Gospel Story Finder

Like Carolina, 16-year-old Katarina Echaniz quickly made friends after being introduced to the Church by a ward member. Through the missionary discussions and her friends’ example, she also quickly gained a testimony. Shortly after her baptism, she was called to the Mia Maid presidency. “I felt responsible because there were girls depending on me to do my calling,” she says. “I wanted to do everything well.” Katarina says the assignment has helped keep her strong in the gospel.

Recently Sister Gong and I saw covenant belonging at its tender best in a hospital room. A young father desperately needed a kidney transplant. His family had wept, fasted, and prayed for him to receive a kidney. When news came that a life-saving kidney had just become available, his wife quietly said, “I hope the other family is OK.” To belong by covenant is, in the words of the Apostle Paul, “that I may be comforted together with you by the mutual faith both of you and me.”13

That’s not bad for a young woman who’s been a member of the Church for a little over one year.

“Before I met the missionaries, I had seen them but I didn’t know the nature of what they were preaching. Then one autumn day, two of them knocked at my door.

“We let them in and listened to them. After they left, I read the Book of Mormon and prayed. The more I read the happier and more interested I felt. I waited and waited. They hadn’t said when they might return.

“By the time they came back, I had many, many questions. I listened to everything they taught. From then on, I prayed daily, whenever and wherever it was necessary. I read the scriptures continually. Eventually I gained a strong belief in the Church and I was baptized on October 9. Afterward, I was able to learn more and more from teachers in Sunday School and Young Women and from the example of many members. I have become totally active in the Church.

“Since I joined, I haven’t had any pessimistic thoughts at all. Any unhappy feeling can’t last five minutes in me. Besides, by observing the commandments, I have avoided going astray or learning bad habits. My life has become more solid. I have gained more knowledge.

“My mother is a Buddhist, and it is hard for her to think of changing her traditions. But she does not object to my belief in the Church. I hope that by the time I become old enough to think about leaving on a full-time mission, she will have joined the Church. I don’t often get a chance to talk at length with my father, because he is a very busy man, a newspaper distribution manager. He is also remodeling our apartment, which takes up his time after work. But I hope that he also will someday find the gospel and that my younger brothers and sisters will, too.” (Mei Ling is the oldest of five children.)

Long ago in Sweden there lived a glove maker named Anna Cecilia who took great pride in her fine stitching and embroidered delicate designs on gloves made of soft leather cuffed with fur.
Among Anna’s customers was Rasmus, a young shoemaker who brought the tops of his fine shoes for her to embroider. One day, along with shoe tops, he left some books with Anna that told about Joseph Smith, a new prophet through whom the ancient gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored. As she read the books, an assurance came into her heart that they were true. A short while later she was baptized by the young shoemaker in the cold waters of the Ore Sund, a strait in the Baltic Sea between Sweden and Denmark.

I was not feeling the Christmas spirit. It was December of my senior year in high school, and college applications and my final Laurel project loomed before me. I hoped to find a volunteer opportunity that would flesh out my college applications and double as my Laurel project. Luckily my student council adviser asked my friend Jessica and me if we would organize a school toy drive for a local charity.
I delegated most of the work to the project committee. I had them create a bulletin board featuring a large thermometer that indicated the number of toys donated. We thought that was enough advertising, and we spent each lunch period collecting donations. Students donated few toys, however, and the thermometer remained low.
Strangely, our adviser began setting aside some toys. When Jessica and I asked what she planned to do with them, she told us that a teacher at the school had recently been diagnosed with cancer. After struggling to teach while going through treatment, he had decided to take a leave from work. With the holidays approaching and medical bills piling up, his family wouldn’t have much of a Christmas. Our adviser suggested that we wrap the set-aside presents for them.
My heart was touched. I had been looking at my service project as a means to serve only myself, not others. I decided to triple our goal for donated toys and to start a monetary collection for the teacher and his family.
Jessica and I visited classrooms and championed our cause. The response was enormous. Teachers, staff, and students gave toys and money to help the family. We soon surpassed our toy goal, which amazed the charity. We also collected more than $1,000 for the family.
As we carefully wrapped the gifts we had collected and purchased, I realized that the testimony of service I was receiving was just as great as the gifts we were giving. I can’t express the thrill I felt as we secretly watched the family discover the gifts we had anonymously left on their porch.
A few months later, Jessica and I were asked to teach a seminar on service projects. We explained what we had done without mentioning the teacher’s name. A girl raised her hand and stood. Tears flowed as she spoke. The teacher was her uncle, and she described how much our service had meant to him. She said it was an answer to his prayers.
What a joy it was that holiday season to come together in heartfelt service and know we had made a difference.

