Gospel Story Finder

A mother made the following comment after a memorable experience with her child: “One evening I was listening to our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter as she was praying. She was asking Heavenly Father to bless her blanket, her kitten, the trees, and other things that made up her world at that time. I began to wonder if the Lord heard such insignificant little prayers and instantly received a very strong witness through the Spirit that our Father in Heaven was very aware of my daughter and her prayers and that he loved her and knew her well. That spirit stayed with me through the rest of her prayer and gave me a greater feeling of reverence for prayer and for this child that was mine to raise.”

As we pushed across the Arctic, the directing and protecting powers of the Spirit were always present. We had prayed regularly throughout the trip; I had set a pattern and hoped Bob would follow, and he did. For the first week, his prayers were choppy and short. But as we moved further into the wilderness, an emotion began to build. He began to talk to the Lord. He would say please, and when I heard him say it, I knew he was on the way back. As we got into some more difficult situations, he really opened up. Sometimes we would pray a dozen or more times a day. The feeling kept growing that we were not really two alone, but three together—myself, my son, and the Lord.

Late one afternoon we were approaching the mouth of a river at the end of Starvation Lake. As we pulled ashore, the canoe bumped a boulder. We noticed a huge mound of fur nearby. I thought it was a dead animal until it moved and Bob said, “It’s a grizzly. And it isn’t dead, it’s asleep.” We were less than 100 feet from it at that point. Suddenly, it stood up. I thought it would run away, as most bears do. But it was irritated. The hair on its neck raised up, it started swaying its head back and forth, its jaws started moving—you could hear the teeth clacking—and its ears were laid back. I grabbed the camera and Bob grabbed the gun, but we soon decided it wasn’t smart to stay close, and we backed into deeper water. Somehow we had to get by that grizzly.
We pulled into a small draw about 200 feet away and checked on the bear. It had lain back down. So we took the food packs up and came back for the canoe. When we checked on the bear again, it was gone. It couldn’t go the opposite direction from us because of cliffs. It couldn’t go to the right, because of the lake. So we knew it was either going parallel uphill or coming straight for us. It knew where we were, but we didn’t know where it was. Bears will sometimes move up your trail and intercept you, and we were both scared. We knew it might come boiling over the hill any minute. Bob said, “Dad, can we pray, please?” After a prayer and with great caution, we started up the draw, me with the canoe over my head and Bob with the gun.
We broke the ridge about 100 feet from our packs, and it was waiting there for us. If it tasted the food in the packs, we would have to kill it to keep it from destroying the entire supply, and we didn’t want to do that. As a last desperate effort, and with prayer in my heart, I raised the canoe and shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bear swung its huge head around and saw a pair of legs, a body, and a 17-foot aluminum head growling at it. It was startled so badly it took off at a dead run. It took us about four hours to shake the hollow feeling we had after that close encounter, but we both knew the prayer had helped us through.
When we arrived at Point Lake, it was covered with ice floes. Shifting ice floes in a bad wind would crush a small canoe like an egg shell. We made camp, and I asked Bob to pray that night. He exhibited a faith rarely seen. He said, simply, “Father, stop the wind.”
The next day when we got up, it was perfectly still. The lake was smooth as a mirror. But we had 20 miles to cross. Even the slightest breeze once we were on the lake and we would be destroyed. For 20 miles we pushed through the floes. Twice the canoe froze in the ice as we got hemmed in, and we had to jump and pry and push to work our way free. Finally, after 7 1/2 hours, we broke into open waters. No sooner had we cleared the ice floes than the wind began to blow again. It had been a daily companion except for those 7 1/2 hours. We prayed again, this time a prayer of thanks.
It was about that time Bob began talking again about going on his mission. We hadn’t mentioned it much, but then one day he said, “Well, I guess when we get home I’ll start getting ready for my mission.” From then on, he talked about a mission more and more. One night, about 1:00 A.M., after a long, hard day, he rolled over in his sleeping bag and said, “Dad, tell me about eternal life.” We talked for about two hours. Then, with his last effort, he said, “That’s for me,” and fell asleep. For me that made the whole trip worthwhile.
