Gospel Story Finder

Frederick the shoemaker liked to make shoes. He liked to make dancing slippers for young ladies and work shoes for farmers. He liked to make school shoes for children. And he liked to make house shoes for their mothers. But most of all he liked to make hunting boots for young gentlemen.
As he carefully stitched each boot, Frederick would say to his wife, “Someday I will make myself a pair of boots like these.”
But the young shoemaker never even had enough money to make new shoes for himself, much less a pair of hunting boots. Once in a while, however, he made himself a new pair of shoelaces out of leftover scraps to wear in his old shoes.
“A shoemaker should have more than new shoelaces,” he said one day. “A shoemaker should have a new pair of hunting boots!”
“But how can we afford them?” asked his wife. “With the little money we have, we must buy food to eat, candles to light the house at night, and new leather to make more shoes to sell.”
“I know. But only shoelaces! It isn’t right.” He sighed, then worked in silence for a few minutes. “Maybe,” he said at last, “maybe if I’m careful, I can save a wee bit of money here and there. And then maybe someday I can have more than just new shoelaces.”
And so Frederick saved two small coins from every pair of shoes he sold. He began burning one candle on his workbench at night instead of his usual two candles. He saved even more by drinking two glasses of milk a day instead of his usual three glasses.
At last Frederick had saved enough money to buy leather for a pair of hunting boots for himself. At night, by the light of his candle, he stitched and sewed. Finally the boots were finished. “These are the most handsome boots I have ever made,” he said to his wife. He put on the new boots and tucked his old shoes into the back of his closet.
The shoemaker loved his new boots. He wore them around the shop every day, and he wore them hunting on Saturdays. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they wore out. Frederick turned the boots over and over in his hands. I think there might be enough good leather here to make some work shoes, he thought.
So he cut and snipped, and he stitched and sewed, until at last his work shoes were finished.
Frederick was almost as proud of his new work shoes as he had been of his boots. He wore them around the shop every day, and he wore them to church on Sundays. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they, too, wore out. Frederick turned the work shoes over and over in his hands. I think there might be enough good leather here to make some house slippers, he thought. So he cut and snipped, and he stitched and sewed, until at last his house slippers were finished.
The shoemaker was almost as proud of his new slippers as he had been of his boots and his work shoes. He wore them in the shop all day, and he wore them while he sat in front of his fire at night. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they, too, wore out. Frederick turned the slippers over and over in his hands. I think there might be just enough good leather here to make one more thing, he thought. So he cut and snipped, until at last a pair of shoelaces was finished.
Then he reached way back into his closet and pulled out his old shoes. He cleaned and polished them and put in the new shoelaces. The shoemaker was happy with these new shoelaces because he remembered the handsome hunting boots and the sturdy work shoes and the comfortable house slippers they had once been.
And he wore those shoelaces forever.

I recently read the article titled “Last on the List” in the November 1997 issue. I especially love this article because I can relate to it. I have just been chosen to serve as the new Beehive president in our ward, and I faced the same challenges Lisa did in the story. It was a hard choice because everyone was so perfect for the spots. I prayed and asked my Heavenly Father to help me make the right choices. I was given the answer to call as my second counselor a girl who doesn’t have very many friends. Now I know that she is truly right for the position. Thank you once again for that wonderful message.
Name WithheldUtah