As a teenager, I had a rebellious streak a mile wide, and I acted in ways that were contrary to how I was raised. I began drinking alcohol when I was 13, and by my senior year of high school, I drank every weekend.
I attended church on occasion to reduce confrontations with my parents, but I would sleep through sacrament meeting and then head to the beach before Sunday School. To say my parents were unhappy with my behavior would be an understatement. To their credit, they respected my agency while continuing to encourage me to live the gospel. Still, I had no intention of staying active in the Church, and I certainly didn’t see a mission in my future.
After high school, I attended a community college and continued my rebellious ways. But late one night, I remember lying on my couch wondering about my future. What type of girl would I marry? If I turned my back on the Lord, would I ever find my way back? As important as these decisions were, I wasn’t motivated to change.
A short time later, I attended a friend’s backyard party with alcohol and a blazing bonfire. After joking around with my buddies for a while, I stepped away for a moment and closed my eyes.
When I opened my eyes again, I had a moment of clarity. I watched my friends acting foolishly and no longer saw myself belonging to that group. I left and decided to stop drinking and going to parties. That meant I would need to change my group of friends, which was not easy. But I did it.
Those decisions have blessed my life. I eventually served a mission and have fulfilled many callings. Most importantly, I married a wonderful woman in the temple. This has led to the choicest blessings of my life.
I recently read about the conversion of Alma and the sons of Mosiah (see Mosiah 27) and how they experienced a mighty change of heart (see Alma 5:12–14), brought about in part by the faithful prayers of Alma’s father. Then I thought of my parents and realized, over 30 years later, that my sobering experience at that party was a direct result of their prayers.

Mateo looked at the math problem on the board and quickly wrote it down in his notebook. Math was his favorite subject, so he really wanted to pay attention. But he could barely hear what Mrs. Santos was saying because his friend Daniel was talking.
“Shh! Daniel, I can’t hear!” Mateo whispered. But Daniel kept talking. Finally Mrs. Santos heard him.
“Daniel, you’re interrupting again,” Mrs. Santos said. “You’ve already had a warning. Now you need to give me a ticket.”
Daniel slowly reached into his desk and handed her a red ticket. His shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the floor. Mrs. Santos gave tickets to students who behaved well and followed directions. The students wrote their names on the tickets and put them in a jar each day. But you had to give a ticket back if you misbehaved. Every Friday, Mrs. Santos pulled a ticket out of the jar, and the winner got to choose a prize from the class treasure chest! Daniel had to give a lot of tickets back for talking, so his name wasn’t drawn very often. Mateo felt bad that Daniel was losing another ticket.
At recess Mateo ran out to the field to play football. He saw Daniel standing alone by the swings. He could tell Daniel was crying. Mateo wanted to help him feel better.
“Do you want to play football?” Mateo asked.
Daniel didn’t say anything. Mateo tried to talk to him more, but Daniel just turned away.
“Well, I’ll be at the football field if you change your mind.”
Mateo went to play with his other friends, but he kept thinking about Daniel. Mateo was turning eight and was going to be baptized soon. He wanted to be like Jesus and be a good friend. Was there something he could do to help Daniel not get in trouble?
The next day, the class was reading a story in small groups. But instead of reading, Daniel was tossing his book high into the air.
Mateo tried to stop him. “Daniel, we need to read the book, not play with it.”
Daniel tossed the book again. Mrs. Santos saw it almost hit the ceiling. She walked over to Daniel and held out her hand for a ticket. Daniel reached into his desk. Panic crossed his face as he kept searching.
“Oh no! He must be out of tickets!” Mateo thought. No tickets meant Daniel would have to stay inside for recess. Mateo’s mind started racing. What could he do? Then he had a good thought.
“Daniel,” Mrs. Santos said, “if you don’t have a ticket for me, then—”
Mateo took a deep breath. “May I pay for him, Mrs. Santos?” he asked.
The class went quiet. No one had ever asked her that before. Mateo wasn’t sure what she would say.
Mrs. Santos looked surprised. Then she smiled. “You’re a very good friend. Yes, you may pay Daniel’s ticket for him.” Mateo handed Mrs. Santos one of his tickets.
“Thanks, Mateo,” said Daniel.
“Sure!” said Mateo. “Do you want to read together now?”
Daniel nodded and picked up his book.
As Daniel started reading, Mateo felt warm and happy inside. That good idea had come from the Holy Ghost! Mateo knew that Jesus had wanted him to help Daniel—because He loves Daniel. And Mateo felt Jesus’s love too!

I was perplexed. Who was this active French family, and why was the mother crediting me with being involved in her conversion? They were not among the individuals or families I remembered teaching or seeing baptized in France. With dim hopes, I consulted the little diary in which I had written a few sentences at the end of each day. Among my entries during the summer of 1964, I finally found mention of the Desmurs.
“July 8. Made return visits and gave good first lesson to Mme. Desmurs in Grand Chene.
“July 9. Gave first four points to M. Desmurs—a challenging man.
That entry stirred my memory. I could remember no faces but vaguely remembered the house. My new companion did not speak any French, and it had been challenging to teach alone. I had covered only four out of twelve points of the lesson, and the husband had challenged every statement I made. I recalled walking home, trying to explain to a discouraged companion that not everyone who asks us back to teach them is ready to accept our message.
“July 21. Did six hours of tracting. Met with the Desmurs family. She is sweet and believing. He is very stubborn.
“July 26. Missionary program at American Branch. Visited inactive family … and the Desmurs.
“July 29. Second lesson with Desmurs. We’re ready to give up.”
Frequently missionaries meet a family where one member is receptive, yet the resistance of others is such that there is no choice but to move on to those who are ready to accept the baptism challenge. So it was with the Desmurs.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”
As I personally met with this great man, I asked him to tell me what he remembered about his boyhood. Some of the childhood experiences he related were humorous.
“My brother Bud and I had a lot of fun as children. He liked to tease and play jokes on me. One day we chased a weasel down a hole. We used a shovel and tried to dig him out, but with no luck. Bud told me that if I put my hand down the hole, maybe I could grab the animal and pull it out. I believed him, and thrust my hand as far down the hole as I could. But the weasel bit my finger so hard that it almost took the end of it off. After that I decided to be a little more careful whenever Bud told me to do something.
“My brother pestered me with jokes all through our childhood. I did get back at him once, though. I remember we were sleeping in the basement of a barn at the time. Bud had been reading a book about ghosts and ghost stories. One day I got the idea to ask my cousin to put an old sheet over himself and hide down in the basement of the barn until Bud came home. I then hid outside and watched and waited. Sure enough, Bud came along and went in through the barn door and started down the basement. When he saw my cousin, he came screaming out of the barn, running as fast as he could. It was a long time after that before Bud would sleep down there again.”