We also had several other experiences that taught us to appreciate the harmony and beauty of nature and the power of its forces and creatures.
One day, after we had reached the Coppermine, we were paddling on the river during a blizzard. It was the end of July and the snow was flying! The current was powerful, but the headwind was so strong we were struggling for progress. Bob said, “Dad, look at the shore.” I did. We were standing still. And when we stopped paddling, the wind blew us upstream! So we stopped and pulled over and gathered what wood we could for a fire to warm our hands.
We were resting there when we saw a herd of caribou coming directly toward us. They looked spooked, but I was sure they’d follow their established trail. They did and swam across the river. Right behind them was a pack of wolves. As the herd came out of the water, there were two old cows lagging behind. A second set of wolves, waiting on the far shore, renewed the pursuit, and soon dragged down a victim. Had we not stopped to warm our hands, we would have missed this spectacle of life and death.
That wasn’t our only experience with wind or with wolves. Headwinds plagued us through much of the early trip. Sometimes they were so strong you could lean into them without falling over; sometimes they literally lifted you off your feet. It’s quite a challenge carrying a canoe over your head in winds like that! Another time winds were so strong we couldn’t even pitch our tent. We just waited them out for two days and slept on the ground.
Another day, Bob had stopped to fish. When he looked up, a large wolf, about 30 feet away across the creek, was staring at him. It followed us for several days. I’m pretty sure he was a dominant wolf that had been driven out of his pack. He still carried his tail curled way up above the top of his back, a sign in the society of the pack that he’s a leader. We finally lost him when we crossed a large lake.
We also drifted up to a large bull moose in the river one time. He was upwind from us and didn’t notice us. I’m sure his antlers were 60 inches wide. We got several good pictures of him before we scared him and he ran away, but those photos were among the two rolls of film that were later destroyed in processing, along with photos of the grizzly bear and the caribou and wolves.
Another time we were hung up on a boulder in a bad set of rapids, and it seemed as though we might stay there forever. But after a prayer and a quick maneuvering of the boat, we broke free.
Once we reached the river, we were determined to make up our lost time. We didn’t mind moving, because when we’d stop we’d start to chill. Even at night we slept cold. The ground was ice, and the wind was cold. We had canned heat, but just enough to warm our food. And so we paddled and rushed on. Our worst day on the river we made three miles. Our best day we made 50, and we went over the falls and swamped at the last set of rapids out of eight we covered that day. The map showed eight sets of rapids, and we decided, because of our haste, to run them without studying them first, a foolish thing to do.
We slowly made up time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had run every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we portaged around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.
To any father who is trying to help his son decide to go on a mission, I would say that the most important thing is to know your son. Not everyone needs to go on a trip down the Coppermine. The same kind of building experiences can take place at home, working in the garage together, playing a game of tennis, maybe just going for a walk where the two of you can be alone. I wouldn’t have gone on the Coppermine if I hadn’t felt inspired to do so.
And to you young men who know you should be going on a mission, I would remind you that for every person there will be wilderness areas, Gethsemanes, Sacred Groves, if you will—places where we learn to rely on the Lord completely and call on him in fervent prayer. Don’t try to tempt the Lord by placing yourself in a dangerous situation, but be prepared to follow the promptings of his Spirit, wherever they may lead you.

When I was two years old, my father died, leaving my mother and six children. My oldest brother, Lincoln, was seventeen at the time and was still in high school.
When he graduated, Lincoln began working full time to support us. He never complained about having to work so hard at such a young age or about not being able to go to college or serve a mission, both of which he wanted so much. Lincoln was always dependable and faithful, and later in life he managed a business and served as a wonderful stake president and mission president. Many people loved him because of his character and his cheerful, gracious personality.
It was Lincoln who taught me how important it is to feel needed.