When Wade first showed up at school, he let me know right away that he didn’t have any use for me. Thanksgiving was three days away, and the class was working on a report about the Pilgrims when he marched into Mrs. Steinhart’s fifth grade class with a huge scowl on his face.
He was wearing a pair of dusty blue jeans with black grease marks below the knees. His faded sweatshirt was a bit ragged at the neck, and the sole of one shoe was pulling away at the toe.
“It’s nice to have you in our class,” Mrs. Steinhart welcomed Wade with a smile.
“I’m not going to be here long,” he grumbled. “I have better places to go.”
“Well, we want to make sure you’re comfortable while you are here,” Mrs. Steinhart answered, as polite and cheerful as always. She looked around the classroom. “Why don’t you take that desk back by James,” Mrs. Steinhart said, pointing at me. Suddenly I felt sick. “James, will you make sure Wade feels comfortable? Answer his questions and help him in any way you can.”
Wade stomped back and dropped into the desk next to mine. I turned toward him, and he muttered, “Just stay out of my way, kid. I don’t need anybody holding my hand.”
I tried to pretend that Wade wasn’t there, but I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him now and then. He was big for fifth grade, probably the biggest kid in the class. Once Mrs. Steinhart had him read out of our social studies book, and he stumbled over the words, even some of the little ones.
At noon, he snapped at me when I told him where to get his tray and pick up his milk. “I’ve been in a cafeteria before.” But not our cafeteria! He picked up a plate from the wrong side of the counter, and the cook yelled at him. When he left the serving area, he went out the wrong door, and Mr. Hansen, the principal, made him go back and use the right one. He found a place to sit—at the sixth grade table. Mr. Hansen made him move.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, even though he had been so unfriendly. “You can sit over here with me,” I offered. He glowered at me and found a spot at the end of the table by himself.
Wade wasn’t any friendlier on his second day of school. He didn’t speak except to snap at someone or brag about how much money his dad made. At recess he sat in a corner of the playground and glared at the rest of us as we played.
The next school day was the last before Thanksgiving break. When I got home, Mom called me into the kitchen. “James, Sister Wray called. Wilbur ran away again. She’s wondering if you’d mind looking for him.”
“Not again. Why doesn’t she just get rid of that crazy cat? He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
Mom smiled. “Sister Wray loves that old cat, and you do, too. Maybe you could bike around the neighborhood and see if you can spot him.”
Grumbling a little, I buttoned my coat, climbed onto my bike, and started riding around. A couple of blocks from home, I spotted the big orange tomcat dart down a dirt lane to a vacant lot overgrown with bushes and trees and filled with junk. It was just the kind of place that Wilbur loved to explore.
I was so busy looking for him that I didn’t notice that I’d ridden right up to a small trailer. Wade and a younger boy were in front of it, smashing aluminum cans. Wade and I were almost face to face before either of us realized it.
“What are you doing snooping around here?” Wade demanded. “This is private property.”
I stood straddling my bike. I’m l-looking for my n-neighbor’s cat,” I stammered.
“Well, we don’t have him,” Wade fired back. “Now get out of here!”
The younger boy stepped forward. “I’m Wade’s brother, Russell,” he said with a friendly smile. “I saw a big orange cat over there just a minute ago.” He pointed to a pile of trash near the tiny trailer.
We all looked. A moment later, Wilbur’s tail twitched into view, and then his head peeked over a cardboard box. “That’s him!” I said.
“Well, take him and get out,” Wade growled. “Dad doesn’t like anybody coming around here without permission.” He stomped into the trailer.
“Don’t mind Wade,” Russell remarked, mashing a soda can and tossing it into a rusty barrel. “He’s just embarrassed for people to see where we live. You’re in Wade’s class, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m James.” I pressed my lips together. “So, you collect cans?”
Russell set another one down. “It’s the only way Wade and I get any spending money.” He stomped on the can, then shrugged. “Mostly though, we give the money to Dad for milk or something.”
I looked around. “I didn’t know anybody was living here.”
“Dad works over at Mr. Aylor’s wrecking yard. Mr. Aylor owns this place, too, and he said we could stay here if we’d clean things up. Dad’s trying to get enough money so we can move to Colorado. He thinks he can get a good job there so we won’t have to stay in a dump like this.”
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
Russell looked away. “She died a couple of years ago. Dad looks after us, but it’s not the same as when Mom was here.” Russell smiled. “Dad can’t cook, so Wade and I are learning.”
“Why are you still here?” Wade barked from the trailer door. He clomped down the shaky wooden steps. “Get your cat and go. We have work to do.”
“I was talking to him,” Russell said. “I was telling him that we’re going to move to Colorado if Dad can get that job.”
“Don’t tell him anything. It’s none of his business. He’ll just go back to school and tell everyone how we’re living here, and they’ll start making fun of us.” Wade jabbed an angry finger at me. “You open your big mouth, and you’ll answer to me! Now go away and stay away.”
Slowly I went over and picked Wilbur up, then started back to my bike. “I’ll say whatever I want,” I called back. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Wade started toward me, but Russell grabbed his arm. “Leave him alone, Wade. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
I took Wilbur to Sister Wray, then went home. As I started up our walk, I took a good look at our house. We weren’t rich or anything, but we had a real house and a nice yard. I had a mom and a dad, three sisters and a brother. I hadn’t ever thought of myself as having a lot, but compared to Wade and Russell, I was rich. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like living in a tiny trailer surrounded by trash and weeds, without a mom, and not knowing how long we’d be there.
I wanted to dislike Wade, but I couldn’t, not without feeling guilty. The last few weeks in Primary, Sister Pearce had talked about Jesus and what He did when people were mean to Him. What would Jesus do if He ran into somebody like Wade? I wondered. I knew one thing for sure—He wouldn’t just walk away and forget about him.
As I pushed my bike into the garage, I spotted a plastic bag that was lumpy with several dozen empty pop cans. I wondered what it would be like to collect aluminum cans just for a little spending money. Or for buying milk.
Mom was making pies. “Are we having lots of company tomorrow?” I asked.
Mom sighed. “Not this year. Your Aunt Renae and Uncle Albert were going to come, but they’ve had a change of plans, so it looks like it’ll be just us. Do you think we can eat all this food by ourselves?”
“What if I invited somebody to help us out?”
Mom laughed. “Just tell me how many and how hungry.”
I returned to the garage, grabbed the bag of cans, and rode my bike back to Wade’s. He and Russell were still smashing cans. Wade saw me coming. “I told you to stay away from here.”
I climbed off my bike and handed him the cans. “We had these in the garage. I thought that maybe you could use them.”
Wade glared at me without moving. Russell took the bag. “Thanks. Every can helps.”
For a moment we all stared at each other without speaking; then I asked, “Could I help smash cans? I’m not doing anything right now.”
“Are you just trying to—”
“He wants to help,” Russell cut him off. “We don’t have to be mean to everybody. He didn’t have to come back, and we’re already behind.”
“Nobody comes by just to help. Nobody ever has. You wait and see what happens,” he barked at Russell. “He’ll be telling everybody about us.”
“You obviously don’t know me very well,” I said quietly.
Ignoring Wade, Russell said, “We’re supposed to have all these smashed by the time Dad gets home.” He jabbed a thumb toward Wade. “Don’t mind him. He’s not half mean.” He grinned. “Sometimes he’s even nice.”
For a long time Wade just watched as Russell and I stomped cans flat and tossed them into the barrel. Finally he bent over and started helping. We worked fast, none of us saying much. Thirty minutes later we were finished.
“Thanks,” Russell said. “You can help anytime.” He grinned.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I asked him.
“Dad has to work late tomorrow. But he is going to pick up some chicken for our supper.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “Why don’t you and Wade come over to my place for dinner? Usually we have lots of company for Thanksgiving, but not tomorrow. There’ll be plenty to eat. I already told Mom to set a couple of extra places. She’ll be upset if you don’t show.”
“We have work to do,” Wade spoke up. But he didn’t sound as gruff and angry. He even looked a little disappointed. “Thanks anyway.”
Russell nodded and motioned around the trailer. “We’re supposed to clean a bunch of this up.” He shrugged. “Dad’s counting on us.”
“I’m not doing much tomorrow. What do you say I come over and give you a hand?” I looked at Wade. “Then—if it’s OK with your dad—you can come eat with us and still have supper with him tomorrow night.”
“What are you doing this for?” he asked suspiciously, but he was starting to soften.
I thought for a moment. “Everybody can use an extra friend. Even guys like me.” I smiled. “I’ll be here early in the morning. Then we’ll head over to my place for dinner about one—unless we get hungry before then. Mom always has a few things we can snack on before the big dinner.” I grinned and started for my bike.
“Hey, wait,” Wade called to me. I stopped and turned, half expecting him to growl at me again. “Thanks.” He glared at the ground, then sneaked a look at me. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