God expresses his love for us by providing the guidance we need to progress and reach our potential. Perhaps a simple story will illustrate this point. Recently, a young man purchased a used computer but could not get it to work properly. Soon he became discouraged. His temper grew short and he threatened the inanimate object with painful destruction unless its performance improved. A wise father intervened and took his son to a local vendor, where they obtained an instruction manual. After all, who would know more about a complex computer than the person or company that created it? Who would know most about its capacity and potential? Who would better know the safeguards required to avoid damaging or ruining this fine instrument? Soon the boy enjoyed the full potential of his computer by working within the guidelines given in the instruction book provided by its creator.

Andrea looked out the window into the late-winter afternoon. It had stopped snowing, leaving another inch of white powdery stuff dusting the sidewalks and driveway. She knew that it was cold—it had been all week. Her homework was finally finished, and she reached for her new library book.
“Andrea,” her mother called, “Would you please sweep the snow off the driveway and sidewalks before it gets dark? I have to get dinner ready, or Daddy won’t have time to eat before he has to leave again for his meetings at the church. He’ll be home in a little over an hour.”
Andrea sighed as she set the book on her nightstand. She’d been looking forward to reading it all day, and it seemed like she’d only just warmed up from walking home from the bus stop. It didn’t seem fair that she was always cleaning off the walks, but she knew how tired Mom was with the new baby, and how busy Dad was since he had been called to be a counselor in the bishopric.
“I’m coming,” she called as she pulled on her snowsuit and boots. She found a dry hat and gloves and went out through the garage, picking up the old broom her mom kept there.
At least it didn’t snow as much today as it did yesterday, she thought, remembering how long it had taken her to shovel the eight inches of heavy, wet snow off the driveway the day before. Her fingers had felt like ice cubes by the time she was finished.
It was almost fun sweeping the snow today. It was light and fluffy, and it looked like the world had been sprinkled with powdered sugar—just like her mother’s brownies. Before she knew it, the driveway and walk in front of the house were cleared. But Mrs. Walker’s sidewalks next door were still covered with snow, so Andrea kept on sweeping. The widow’s arthritis would keep her from doing the job herself, and Andrea’s dad wouldn’t have time to do it. Besides, he’d shoveled Mrs. Walker’s snow last night before family home evening. She had just finished sweeping the sloping sidewalk, when she saw Kaitlyn come out of her house on the corner and start sweeping her own sidewalk.
Kaitlyn had moved into the neighborhood the past weekend. Andrea had met her at the bus stop, but they were in different grades, so Andrea hadn’t really had much chance to get to know her yet. Andrea had been praying for a long time that a member of the Church would move into the neighborhood—sometimes it was really hard being the only Latter-day Saint at school. She did have lots of friends, but her closest friends were her friends at Primary, and she usually only saw them on Sundays or at branch activities.
Kaitlyn wasn’t a member of the Church, but Andrea called out anyway, “Hey, Kaitlyn. Do you want some help with your snow?” In less than a minute she was down at Kaitlyn’s house, sweeping. Before long, that was clear, too.
“We sure do make a good team, Andrea,” Kaitlyn said. “See how good it looks! Why haven’t the other people swept their walks yet?”
“Almost everyone in the neighborhood works in the city and won’t be home until after dark. Nobody else on our block has kids. Remember?—we’re the only ones at our bus stop.”
“Oh, that’s right. Hey—let’s see how many walks we can clean before it gets dark. Do you think we can make it all the way down the block?”
“I don’t know,” Andrea answered, “but let’s try.”
The two girls hurried down the street, one sweeping to the left, and the other to the right, the light snow flying off the walks and driveways. The orange-red sun peeked out from behind the clouds as it sank toward the mountain across the lake. Soon the Labascos’ driveway was cleared, then Mr. Zadlock’s was done. Mrs. Fischer’s was next, and then the Romanos’.
Mrs. Keem drove in just as they were finishing her driveway. “Why, thank you, girls! How thoughtful you are. Would you like to come in for some cocoa?”
“Not today, thank you,” Kaitlyn said. “We still have more work to do.” The girls waved good-bye, then swept on down the street.
“We’re more than halfway done!” exclaimed Andrea as they began Dr. Randazzo’s walk, on the other side of the street. The snow was literally flying off the walks and driveways of the Changs, the Petrenkos, Miss Smith, the Porters, the Daniels. The sun was sinking behind the hill as they started on the Kelshaws’, the last house on the block. Just as they finished, Andrea’s dad drove down the street.
“We did it!” shouted Kaitlyn. “What a team!”
“That was so much fun,” laughed Andrea. “But now I’m cold and starved. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kaitlyn’s going to be a great friend, Andrea thought as she walked into the kitchen fragrant with fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Maybe she’ll even come to Primary with me if I ask her to. I think the quarterly activity is coming up soon. …