Several months later, with my mother’s story crowded into the recesses of my mind by school and work, I received an assignment in one of my classes at Brigham Young University to find 8 to 10 primary documents containing the name of one of my ancestors.
My genealogical training to that point consisted of singing the Primary song “Family History—I Am Doing It,” but grades weren’t negotiable in my mind, so I began at the only place I could think to start—Orla’s family. I looked her up on a pedigree chart and traced her line back until I found her grandfather, Joseph Argyle Jr.
One afternoon, I made the trek across the BYU campus to the library and into the family history library. I explained to a worker who Joseph Argyle was and the little information I knew about him.
For the next two hours, that worker guided me through a treasure hunt, which took us all over the library. We searched records of Mormon passengers on emigrant vessels, discovering that Joseph and his family crossed the Atlantic on a ship. Later that year, he traveled to Salt Lake Valley with the Ellsworth handcart company, which we found in a record book of handcart companies. We looked through the Endowment House records (found where he received his temple ordinances), the Utah death index (he lived to 84), and old Church membership records (there he was).
In an online database of Utah newspaper archives, I found a front-page obituary for my great-great-great grandfather. Published in the Davis County Clipper in February 1927, every sentence contained an interesting fact, such as Joseph’s contribution to the building of the Salt Lake Temple.
“He has the credit of having hauled the largest stone put in that building which weighed 13,000 pounds,” the article read.
I began to get a glimpse of the impact we can have on future generations when I discovered he had 88 descendants at the time of his death, a number which increased exponentially in the past 79 years.
Every time I found another document with my ancestors’ names on it, I felt a little tingle of excitement run through my body. It was like a mystery novel, putting all the pieces together, little by little beginning to understand who this man was. I became so immersed in learning about my ancestor, I didn’t leave until late in the afternoon, almost missing work!
I completed the assignment and received an A, but even more importantly, I created a tangible connection with one of my relatives. Joseph Argyle left his home, sailed across the ocean, traveled to Utah and helped build the temple, all because he believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a legacy which I inherited and which gives me the strength to fight my own battles in the 21st century.

Sidney Harris tells us of a tremendous example of this very thing in French history: “One of the loveliest examples is a note that Corot, the painter, sent to his friend, Daumier, who was nearly blind and facing eviction on his 65th birthday. ‘Friend, I have a little house at Valmondois which I could not for the life of me think what to do with. Suddenly, I thought to give it to you. Liking the idea, I have had your ownership legally confirmed. I had no idea of doing you a good turn. The whole scheme was carried out to annoy your landlord. Ever yours, Corot.’ And Daumier wrote gratefully in reply. ‘You are the only man from whom I could take such a present and not feel humiliated.’” We must always leave a person’s self-respect intact.

I should like to conclude by relating one recent experience which had an impact on hundreds. It occurred at the cultural celebration for the Kansas City Temple, just five months ago. As with so much that happens in our lives, at the time it seemed to be just another experience where everything worked out. However, as I learned of the circumstances associated with the cultural celebration the evening before the temple was dedicated, I realized that the performance that night was not ordinary. Rather, it was quite remarkable.
As with all cultural events held in conjunction with temple dedications, the youth in the Kansas City Missouri Temple District had rehearsed the performance in separate groups in their own areas. The plan was that they would meet all together in the large rented municipal center on the Saturday morning of the performance so that they could learn when and where to enter, where they were to stand, how much space should be between them and the person next to them, how to exit the main floor, and so forth—many details which they would have to grasp during the day as those in charge put the various scenes together so that the final performance would be polished and professional.
There was just one major problem that day. The entire production was dependent on prerecorded segments that would be shown on the large screen known as a Jumbotron. These recorded segments were critical to the entire production. They not only tied it all together, but each televised segment would introduce the next performance. The video segments provided the framework on which the entire production depended. And the Jumbotron was not working.
Technicians worked frantically to solve the problem while the youth waited, hundreds of them, losing precious rehearsal time. The situation began to look impossible.
The writer and director of the celebration, Susan Cooper, later explained: “As we moved from plan A to B to Z, we knew that it wasn’t working. … As we were looking at the schedule, we knew that it was going to be beyond us, but we knew that we had one of the greatest strengths on the floor below—3,000 youth. We needed to go down and tell [them] what was happening and draw upon their faith.”3
Just an hour before the audience would begin to enter the center, 3,000 youth knelt on the floor and prayed together. They prayed that those working on the Jumbotron would be inspired to know what to do to repair it; they asked their Heavenly Father to make up for what they themselves could not do because of the shortage of time.
Said one who wrote about it afterward, “It was a prayer the youth will never forget, not because the floor was hard, but because the Spirit melted their bones.”4
It was not long before one of the technicians came to tell them that the problem had been discovered and corrected. He attributed the solution to luck, but all those youth knew better.
When we entered the municipal center that evening, we had no idea of the difficulties of the day. Only later did we learn of them. What we witnessed, however, was a beautiful, polished performance—one of the best I have seen. The youth radiated a glorious, powerful spirit which was felt by all who were present. They seemed to know just where to enter, where to stand, and how to interact with all the other performers around them. When I learned that their rehearsals had been cut short and that many of the numbers had not been rehearsed by the entire group, I was astonished. No one would have known. The Lord had indeed made up the difference.

