mr. Weber lives there. He’s pretty old, but he usually shuffles out to the sidewalk when he sees me coming. Sometimes he “trades” me something for the newspaper. Once he gave me a sackful of zucchini from his garden. Mom made it into bread, and I took a loaf back to him. He said that that was a good deal.
My next favorite place is the Morris’s big house. Mrs. Morris is an art teacher, and in October they have fantastic jack-o’-lanterns on their front steps. Sometimes they have scary monster faces or scenes from fairy tales carved into them. They’re amazing!
There’s a small creek in the trees by the Changs’ house. When the water starts getting ice on the edges, I know that soon I’ll be using my sled instead of my red wagon to haul papers. When the creek is frozen solid, the Changs let me pull my sled right across it so that I can get out of the cold quicker.
When I get home, I always have a treat. Do you know what I like best when I’m cold? Hot chocolate. First it warms my hands and my face, and then it warms me inside.
After paying my tithing, most of the money I earn for delivering papers goes into my missionary savings fund. Mom says that my paper route is preparing me to be a missionary in other ways, too. I’m learning to be a good walker in all kinds of weather, and I’m learning to really care about people and to serve them. I think that’s a pretty good deal for Wednesday afternoons. Don’t you?

My father died when I was 8 years old leaving my mother a single parent of seven children at the age of 40. She certainly went through periods of sadness and heartache, see missed my father very much, but she "got out of the wagon" so to speak and went to work. She started school and graduated from Ricks College. With her oldest two sons and on a modest income from her job at Ricks College, she paid off the debt on my grandparent's farm where she lived a happy life despite less than ideal circumstances.

My daughter-in-law’s mother, Susan, was a wonderful seamstress. President Kimball lived in their ward. One Sunday, Susan noticed that he had a new suit. Her father had recently returned from a trip to New York and had brought her some exquisite silk fabric. Susan thought that fabric would make a handsome tie to go with President Kimball’s new suit. So on Monday she made the tie. She wrapped it in tissue paper and walked up the block to President Kimball’s home.
On her way to the front door, she suddenly stopped and thought, “Who am I to make a tie for the prophet? He probably has plenty of them.” Deciding she had made a mistake, she turned to leave.
Just then Sister Kimball opened the front door and said, “Oh, Susan!”
Stumbling all over herself, Susan said, “I saw President Kimball in his new suit on Sunday. Dad just brought me some silk from New York . . . and so I made him a tie.”
Before Susan could continue, Sister Kimball stopped her, took hold of her shoulders, and said: “Susan, never suppress a generous thought.”
Susan didn’t have an assignment to make that tie. She wasn’t hired to do so. Despite feeling a bit hesitant, she did it because it felt right. Susan had a quiet sense of mission to serve others. I was also the beneficiary of such service. Her service went beyond any calling because it lasted throughout her life. Never suppressing a generous thought became a part of her personal ministry.