Twenty-two-year-old Caroline Tippets sat in the congregation listening to her brother Alvah Tippets address the branch in Lewis, New York, USA, over which he presided. As with her fellow branch members, she had come to this meeting in September 1834 in fasting and prayer to hear an important message from Alvah. He read from a revelation that the Prophet Joseph Smith had received in December 1833 about how the Saints could redeem land lost when Church members were expelled from Jackson County, Missouri, a few months earlier:
“Let all the churches gather together all their moneys; let these things be done in their time, but not in haste; and observe to have all things prepared before you.
“And let honorable men be appointed, even wise men, and send them to purchase these lands.
“And the churches in the eastern countries, when they are built up, if they will hearken unto this counsel they may buy lands and gather together upon them; and in this way they may establish Zion” (Doctrine and Covenants 101:72–74).1
Alvah then opened the meeting for discussion about how the Saints in Lewis could fulfill this commandment. They decided that members should contribute whatever they could. Caroline’s brother Joseph Harrison Tippets and their cousin John H. Tippets would then take the money to Missouri and give it to Church leaders there.2 As Caroline heard these words, she decided that she would contribute what she had. As a single, 22-year-old woman, she wanted to do her part to fulfill what the Lord had asked, and she gave almost $150 as her donation.
Although $150 does not sound like much to us today, it was a significant sum of money in 1834—the equivalent of about $4,000 today.3 Who was this young woman who contributed so much money?
Caroline Tippets was born on October 21, 1812, to Joseph and Abigail Tippets in Lewis Township, New York, where her family had lived since 1805. Along with her older brother, Alvah, she had an older sister, Permillia, and a younger brother, Joseph Harrison. In 1826 their father died, and she and her siblings went to live with their cousins William and Abigail Tippets in Lewis.
In March 1832, John H. Tippets, who was working about 12 miles away, heard about the Book of Mormon, likely from Amasa Lyman, William E. McLellin, and Jared Carter, who were preaching in the area. He shared the news with his cousins. There is no record of how Caroline responded, but she must have gained a testimony of the book and the man who translated it—Joseph Smith. In May or June 1832, Caroline and the rest of her family were baptized.4
Caroline’s brothers worked in sawmills, but there is no record that tells us how she earned money. Perhaps she sewed clothing or worked in the homes of others in the area, both of which were common occupations. Whatever the case, she saved the money she earned, and her $150 contribution was about 20 percent of the branch’s total contribution ($850) in 1834 for the purchase of lands in Zion.5
After the branch decided to consecrate the money and have Joseph and John take it to Missouri, Caroline expressed a desire to accompany the two. The three left Lewis in October 1834, and in November they arrived in Kirtland, Ohio, where Joseph Smith was living. Because it was late in the season, the three decided to stop in Kirtland and counsel with Joseph Smith and the Kirtland high council as to whether they should continue on to Missouri or stay in Kirtland for the winter. On November 28, Joseph and John met with the high council, with Joseph Smith presiding. After discussion, the high council told Joseph and John that they should stay in Kirtland for the winter. Since they wouldn’t need the money for Missouri land purchases until the following spring, the high council asked them if they would be willing to loan some of the money to Church leaders in Kirtland to help with debts, some of which had been contracted as part of the construction of the Kirtland Temple.
According to the minutes of the meeting: “It was ascertained by the council [that] Sister Caroline Tippets held $149.75 of the money. … She was accordingly called into the council and expressed a willingness to loan the same. A note … in favor of Caroline Tippets of $150 [was given] due April 15, 1835, [and] signed by Joseph Smith Jr., Oliver Cowdery, and F[rederick] G. Williams.”6
Caroline’s willingness to loan the money was a great blessing to Joseph Smith and the Church at that time. The day after the meeting, November 29, Joseph and Oliver knelt in prayer and gave “thanks for the relief which the Lord had lately sent” through the Lewis branch and Caroline.7
The following spring, having been repaid, Caroline, Joseph, and John departed Kirtland for Missouri with the money. Later that year, Caroline married William Plummer Tippets, her first cousin and John Tippets’s brother. In 1836 she died giving birth to their first child, who died as well.8
Caroline’s life was short, and she is not well-known by most in the history of the Church. In many ways, she is like millions of other members who go about their lives quietly serving without recognition and without fanfare. At a time when the Lord asked Church members to contribute what they had for the redemption of Zion, she heard Him and followed His direction. Her willingness to listen to the Lord’s word through the Prophet Joseph and then act on it helped the Church in a time of need and helped her contribute to the work of the Lord.

Luke’s senior year was anything but normal.
After starting his senior year at the same Mississippi high school he’d been attending since he was a freshman, and with the same friends he’d known since age nine, Luke’s family moved to Alabama.
“I wasn’t too excited about the move,” Luke N., 18, admits. But he still tried to make the most of it. For one thing, he joined the tennis team at his new school.
And then he got to play all of one match before his whole world turned upside down.
Tennis? Canceled. Prom? Double canceled. Attending church? Attending school? Attending seminary?
You guessed it. All canceled.
Like the rest of the globe, Luke’s daily routine shifted gears in a massive way once the COVID-19 pandemic interfered with just about every area of his life.
“It’s definitely been disappointing,” he says. For Luke, the biggest heartache of all was not knowing for sure what’s going to happen with his mission call.
It’d be understandable for anybody in Luke’s situation to feel discouraged, but he says he finds heavenly help every day. “I see a lot of blessings in disguise.”