It was back to the typical summer problem. I wasn’t 16, so I couldn’t get a real job, but I needed money just the same. My parents were working hard to keep my six younger brothers and sisters and me fed, and I knew my begging for money just gave them ulcers. I still had my paper route, but I didn’t make much from it. I tried selling worms as fish bait, but they all died in the bin I put them in. I found a few weeding jobs, but it wasn’t steady work.
Then, about halfway through the summer, my grandparents from Wyoming came to visit for a few weeks. Grandpa was a tall, skinny farmer who had worked most of his life either in the oil industry or on his land. I told him about my job history during the summer. He smiled quietly.
“So, you think you need money?” he asked. I assured him I did. “Come with me tomorrow,” he continued. “I’ll show you how to make money.” I went to bed that night dreaming of my increased cash and large savings account. I hadn’t slept very long, though, when Grandpa jostled me awake. His fluorescent watch glared 5:30 A.M. at my sleepy eyes.
“Get dressed. We’ve got to get started early.” I crawled out of bed, longing for the usual lazy summer sleep-in. We got in his truck and drove about five minutes to a cherry orchard. A grizzled old man was standing by the warehouse along with some other guys.
“Wes,” Grandpa said, “my grandson and I are here to pick cherries.”
“Well, Lawrence, you know I can always use some good workers,” the old man said. I found out later they had been friends a long time. Wes explained to me how he had to keep the stems on each cherry and showed me how to avoid damaging the trees while picking. He checked us out some buckets and pointed out a row of trees to pick. Grandpa grabbed a ladder, and we swished through the tall crabgrass along with the other guys to our first tree. I started picking on the low branches around the bottom of the tree on one side. It was then I realized that I had forgotten the most important part.
“How much do we get paid an hour for picking these cherries?” I asked. Grandpa just laughed a little. “You don’t get paid by the hour on this job,” he said. “You get paid by the pound.” I thought a minute and asked how much we would get for a pound.
“Ten cents,” he said. I looked at the small amount in the bottom of my bucket and thought that it must take an awful lot of cherries to make a pound. Pretty soon Grandpa emptied his bucket. “You see,” he said, “I like this work because you decide how much you make. If you get up early and work hard, you can pick a thousand pounds a day.”
We kept working our way around the tree, and pretty soon all the cherries that were easy to reach were gone. I drifted over to the next tree and started pulling the juice-laden cherries into my bucket. My fingers were getting scratched and sticky, and as the sun came up I could feel that it would be a hot July day. My grandpa noticed me at the other tree and told me you never start a new tree until you’re finished with the one you’re working on. I got out a ladder, and we started picking again. Grandpa even climbed to the highest branches until we had every cherry.
“The best cherries are at the top,” he told me. Finally, we moved on. The sun got higher in the sky, and we kept working. I got tired, and Grandpa said we couldn’t stop until lunch. I kept picking and picking, and the sweat ran down my forehead. I couldn’t believe how fast Grandpa worked. The whole time, he would tell me stories. Finally, he said it was time to eat. We got down out of the tree, and he handed me a jelly sandwich and some cold water. He ate quickly and was right back up the tree. I sat around a little longer and then went back up. I was amazed at how hard we could work.
I admit I kind of loafed in the hot afternoon, not working as hard as I could. Grandpa was just steady as could be. Wes finally came by with a tractor. We put our cherries on the back, and the day was over. We weighed in. In pounds, I had about a fourth of the cherries Grandpa did. Wes asked us if we wanted to be paid, and I was ready, but Grandpa said we would be working the two weeks of harvest so he could just pay us at the end. I realized then that I was really in for some hard work.
By the end of two weeks, I almost got used to getting up so early. I was proud to finally be able to pick about half what my grandpa did on the last day. I also learned some things about Grandpa’s life, like how hard it was to find a job in the Depression, or how he missed his son (my uncle), who was killed in Vietnam.
But the main thing I figured out was that I didn’t need money; I needed to work. If you work hard, the money takes care of itself. When I got the check, it was much larger than I had expected. Grandpa had added his cherries from the two weeks to mine, as long as I promised to save half for a mission.
Now I am amazed that Grandpa would use his vacation to teach me how to earn money, but I’ll always be grateful.