I will never forget the summer and fall of 2009. On June 9 my father died after suffering from dementia for over 10 years. On June 25 our 22-year-old son died unexpectedly, and less than a month later, so did my cousin. On August 13 my 82-year-old mother had open-heart surgery and began a lengthy recovery. On October 18 my 41-year-old brother died. On October 31 my husband had a massive heart attack and flat lined for eight minutes. The firefighters, paramedics, and a priesthood blessing brought him back to us.
People often asked me how we handled all of these events. My consistent answer was that we would turn to the Savior, and He cared for us. He did not leave us alone in our trials. I felt ministered to and carried by the heavens. Truly, He “has borne [my] griefs” (Mosiah 14:4).

Luke E., 17, and his younger companion approached the home of their assigned family to visit. A small cross hung on the front door. “With that cross on the door, I knew they were probably a pretty faithful family,” Luke says.
Inside the home they had a great spiritual discussion with the family. Luke and his companion shared their testimony and thoughts based on Christ’s words in the Bible, “If ye love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).
As the conversation unfolded, the couple asked a question that Luke and his younger companion hadn’t expected.
“What is the Book of Mormon?” they asked.
The adult leaders in the room remained silent in order to allow the youth to answer.
“I took this one,” Luke says. In a few minutes he explained the meaning of the title and subtitle (“Another Testament of Jesus Christ”) of the Book of Mormon, as well as a basic overview of the contents inside. He shared with them how Jesus visited and taught other nations after His Resurrection. Luke also bore testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and left them a copy.
When Luke finished answering the question, the couple was touched. They thanked everyone for coming and said, “We are grateful for young people in the world who believe something so passionately.”
For Luke, the experience was a huge boost in confidence for sharing the gospel.
“Sometimes in high school you clam up and stay quiet about spiritual things, and then you lose your confidence,” Luke says. “That day was very strengthening for me as a young man preparing to serve a mission.”