That plan is making a difference for Humberto Canarte of Portoviejo, Manabi province, Ecuador. Humberto and his wife support five children and two grandchildren on one hectare of good farmland near the Pacific Coast. For the Canarte family, farming is survival. In past years, their living has been meager.
Two years ago, Humberto Canarte was planting just corn and peanuts. Today he is also harvesting soybeans and vegetables. He still plows by hand and clears weeds with a machete. But he now plants hybrid corn, and he plants it in rows closer together. As a result, he now harvests as much as 5,500 kilograms of corn per hectare, more than double what he used to harvest. Two years ago, it took as long as a year for Humberto’s chickens to reach market size. Now, by feeding them a better balanced diet, he can raise chickens in eight weeks using only one-tenth of the feed he previously used.
Today the Canarte family is better nourished. Not only do they eat more chicken and eggs, but they can also afford to buy rice with the money they are making on their corn. Now, too, their diet includes more vegetables from a small garden they cultivate. In fact, the Canarte family harvest has increased threefold over past years.
What has made such a startling difference? The Benson Institute calls it small-scale agriculture. Two years ago, institute personnel farmed two plots in Portoviejo, training farmers and the local agriculture department in techniques that make small-plot farming more productive. Last year, Humberto and six other farmers who have learned those techniques tripled their yields.
Two BYU graduate students are training Humberto Canarte and the other six families in Portoviejo how to farm more productively. Malaquias Flores is a master’s degree candidate from Chihuahua, Mexico. He and Neils Tidwell, an animal science major from Idaho, with their wives and children, live in Portoviejo. “We feel good being able to help them have a better way of life,” they say. They feel confident that the seven families are fully capable of carrying on the program after Benson Institute personnel leave Portoviejo.

Work on the temple did not progress very rapidly at first. There were several delays, such as the time United States President James Buchanan sent federal troops to Utah with a new governor to replace Brigham Young. The Saints, remembering the mob violence of the East, were not going to allow their new homes and lands to be plundered again. They stripped their homes of valuables and filled them with straw to be set afire if and when hostile troops came. Even the foundation of the temple was covered with dirt, making it appear to be only a plowed field. Fortunately, a peaceful settlement was reached before the troops arrived in Salt Lake.