A couple of years ago, my grandson Christian was turning eight and planning his baptismal service with great anticipation. He asked his mother if I could be one of the speakers and share my conversion story. When I asked him why he wanted me to do that, he replied, “Grandma, that is so important. Do you realize that if you hadn’t accepted the gospel, I wouldn’t be getting baptized? I wouldn’t even be who I am.”

I don’t know if missionaries realize the far-reaching impact of their work. In my own family, the blessings of the gospel have now touched four generations. Didn’t President Gordon B. Hinckley say that “when we save a girl, we save generations”? I got married in the temple and have eight children. They are all faithful members of the Church, endowed in the temple. Six of them are now married and have their own children. At present there are 34 of us. And that is not all. Both my husband and I served missions, and our two sons and three of our six daughters have also served missions. Collectively we have helped hundreds embrace the gospel in many countries. Some of those converts and their children have also served missions.

Missionary work is the lifeblood of the Church. There is no greater work, no more important work. It blesses the lives of all those who participate in it. It will continue blessing future generations.

Some members of my extended family are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They used to visit a lot, and they asked a lot of questions about some of the things we do. They even tried to contradict and oppose what we believe.
It was sometimes really complicated, because I couldn’t find the words to explain my beliefs. But I knew that if I tried to gain knowledge, the Spirit would help me know what to do.
Even now, people sometimes ask things like, “Why do you do this? Why do you say this?” They question me a lot when I’m talking about my testimony. Sometimes I feel afraid and think, “What will they say? What will they think of me?” or “They’re going to think I’m crazy.”
But I know that my testimony is strong. When I really share what I know, I can move forward. When I confront my fears and speak openly about what I feel and what I know is good, I can progress and improve.
Heavenly Father loves us. He can help us share the gospel and bring more people to Jesus Christ.
Since sharing this story when she was 17, Angie has begun serving as a missionary in Brazil!