A year after I joined the Church, I had a desire to serve a full-time mission. During my interview with the bishop to fill out my application, he asked me, “Do you have any problems with anyone that you have not yet resolved?”
I answered no, because I told myself that I didn’t, ignoring the bad feelings between my father and me. I declared myself worthy and ready to serve.
The days that followed were extremely painful. The idea that I would have to reconcile with my father bitterly invaded my soul. My father never worried about his children. We all had reached the point where we no longer spoke to him. If I was ever asked about my father, I answered without remorse, “He is dead.”
I really couldn’t see any reason to try to reconcile with someone who wouldn’t take time to listen to me. I didn’t feel that I had wronged him. On the contrary, I felt that he was the one who needed to come see me and ask for my forgiveness. Nevertheless, the idea that I needed to go see my father continued to torment me.
One evening I went to visit him. He lived some 220 miles (360 km) away. The first hour of our conversation was a time for insults, mutual accusation, and words that truly hurt. In spite of our angry words, my intention to reconcile was strong. With the help of the Spirit of God, we managed, after five hours, to end with positive feelings.
After many tears were shed, my father and I were able to embrace, happy to finally understand the core of the problem that had kept us so angry at each other for so long. At the end, my father took a container of warm water and, while speaking, slowly poured out its contents, as we do in Africa to represent a reconciliation. He then gave me his blessing after reviewing all that had happened in the past and committing to repent of his mistakes.
I am so grateful to Heavenly Father, who inspired me to seek such a discussion that gave way to mutual repentance. As a missionary in the Ivory Coast Abidjan Mission I was happy to wear a badge on which was inscribed two names: Lagoua, my father’s name, and Jesus Christ, my Savior’s name.

Three siblings in another family in the same stake have also joined in a community Patenschaft.
“The family we’re mentoring is from Afghanistan,” says Vinzenz C., 17. “They fled because bombs were falling around them and they were afraid they wouldn’t survive. They crossed the sea in a rickety boat, traveled through several countries, and lived in camps for a long time before they were placed in our community.”
Like Elisa, Vini (as his friends call him) had also previously prepared materials for refugees. He was one of about 50 youth who sorted donated clothing and toys. “I was carrying boxes around for about six hours,” he recalls. “It was exhausting, but it helped me to understand how much they need simple things we often take for granted.”
Meeting a refugee family in person deepened his desire to be of service, and the same is true for his brother Philip, 15, and his sister Ida, 12.
“I helped the elders quorum assemble bicycles that a company donated,” Philip says. “We attached the wheels and the pedals. You don’t need to do huge things, just do simple things and you can make a difference in refugees’ lives.”
“It’s difficult to be in a completely new environment, with new customs, foods, and languages,” Ida says. “If I had to go through what they’re going through, I’d be eager to just have a friend.” She says she has also learned from their example of sticking together as a family, even during desperate trials.
So, if you want to get to know refugees, where do you start?
“You can communicate in a lot of ways,” Ida says. “You can point, nod your head, or smile. Besides words, remember you can also communicate with feelings and emotions.”
There are, in fact, many “languages” everyone speaks—music, kindness, laughter, and love, for example. “You already speak many ‘languages’ that they understand,” Ida says. “Like Fußball. Start with those. Show that you care for them and that you want to help them.”
“It’s about understanding them,” Vini says. For example, refugees are often deeply religious and have faith and traditions of their own. “Reaching out to them is not about bringing them into the Church. It’s about treating them as brothers and sisters of our Heavenly Father, with respect and love.”