“Blast that girl!” said Arnie to himself. “Blast me, too! And blast everything that has to do with that stupid art show.”
He glanced upward towards heaven. “Why?” he asked. “Why on the day before the biggest art show of my life does she have to come to my school? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”
Not receiving any answer, Arnie looked down at the pad he held in his hand. The beginnings of a little boy playing in the sand were sketched lightly in blue. Oh, yes, the picture would be a good one, one of his best. It would make a nice finale to his entry in the contest. But it was nothing compared to Jana Lee Smithy’s paintings in oil!
Arnie grimaced. If only she had arrived two days later! Then the judging would have been over and the art student-of-the-year award would have been his. After that Miss Jana Lee could have been the best art student in the school; it wouldn’t have mattered. But no. There she was. And she was brilliant.
Arnie threw down his pencil and groaned audibly. He glanced around the small park where he drew many of his sketches and collected ideas. What a waste of a beautiful day! But how could he be content to turn in just four drawings? Jana Lee Smithy was going to show four completed oil paintings, each a vision of color and light. When her paintings were unveiled in the morning and the school compared hers to his slight “sketches,” Arnie knew how his classmates would react. “Well,” they would say, “Arnie’s not quite as good as he makes out to be, is he?” And people would nod in assent and then never stop talking about what a genius Jana Lee was.
Arnie looked at the small boy who was unknowingly modeling for his sketch. Hurriedly and quietly the boy was building himself a castle. Tiny hands moved quickly and knowingly through the granules of yellow dirt. Wary of sand too dry or sand too wet, the boy’s small fingers gathered piles of sand together and molded them into turrets and walls. Broken twigs served as posts and pillars and flags for the castle.
Arnie wasn’t sure what everything the boy made was, but it was certainly immense. When Arnie began his drawing, the little fellow had just begun the main building. Now stables, dogs’ houses, an armory, and finally a great wall had been formed. The child was amazing. Or, thought Arnie, he would be until something better came along. Then the castle would be merely a trifle, something to be forgotten—like Arnie would be after tomorrow.
Arnie frowned and looked at his drawing. Despite its unfinished quality, he felt tempted to just leave it as it was. Nothing could help him now. Numbers of drawings couldn’t change the quality of Jana Lee’s work. Finally, discipline got the better of him. He picked up the blue pencil and finished the final details of the picture.
After another 45 minutes the picture was finished. Arnie smiled at the little figure in the drawing. The contentment on the child’s face was contagious, and Arnie grinned. It was a futile effort, he knew, like the sand castle whose immortality would lie in the little boy’s heart rather than in the park. But, like the child, Arnie felt a glow at having done a good job. The glow wasn’t big enough to fill the emptiness he felt at being a failure, but it was nice nonetheless. He gathered up his pencils and put them in their case. Carefully, he stood and, with a nod to the little boy, headed for home.
By the time Arnie reached his street, the slight high that finishing the drawing had given him was gone. Even the coziness of the familiar, flower-lined path that led to his front door had no effect. There’s not much that can make a failure happy, he reflected. The sounds of family that echoed in the air didn’t help, either. In fact, the thought of seeing his hopeful mother, proud father, and admiring sister made him want to hide. They’d all had such high hopes for him. And now he was letting them down. Arnie stood on the doorstep for a second trying to decide whether or not to tell them that he’d seen the winning entries, halfway hidden behind Mr. Olsen’s desk, and they weren’t his. Arnie shook his head. He didn’t want their sympathy. He opened the door.
“I’m home,” he called.
Sheryll, his sister, bounded past him on her way to the kitchen. “You don’t say?” she laughed over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed.”
Arnie grimaced at her. Sisters. Freshmen. Two deadly ingredients when combined. He put his supplies down on the floor and headed for the stairs. His mother’s voice caught him two steps up.
“You’re not going to leave your things here in the hall, are you?” He turned around and looked into his mother’s warning brown eyes. Arnie grinned sheepishly.
“Me?”
She nodded. “My visiting teachers are coming over tonight.” Arnie looked knowingly at her. “Not,” she said, raising her voice as well as her eyebrows, “that that should make any difference.”
“Of course not, Mom,” Arnie replied. He gathered his things up and took them with him to his room. Carefully, he put the drawing on his desk and his kit on the floor. Shutting his door carefully behind him, he made his way to the bathroom where he washed his hands. As he did so, he tried to smile in the mirror. It didn’t do any good. His brown hair looked unruly, his eyes dim, and his face ruddy. What a depressing sight! If my eyes looked any redder … He shrugged off the thought. What had he to complain about? He wasn’t hoping to make a living with his face, just his hands.
“Which,” he said to the face in the mirror, “are proving to be betraying assets.” Arnie went down to dinner.
As the family took their places after the prayer, Arnie’s father looked over the mashed potatoes at his son.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow, Arnie?” he asked. Arnie choked on a pea.
When his coughing had subsided he replied, “About as ready as I’m going to get, Dad.”
“Then you should be plenty ready,” said his mother.
“What were you doing this afternoon?” asked Sheryll.
“I was drawing at the park.” Arnie looked down at his plate. “I thought one more piece might help me in the contest.”
“That smacks of overkill,” said his father.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Arnie.
“Besides,” said Sheryll, “everybody in school knows how good he is. All my friends like his stuff. One more drawing will be …”
“One more drawing,” interrupted Arnie. “Enough. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?”
His mother looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Arnie?”
“Just nerves, dear,” said his father. But still, even as he spoke, Mr. Wells looked at his son with a searching look.
Arnie ducked his father’s gaze and stuck his fork into his mouth. Oops, he thought as his father’s look changed to one of amazement. I should have put something on the fork first.
“Arnie, if there’s anything …”
Frustrated, Arnie stood up. “May I be excused? I’m finished. And I’ve got to mount this last drawing.”
He could see by the surprised looks on the faces of his family that they were amazed by the sudden outburst. He continued, “I’ll be in my room.” Arnie backed out of the room and fled up the stairs.
“Well, at least they only doubted my sanity,” Arnie said to himself as he shut and locked the door behind him. “They don’t have to doubt my abilities until tomorrow.”
He looked forlornly at the drawing on his desk. “Ah, friend, if you only knew what humiliation you will face tomorrow, you wouldn’t smile so much.”
The little boy grinned at him happily. The scripture in 2 Nephi flashed into Arnie’s mind. “And men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). Arnie frowned. Well, he thought, joy certainly hasn’t been my cellmate these last few hours! What’s there to be joyful about? Instead of a talent made out of silk, I get one made of a sow’s ear. And I’m supposed to be happy! He shrugged and set about making the results of his poor talent presentable.
When he finished, Arnie put his five entries on his bed and looked at them one at a time. Each of them was pleasant to look at. The laughter and light in them was enough to make any viewer smile. Each drawing represented a lot of effort. It was a pity that they would go to waste. Arnie shook his head and readied himself for bed.
After placing the five drawings and his books near the door, Arnie knelt to say his nightly prayer. “Heavenly Father,” he began. But his mind went numb. Arnie had always trusted his Father in Heaven, but this night he found it difficult to bare his soul. Before, he’d always known of his worth as a child of God. He’d never had any reason to doubt. But now, Arnie wasn’t everything that he thought he was. It was a little difficult to explain to Heavenly Father that things were different and that Arnie wasn’t quite the person he thought he had been.
Finally, after many minutes of silence, only one thing came to his mind. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, “why I am what I am. But I must be of some importance, despite my faults. Help me be happy.”
Arnie paused, then closed his prayer. He climbed slowly into bed, and after tossing and turning for a long while, drifted into sleep.
The next morning dawned much too early for Arnie’s likes. I’m not any happier, he thought, than I was last night. But he did feel a little more distanced from the despair than he had felt the night before. His drawings, as he looked at them one more time before leaving the house, didn’t look quite as inelegant as they had seemed. Still, they weren’t going to win any awards. Arnie still wasn’t quite good enough to be what was expected.
Despite Sheryll’s chatter in the car, Arnie maintained a stony silence on the way to school. Luckily, his lively sister was so excited about the competition, the weather, and her best friend’s new boyfriend, that it would have been impossible for him to have said anything had he wanted to. Finally, the ride was over. He said good-bye to his father and sister and escaped down the hall to the art department.
Voices could be heard behind the wood door as Arnie approached. He really didn’t want to see anybody just yet and was about to turn away when the door opened.
“Ah, Arnie,” said Mr. Olsen. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Arnie smiled weakly.
Mr. Olsen beamed at him. “I was just going to take Jana Lee down to where she’ll be hanging her paintings. But maybe you can show her.”
Great, thought Arnie, now I’m a glorified hall monitor.
Mr. Olsen continued. “Since you and Jana will be hanging your works next to each other, that should I make things easier for all of us. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
Arnie nodded.
“Good.”
Arnie sighed and turned around. He heard the sound of Jana Lee’s feet behind him.
“Wait a second, Arnie,” she said as she reached his side. Arnie turned to give her one of his pained looks. But when he saw her he stopped.
Jana Lee smiled and adjusted the paintings which had started to slip. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It wasn’t the paintings either, though they were as magnificent as ever. It was something that he saw in her eye, something that he recognized. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his own.
Why? he thought. What had she to worry about? When she was ready, they headed towards the library. Neither said another word, though Arnie saw her looking at him once as he glanced at her.
As Arnie thought about what he had seen and what it meant, something occurred to him that he had never thought of before. In the parable of the talents, different talents were given to the servants: five talents, two talents, and one talent. Arnie had always just assumed that some people were five-talent people and some people were two-talent people. But what he knew when the image of Jana Lee’s overworked eyes sank deep into his heart was that most people started out with both talents and potential for talents. Just because you didn’t have five talents the first day didn’t mean you couldn’t have them—if you worked. Didn’t the Lord say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” to the man who began with two talents? He had started with two and had come away with four. He had done good work.
Arnie was also a worker. Perhaps, today, Arnie had two talents. But, as he thought back, he’d only begun with one. Perhaps next time, at the next competition, Arnie would have a five-talent art like Jana Lee. She, as he saw in her eyes, had worked for hers. He, as he knew in his heart, could work for his. And with that revelation, being pleased with his own work, Arnie was, for the first time in a long time, content.
He and Jana Lee reached the wall where they would hang up their works. After he helped her with the paintings, Jana Lee helped him with his drawings. When they reached the last one, that of the boy in the sand, Jana Lee smiled.
“This one’s really good,” she said. “Who was the model? He’s got such a knowing look on his face.”
“I don’t know who he was,” replied Arnie. “But he was a smart kid. And he built a great sand castle.”