But I knew I wasn’t. The guy they wanted was a scraggly haired high school dropout I’d worked with in a fast food restaurant when I was 16. He knew we shared the same birthday, and while I was hitting the books at school, he was hitting gas stations and stealing cars. When he was arrested and had no I.D. on him, he decided to use my name.
A mix-up in fingerprint files attached his prints to my name and driver’s license. He used my identity whenever he was arrested, which was often. I realized something was wrong when warrants for my arrest began arriving in the mail. To convince the police I was innocent, I had to be fingerprinted again to show my prints didn’t match his. The police then gave me a card I called my “get out of jail free” card. It stated I was not the fugitive wanted for numerous outstanding warrants, and gave a phone number to call for verification.
They told me to carry the card with me at all times, but I didn’t dream I’d have to have it on me when I was at home taking out the trash.
Looking the deputy in the eye and trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “There’s a guy going around committing crimes using my name. I have a card from the police that tells all about it.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the deputy said, “All right, let’s see it.”
He then stayed right on my heels as I went to my room, where I fished the card from my wallet. He kept one eye on me as he read, then dialed the number on the card.
“Looks like you check out,” he said as he handed the card back to me. “Sorry to scare you.”
Just then my mom walked in. She was surprised to see the stranger, and worried to see my shaken appearance.
The deputy quickly explained. He said that once a positive identification of the suspect is made, an officer is under no obligation to listen to explanations or arguments. He can just say, “You’re under arrest,” handcuff the suspect, read him his rights, then haul him off to jail.
“But,” he said to my mom, “your son didn’t look like a car thief, so I did something I rarely do—I gave him the benefit of the doubt and listened.”
I learned a powerful lesson that day about the importance of appearance. I was grateful I had a “missionary style” haircut and could look the deputy in the eye knowing I had nothing to hide. He saw who I truly was in my countenance. People do sometimes judge one another by appearance, and it’s important that the outside reflect what’s on the inside.

Peter really missed Grandpa. Mom and Dad had said that Grandpa wouldn’t be home until summer was over. Grandpa was in Kansas, helping people learn about the Church, and he was happy. Peter wanted Grandpa to be happy, but he also wanted to show Grandpa how much he’d grown and how he could ride his bike without the training wheels and how many new birds and little animals he’d found in the woods where he and Grandpa always walked together.
One afternoon a thick envelope addressed to Peter came in the mail. It was from Grandpa, and inside was a small packet and a short letter. Inside the packet were five large black-and-white striped seeds. Mom read the letter to Peter:
“Dear Peter,
Here is a mission surprise for you. Find a nice sunny place by the fence to plant the seeds. If you water them a little every day, you will grow something that we can share with our special friends.
Love,Grandpa”
Mom gave Peter a big, old spoon, and Peter dug five little holes in the soft, warm soil by the fence. He put one seed in each hole, then covered it with soil and patted it down with his hand.
Peter found a watering can in the shed and watered the ground every day, just as Grandpa had told him. But nothing happened. Peter told Mom, “I don’t think Grandpa’s seeds are going to grow.”
Mom smiled at him. “You have to be patient,” she said. “It will probably take at least another week before they push up out of the ground.”
“How many days are in a week?” Peter asked. “I want to see what the mission surprise is. Besides, the sooner the seeds grow, the sooner Grandpa will be home.”
“There are seven days in a week,” Mom told Peter. “Look. Every morning when you get up, cross off one day on this calendar. When you get to this one with the circle around it, you will know that a week has passed.”
So Peter watered the seeds and marked the calendar every day. And sure enough, on the day that was circled, five little green bumps were coming out of the ground!
Soon the bumps were little plants, and then they were big plants! Peter was astonished each time he watered them at how much they grew every day. Soon they were taller than he was, and he still didn’t know what they were or whom he and Grandpa were going to share them with.
One flower grew at the top of each tall plant. Peter had never seen such big flowers. They were even bigger than Mom’s dinner plates, and they followed the sun all day.
Before long summer was nearly over, and Peter was worried. The flowers had gotten so fat that they drooped over and no longer followed the sun. Would they die before Grandpa came home? How could he and Grandpa share dead flowers with their friends? And Peter still didn’t know who the special friends were.
Then one bright sunny afternoon, Grandpa came home. “I see you took good care of the sunflowers, Peter,” he said. “Let’s go cut them down and dry out the seeds. They’ll be a wonderful treat for our special friends this winter.”
Sunflower seeds! Now Peter understood—and he could guess who the special friends were too. All the little animals and the birds would be very happy to share Grandpa’s mission surprise.