A family consisting of my grandmother, my mother, and two or three of the younger children were seated before an open door, watching the great display of nature’s fireworks as a severe thunderstorm raged near the mountain where our home was located. A flash of chain lightning followed by an immediate loud clap of thunder indicated that the lightning had struck very close.
I was standing in the doorway when suddenly and without warning my mother gave me a vigorous push that sent me sprawling on my back out of the doorway. At that instant, a bolt of lightning came down the chimney of the kitchen stove, out through the open doorway, and split a huge gash from top to bottom in a large tree immediately in front of the house. If I had remained in the door opening, I wouldn’t be writing this story today.
My mother could never explain her split-second decision. All I know is that my life was spared because of her impulsive, intuitive action.
Years later, when I saw the deep scar on that large tree at the old family home, I could only say from a grateful heart: Thank the Lord for that precious gift possessed in abundant measure by my own mother and by many other faithful mothers, through whom heaven can be very near in time of need.

They came bearing gifts. After collecting donated items such as toys, clothing, and school supplies, about 30 youth and children from the Semmes and Theodore Wards of Mobile, Alabama, made a visit to the St. Mary’s Home for Children. The youth didn’t just drop off the gifts, but they spent the morning at the community shelter singing Primary songs and playing games with the children who live there.
Lauryn McCullough, a Mia Maid from the Semmes Ward, remembers how much fun they had. “The children really broke out of their shells and enjoyed our visit,” she said. Seeing these children in difficult circumstances also made Lauryn grateful for what she has. “It made me really appreciate my family. We often take for granted what we have.”
Plans for a return visit are already under way in response to numerous requests from both the LDS youth who visited the shelter and from the children living at St. Mary’s Home.

One of the most difficult times in my life was during my sophomore year in high school. My brother Sid was the greatest big brother. We were really close even though he was seven years older. I basically lived to be with my dad and older brother, and Sid served the big-brother role perfectly. I was just a tagalong, and he didn’t mind at all.
Sid had quit high school so he could work to help put food on our table and help Mom and Dad with the bills. To show you what kind of brother Sid was, he would work these long days on his construction job, then come home and work out with me. He would be wearing his big heavy boots from his job and still run patterns while I played quarterback and threw the ball to him. Here was my brother playing receiver for me after a long day at work when he probably would have rather gone in and relaxed. But that’s the kind of brother Sid was.
One weekend in November during my sophomore year, my family went to a small family reunion in Washington. Sid and I stayed behind to work around the farm. We spent the whole weekend together and had a really good time.
When my family returned, Sid left to take a friend to Sun Valley (Idaho). On his way back from dropping his friend off, he had a head-on collision and was killed. I’ll always remember sleeping on the floor of our trailer home when a knock came at the door at two in the morning and the most terrible feeling coming over me. An off-duty policeman had come to tell us Sid had been killed in an accident.
That was the hardest thing to have to go through. And it was tougher for my parents because they had already had their two-year-old daughter die because of a bronchial problem, and a baby boy die of crib death before I was even born.
And although there is pain for the loss of a loved one, I understood. I understood the plan of salvation and the eternal perspective. When I lost Sid, I asked why it had to happen. I also asked Heavenly Father, Why me? How could things get any harder in my life? Sid had always told me I would make it in the National Football League, and his death made me more determined to do that.
Within two years, I had grown to six-foot-three which made me attractive as a football player. I had always hoped to be a quarterback and was named the starter as a sophomore. This caused a lot of resentment among the juniors and seniors, and I ended up playing on a team with a bunch of guys who hated me. It made it very hard to succeed. I knew if I was going to play college football, I had to get out of that town.
After my junior year, I moved to St. Anthony (Idaho) to live with my sister and attend high school there. I knew I would be living in a Mormon community, where a lot of the kids at school were Mormon. I thought all my problems were finally behind me. It didn’t work out that way. Again I was the new kid on the block. I immediately tried out for the football team and was named the starting quarterback. That was great for me, but I beat out the guy who had started at that position the year before.
Nobody seemed happy about the new competition, and hardly anybody was friendly to me during the football season. When I finally broke into their circle and made friends, the season was over.
Since St. Anthony is close to Rexburg, home of Ricks College, I decided I would try to walk on Ricks’s football team. The coaches there wouldn’t give me a scholarship, so I practiced with them for a couple of weeks hoping to prove myself. When they still wouldn’t give me a scholarship, I had to quit. I just didn’t have enough money to pay tuition.
I now had a decision to make. Some guys I knew from St. Anthony told me about a good-paying job up in the woods cutting trees. Instead, I told them I was going to stay in Rexburg and get a job there so I could lift weights every night at the college. I told them I was going to play football the next year. They just laughed and thought I was crazy. After making the decision to stay, I never regretted not going with my friends.
During that year, I worked at a job throwing 50- and 100-pound grain sacks for nine hours a day. My pay was $3.60 an hour. After I got off work, I’d go down to the weight room and lift weights until ten at night. Everybody kept telling me I was crazy, and even my family questioned what I was doing. My family still supported me, but I think I was the only person in the world who thought I could make it—well, besides my girlfriend, Roxi, whom I later married.
That next year I earned a scholarship and played for Ricks. By this time I weighed 230 pounds and had switched from quarterback to defensive lineman. After Ricks, I had coaches from Ohio State, Alabama, Georgia Tech, Arizona, Kansas, Texas, Texas Tech, and BYU recruiting me. I chose BYU, and I’m glad I did.
After my senior season with the Cougars, I knew I was going to be drafted by an NFL team, and it turned out to be the Cincinnati Bengals. By the end of my second season I was starting in the Super Bowl. In my third year with the Bengals, I led the team in sacks. Everything seemed great. But for some reason, at the beginning of my fourth year, I was sitting on the bench.
It seemed the coaches wanted bigger guys playing the defensive line positions, leaving me to stand on the sidelines. I knew I wasn’t in Cincinnati’s long-range plans, and sure enough I was cut toward the end of fall camp. The 1991 season was about ready to begin and I was out of football. All the other NFL teams had their rosters finalized, so I had to wait and hope a team would pick me up.
This was another terrible period in my life. I knew I was still good enough to play, yet I wasn’t being given the chance. A few weeks into the season the Seattle Seahawks seemed interested in signing me to a contract. Instead, they took another guy, which was one of the hardest blows of my career.
I came back to my home in Utah not knowing what to do or what was going to happen. I wasn’t giving up, but I was really down. To take my mind off my situation, I went to play golf by myself. It was fall, in the middle of the week, and nobody was there playing. I was out on the back nine all by myself crying and thinking about what I was going to do. I stopped my cart and had a word of prayer.
When I finished, I went from tears and this distraught feeling to the most wonderful, calm feeling that told me everything was going to be okay. That Sunday, I got a phone call from the Washington Redskins. They told me they had some injured players and needed a replacement.
It was amazing. One day I was crying, and the next thing I knew I was playing for one of the best organizations in the NFL. I left behind the Cincinnati Bengals, who finished 3–13 in 1991, and went to the Redskins, who went on to win the Super Bowl. I finished my first Redskin season with 12 tackles, three quarterback hurries, and one and a half quarterback sacks. Plus I earned a Super Bowl ring. Things couldn’t have turned out better.
I’ve learned much in my life through all these experiences. The greatest lesson is that in order to know happiness, you have to know sorrow and pain. That’s why Nephi’s testimony means a lot to me. If you always put God first, work hard, and hold up your end, you’ll be led through those difficult times.
It’s sure worked for me.