“Twelve times twelve is … one hundred forty-four!” I shouted.
“Great job, Chakell!” Mrs. Good said. My whole class cheered. I was the first student to pass off all my multiplication tables.
I grinned as I walked back to my desk. I’d practiced with Dad all week and was feeling proud of myself. But then I saw another student stand up—Jack.
“OK, Jack. Let’s see if you can pass off your twelves today too,” Mrs. Good said.
My friend Jack was really smart. We were always trying to beat each other at everything. Usually we just tied.
Jack passed off his twelves perfectly. “We’re still tied!” he said as he sat down.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good job.” I was happy for him, but I felt like something was squishing my heart. I frowned and stared at the prickly cactus growing by the window.
Passing off my twelves didn’t feel very special anymore.
That afternoon, Mrs. Good pulled out a a plastic circle with pegs on it. “This is a loom,” she explained. “We’re going to use it to make scarves.”
Jack grinned at me. “I bet I can finish my scarf before you.”
“Not if I beat you first!”
We both laughed. I was excited. This was something I could be the best at.
The next day, I brought pink and purple yarn to school. Mrs. Good helped us wrap our yarn around our looms. I grabbed my red hook, ready to start.
At first, making the scarf was easy. I used my hook just like Mrs. Good showed us. But soon, it got harder. I couldn’t remember what to do next.
Maybe I should ask for help, I thought.
But then I glanced at Jack. His black and red stitches already filled his loom. He was winning!
Why is this so hard for me? My yarn looked like tangled spaghetti.
That night, I told Mom about my scarf. “I don’t know why it’s so hard,” I wailed. “If I have to ask for help, that must mean I’m not very smart. Jack never has to ask for help, and now he’s going to win!” My eyes got watery.
Mom pulled me into a warm hug. “Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re not smart. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone,” Mom said. “We pray to ask Heavenly Father for help all the time.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
The next day, it was craft time again. I stared at my loom. I looked at Jack. His scarf was twice as long as it was yesterday. I took a deep breath and walked over to my teacher.
“Mrs. Good, can you please help me with my scarf? I’m not very good at it,” I said.
Mrs. Good smiled at me. “Of course! Learning new things takes practice. You just aren’t good at it yet.”
Soon, after Mrs. Good gave me a few pointers, my yarn was finally turning into a scarf!
Jack finished his scarf a few days later. He showed me his black and red masterpiece. I showed him my pink and purple work in progress.
“Your scarf is looking great,” Jack said.
I grinned at him. “Yours too. You’re really good at this. And you beat me!”
He laughed. “I did, but I can’t ever keep up with how many books you read.”
With a smile on my face, I picked up my hook and got back to work.

For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents, and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.

What produces light? A candle, a flashlight, a lightbulb, the stars. What is the greatest source of light for us? No, it isn’t the sun. It is Jesus Christ. He said, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12).
This light “is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:16). Each of us has the Light of Christ to help us choose the right.
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us how we can have spiritual light: “When I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle home from basketball practice at night. I would connect a small pear-shaped generator to my bicycle tire. Then as I pedaled, the tire would turn a tiny rotor, which produced … a single, welcome beam of light. … I learned quickly that if I stopped pedaling my bicycle, the light would go out. I also learned that when I was ‘anxiously engaged’ in pedaling, the light would become brighter and the darkness in front of me would be [forced away].”
Elder Hales explains that “spiritual light comes from daily spiritual pedaling. It comes from praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and serving—from living the gospel and obeying the commandments” (“Out of Darkness into His Marvelous Light,” Liahona, July 2002, 78).
When we live the gospel and keep the commandments, we can have the Light of Christ with us always.
Trace the picture on page 6 onto plain white paper, and color the traced picture. Brush your picture very lightly with salad oil, and blot it with a towel. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of Presidency of the Seventy said that when he was growing up, his “chapel had a stained-glass window of Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. Whenever the sun shone on it, I felt that the story it illustrated and what I had learned in Primary about the First Vision were true” (Liahona, Apr. 1999, F3). Place your picture in a window to remind you of the light the Savior provides in your life.

Sunshine highlighted the autumn leaves as Lottie and her collie, King, picked their way down the rocky path to the springhouse to fetch a crock of butter. She held up her long skirt that she wore to school so as not to dirty it. Despite Mama’s lecture, however, she had discarded the stiff high-button shoes in the weeds. The cool grass chilled the bottoms of her calloused feet. She hadn’t worn shoes all summer (except to church because Mama insisted), and she hated to start now. Mama said that a ten-year-old girl should act like a lady, but Lottie didn’t feel like a lady as she ducked under a low limb of an apple tree.
As she opened the wide, heavy door of the springhouse, she felt a chill sweep past her, and she was grateful for King’s companionship. Although Lottie had three older sisters, they stayed at the house to help Mama with the three younger girls and her little brother.
It was damp and dark in the springhouse. The icy springwater flowed briskly through the long troughs where they kept their perishable foods. Maybe I’d better get one more crock, thought Lottie. It takes a lot of butter for hot cakes for all of us. Just then Lottie lost her footing on the slippery floor. As she grabbed a shelf to break her fall, the fancy butter crock that she had just chosen slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sickening crash! Pieces of blue pottery scattered in all directions!
Tears welled up in Lottie’s eyes as she remembered Papa’s words of caution: “These are hard times and we cannot afford any waste.”
Fearful of being late for school and of getting a tongue-lashing from Mama, while King licked up the splattered butter, she stuffed as many pieces as she could find into her apron pocket, grabbed another crock of butter, and hurried toward the house.
Lottie quickly pushed the pieces of broken crockery into a crevice in the old stone fence at the edge of the field and ran back to the house. As she neared it, the smell of bacon floated out with the chimney smoke to meet her.
“What kept you, Charlotte?” asked Papa as Lottie appeared in the doorway.
“I guess I’m a little slow this morning, Papa,” Lottie answered, trying hard to smile. She felt Papa’s sideway glance every so often during breakfast. It was a questioning expression that Papa always wore when he knew that there was something that he should know but didn’t.
“Anything special going on at school today?” he asked.
“No, not much,” Lottie answered, trying to be cheerful.
“I have a busy day ahead of me,” he said. “I need to mend some fences to get ready for the new herd.”
Lottie nearly choked on a bite of bacon. What if Papa checks that particular fence? she wondered. It wouldn’t have been such a big thing to Mama had it not been her favorite crock, nor to Papa had it been empty, nor to herself if careful inventory would not be taken, but she knew that an accounting must come.
It came sooner than Lottie had anticipated, for Papa was waiting outside the barn as the girls came home from school. “Come into the barn, girls. We need to talk.”
The four girls looked at each other, recognizing the concern in Papa’s voice.
“I happened onto these pieces of Mama’s best crock today while I was mending the stone fence,” he said, displaying the broken pieces. “Who can tell me how they got there?”
A big lump jumped into Lottie’s throat. She hung her head. The older girls looked at each other and then back at Papa.
“How about you, Charlotte?” Papa’s voice, although even and mild-tempered, thundered in Lottie’s ears.
“I don’t know, Papa.” It was a lie, and she knew it—and she knew that Papa knew it. But somehow, down deep, she secretly hoped that he didn’t.
“I suppose that the wind broke it and scattered the pieces into the fence,” Papa said, looking hard into each girl’s eyes. Finally he sighed and said, “All right, get to your chores.”
Lottie’s mind wasn’t on her work. It was on her last Primary lesson. “The best remedy for a guilty conscience,” Sister Thompson had said, “is to repent and admit what you’ve done wrong.” Gathering her courage, Lottie walked slowly back to the barn.
Papa looked up, pitchfork in hand. “You want to tell me something, Charlotte?” After a long, awkward silence, he prodded gently, “It was you, wasn’t it, Lottie?”
“Yes, Papa. I suppose that I have to tell Mama too.”
“It’s up to you. You’ve always been taught to do what’s right. Listen to your conscience; then decide.”
As Lottie dragged into the house, Mama was fixing supper. The tears Lottie hated were back again.
“Oh, Mama,” Lottie sobbed, “I broke it.”
“Broke what?” asked Mama, giving her a hug.
“Your best crock—and King ate it!” Lottie clung to Mama and cried even harder.
“He ate the crock?” Mama smiled and wiped Lottie’s tears.
“No, the butter,” Lottie explained, still sniffing. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad that you were honest and told me.”
“I just had to tell you and Papa, Mama. I felt so bad.”
“That’s a thing called conscience,” said Mama.
“I guess I just found out that I have one,” Lottie said, finally able to smile.