As a youth I loved to play basketball. One of my biggest disappointments was when I didn’t make the school team. I stopped growing early, and I probably just was not good enough, anyway. Seeing other boys my age go on to become really outstanding basketball players was difficult—not because they achieved in the sport, but because I hadn’t.
However, that disappointment helped push me in the direction of the world of words, which, over the years, has been a blessing to me. At the time, it seemed a poor substitute for basketball, but as I look back on my life, the pushing in that direction meant that I was to have many opportunities I could not otherwise have had.
When I served in the army during World War II, I was asked to write letters of comfort to the wives and parents of those who had been killed. I was also asked to write letters recognizing men for their bravery in battle. So I became more involved in the world of words.
Later, that led quite naturally to the mission field. In those days there was no churchwide plan for the missionaries to follow, and I came up with one that my mission used.
So our talents can develop in a meaningful way, even though we can’t see it at the time. While I would rather, in my youth, have played basketball, it would end up being more important for me to develop a talent with words. We need to trust in God in the midst of our disappointments. Experiences that seem hard when we are in the middle of them may well be part of God’s tutoring and training.

Again I have to interject a comment about my mother. On one occasion when I was writing the score for Indian, I was back at Richfield and the recording engineer called to see how it was coming. I said, “It’s going great, just fantastic! You’ll love this sequence!” I went on and on, and afterwards my mother said to me, “Merrell, we never brag about ourselves; we never tell how good we are.” I said, “They’re putting out 20 thousand dollars just to record it. They want to know how it’s coming along.” She said, “Just remember that you shouldn’t become too boastful because the Lord won’t bless you.” I try to remember that—the Lord isn’t pleased if we’re too boastful. We should show thankfulness.

One day, Wilford was feeding pumpkins to his father’s cattle in a pasture.
He noticed that one large bull was eating more than his fair share, so Wilford decided to take one of his pumpkins away.
Wilford: He ate one of that cow’s pumpkins! I’ll show him who’s boss.
The bull was so mad at Wilford that he started chasing him down the pasture hill.
Luckily, Wilford tripped and fell to the ground, and the pumpkin went flying out of his hands. The bull jumped right over Wilford and tore the pumpkin to pieces with his horns.
Wilford: If I hadn’t tripped, that would’ve been me getting torn to pieces!

The White’s group of wagons reached Fort Bridger in southwest Wyoming by December 4. There, Barnard said, “we were forced to camp as our teams were all dead.” For three days they waited and hungered. “I shall never forget the feelings of my mother,” he recalled. “She called us together and said she had never seen her dear children cry for bread before, but said the Lord would open the way and send us some provisions.” That night 14 relief wagons rolled into camp. “The wagons were loaded with flour,” Barnard said. “I will leave you to judge our feelings!” Baking fires roared through the night once again.

When I was a child, one of my favorite parts of the day was waiting for my dad to come home from work. I would look out the window and see him coming, and I would count each of his steps toward the house, looking forward to the joy he brought. I never thought I would have to do without that feeling.
One day when I was seven years old, in my father’s place came a man with a somber face who stood at the door and told us that my father had been killed in an accident.
That day I was silent. I looked at my four-year-old brother and my mother, so young and alone, and I did not cry. I didn’t think it could be true, so I went to the window and stared at the street. I began to feel an unbearable force pressing down on my shoulders, a weight that would not let me breathe normally, a pressure that oppressed me.
Not long after my father’s death, I went into my room alone at the fading light of sunset and, as I had been taught, prayed to my Heavenly Father. I pleaded with Him to let me see my beloved father again, just to hug him. In my heart I was certain that Heavenly Father could give me this miracle.
That day I didn’t get to see my dad or hug him, but I was given much more. It was as if I felt the hands of the Savior on my shoulders. His presence was almost tangible as He removed the weight that pressed down on my chest.
Illustration by James Johnson
Now, over 20 years later, that relief has never left me. At times I have felt sadness but never emptiness at the loss of my father. I can look back and see how many times the Spirit has come to console me, help me, and show me the way to follow the Savior’s precious steps. I can feel His presence in my life thanks to that first trial, which helps me see everyday trials with an eternal perspective. I know it is the gospel in our lives that allows us to feel the invisible caress of the Savior’s hand.
I have married for eternity, and now my husband and I have three little girls, who bring a taste of heaven into our home. When I see them, I rejoice in the peace and knowledge that every sorrow, trial, and challenge in their lives can bring with it greater faith, new witnesses, and wonderful miracles. I rejoice in the profound certainty that when they need something beyond what my husband and I can give them, they will be protected, consoled, and saved, just as I was.

As Remembrance Day 2022 approached, a young missionary serving in England Manchester Mission expressed honour at being able to attend Remembrance Day services, in memory of his great-grandfather.
William Inkley (pictured left), who served in the 91st division, U.S. Army, during World War I, witnessed the signing of the armistice. 19-year-old Taylor Inkley (pictured right) told his ancestors story.
“Great-grandad Bill, having spent the voyage on deck due to seasickness, arrived in Liverpool, England, July 17, 1918, with his regiment of mainly Utah boys. He was receiving training in France by July 29 and quickly saw action on September 29, in the Meuse-Argonne offensive. Recording the terror of the trenches, barbed wire and thick French forest undergrowth, the operation degraded Germany’s war efforts. William described being a sniper, hiding in trees to fire at the enemy, then spending hours up to his neck in mud, camouflaged, with only his head visible to breathe. He wondered if he would ever get out alive.”
William was born in 1890 in Salt Lake City. His patriarchal blessing said, “Be ye careful and wise and the missiles of death will pass you by and you will be able to return to your mountain home.” Taylor retells how this was fulfilled.
“While on guard patrol, William stopped to talk to soldiers at their post. They could hear the roar of battle from the front line. My great-grandfather felt a distinct impression to continue on his route. He heeded the prompting and immediately a shell flew overhead, exploding nearby, killing his two comrades. On Nov. 11, 1918, on duty in Belgium, he witnessed the signing of the armistice. In America, Nov. 11 is Veterans Day, but poppies aren’t worn, so I feel honoured to wear one at a service, for those who gave their lives so we could be free.”

May I begin by sharing with you a personal experience from a time many years ago when I received an unwelcome but valuable message from my devoted father. After World War II was over, I was married and wanted to get on with my life. My memorable mission was finished before my military service. I was not anxious to become a student again and go back to the university where I had started some eight years before. My intended course would require another three years of intensive study, discipline, and poverty. With all of this in mind I said to my father, “I don’t think I will go back to school. I’ll just get a job or start a business and go forward in my life.” Now, my father had completed law school after World War I as an older student with a wife and three children. His response was typically direct. He said bluntly, “What can you do?” His answer was so brutally honest that it hurt, but I could not ignore it. I went back to the university and completed the course. This frank but well-intentioned message changed my life.

The twenty-five children who are learning to read and write on Lubian Sequi’s patio are poor—too poor to afford shoes or uniforms or supplies for public school. Some have no beds at home, but sleep in cardboard boxes on the ground.
Sister Sequi is a small, lovely woman with a smile that warms and comforts. On the chalkboard she has written the words Dios Me Ama (“God Loves Me”). Besides teaching her students reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, science, and etiquette, Sister Sequi begins each day’s classes with a prayer and a lesson from the Bible. She also encourages the children to pray with their families. Sister Sequi provides pencils, notebooks, and chalk for the children who cannot afford them. She uses a lot of visual aids to help the children learn.
Sister Sequi has found most of her students on the streets of Santo Domingo. “Whenever I see a dirty, barefoot, or neglected child, I say to him, ‘Come here. Don’t be afraid. Where do you live?’” Then she goes home with the child to ask permission for the child to attend school in her home.
Once a month, she invites the parents to an evening meeting where they can see how their children are progressing. She also gives a talk to help the parents spiritually and morally. “Our intention is to teach the parents so that they can teach their children better,” she says. Although it is not Sister Sequi’s primary goal to convert, at least one student’s family has been baptized since coming to her school.

Now permit me to diverge from this narrative to say that when I was engaged to marry my wife, I gave her a ring. When we were married, I gave her a wedding band. She wore them for years. Then one day I noticed that she had taken them off and was wearing this little gold wedding band. It had belonged to her grandmother. The ring had been given her by her husband, George. The ring was the only thing he left in this life. One day in the spring, Martha was housecleaning. She brought all of the furnishings out to give the house a thorough cleaning. Upon shaking the straw from the mattress, she looked down, and the ring was gone. She looked everywhere most carefully. It was the only physical remembrance of her beloved husband. She raked through the straw with her fingers but could not find the ring. Tears fell from her eyes. She went to her knees and prayed that the Lord would help her to find the ring. When she opened her eyes, she looked down and there it was.
Now I hold it in my hand. It is too small for all of you to see. It is 18 karat gold, old and scarred and bent. But it represents faith, the faith of a widow who pleaded with the Lord in her extremity. Such faith is the wellspring of activity. It is the root of hope and trust. It is this simple faith that all of us so much need.

Most Saturday afternoons my husband and I make a trip to the grocery store for our weekly supplies and food storage items. Recently, after filling our shopping cart and while waiting to be checked out, we watched the cashier totaling the purchases of customers ahead of us. Nearly all were in sizable double-digit figures. We discussed the high cost of food for large families with limited incomes, elderly people with small pensions, and single parents often with uncertain means. We concluded that in most households resources must be managed very carefully in order to meet current demands.
The economic situation today is sobering. It requires us as women to be very resourceful if we are to meet this challenge successfully and at the same time find satisfaction in doing it well.
A young bride went to be with her husband at an army camp on the edge of a desert. Housing was scarce and costly. All they could afford was a small cabin near an Indian village. The 115-degree heat was unbearable in the daytime. The wind blew constantly, spreading dust and sand over everything. The days were long and lonely. When her husband was ordered into the desert for two weeks of maneuvers, she just couldn’t bear the living conditions any longer, and she wrote to her mother that she was coming home. An almost immediate reply included these lines:
Two men look out from prison bars;
One saw the mud, the other saw the stars.
She read the lines over and over. All right, she would look for the stars.
She determined to make friends with her neighbors, the Indians. She admired their artful weaving and pottery work and asked them to teach her. As soon as they sensed her interest was genuine, they were most willing. She became fascinated with their culture, their history—everything about them. The desert changed from a desolate, forbidding place to a world of wondrous beauty.
What had changed? Not the desert, not her environment; her own attitude transformed a miserable experience into a highly rewarding one. (From Bits and Pieces, Vol. C no. 5, pp. 21–23.)
How might Relief Society enable a woman to look to the stars—stars to steer by? How might Relief Society enable a woman to create an environment of optimism and adventure, while at the same time helping her stretch her dollars and resources by implementing sound economic principles in the home?