Jonathan Wright could see a square piece of world from his bedroom window. He had seen the same square piece every day for the last year and a half. That’s how long he had been bedridden. The doctor had said that he had a rare blood disease and that he would die from it.
Jonathan had decided to take each day, each hour, each moment as special. And sacred. He also decided, after talks with his parents and his Heavenly Father, that since life and death, and life beyond death, are all a part of one great whole, it would be best to look for things to be happy about and to fill whatever time he had remaining with meaningful memories to keep him company in his lonely hours. Like memories of the smile his father gave him each day when he came home from the mill. And of the hugs his mother gave him, which soothed his very soul.
Reading the scriptures helped calm his occasional fears and strengthen his faith.
His little brother Spencer’s practical jokes—like putting his pet garden snake beneath the lid of the serving tray when his mother brought him supper—helped him to laugh. He was cheered, too, by all the little kindnesses that his family and others did for him. Spencer, for instance, saved all year to buy him a stereoscope so he could see three-dimensional pictures of faraway places.
Jonathan’s thoughts were distracted by the grinding of Mr. Walpole’s ice wagon. He always made deliveries on Tuesday. So, Jonathan thought, it must be Tuesday. And he would make it a grand Tuesday! The morning sun burnt gold off the Henry Mountains behind the small town, its misted rays stretching all the way to Jonathan’s street, Murphy Lane. It also shone on the sandlot next to Murphy’s Wagon and Automobile Garage, where each afternoon most of the children on Maple Street gathered to play ball. And it shone in Jonathan’s window—the best way for a day to start.
Jonathan wished he could help others the way he saw his father and Spencer helping Mrs. Beaufort across the street. His father was mending her picket fence. The week before, Arnold McKillop’s Model-T had crashed through it when Arnold swerved to keep from hitting Elias Stone’s three-legged dog, Tuff. Tuff had lost his leg from an infection, and Mr. Stone had yelled, “You’d like to see my dog trying to drag his leftovers around on two legs, wouldn’t you, McKillop!”
Jonathan had seen it all from his window. He looked now at Mr. Stone’s run-down house on the corner. His weed-filled yard matched the house—and Elias Stone himself, somehow. But maybe Mr. Stone has cause to look that way, Jonathan thought one day as he watched the tall, bearded man walk down the crookedy path to his mailbox. Elias jerked open the box to find nothing but blackness inside, as he always did. Then he shuffled back into his grim, paint-chipped house, the screen door whining shut behind him.
One day, Jonathan watched as Elias shooed away a child who was fetching a ball from the old man’s yard.
“Get out of my yard, you little snippety-snap!” the man bellowed. “The next time you throw your ball over here, I’ll feed it to my dog and that will be that!”
“Why is Mr. Stone so grumpy, Dad?” Jonathan had asked.
“From what I hear, Mr. Stone was the first one to move into the area,” Jonathan’s father explained. “His wife and child died when some epidemic came through town, and it changed him. As people moved in, he started shutting them out. He just sort of gave up on life and most everything else.
“Many have tried to be friendly, including your mom and me. Your mom baked bread especially for him more than once, but he refused it each time. I went over to see if I could help fix a wheel on his wagon about a year ago, and he told me to mind my own business. It’s sad, but one can only do so much. No one can force someone to change, Son. All a body can do is try.”
I haven’t tried yet, Jonathan thought. But what can I do?
The next day Jonathan saw Mr. Stone again trudge from his house to his rusty mailbox by the road and gaze into its usual black emptiness. He closed it slowly, turned up his collar against a little blast of wind that rolled a wave of autumn leaves up the street, and was about to start toward the house but then turned to regard the sight. He stared at the tumbling leaves as if they were scattered pages from a sad book, discarded, coming back to haunt him.
Suddenly the screen door was banging shut and Mr. Stone was gone again. Jonathan gazed at the shabby mailbox. “That’s what I can do,” Jonathan said out loud to himself. “I can write Mr. Stone a letter. No one else ever seems to.”
So Jonathan did. He wrote a letter introducing himself as the boy in the window. He wrote about his going to die and about how he didn’t have any time to feel bad about his circumstances, because the people he loved kept him busy feeling good about himself. He wrote that maybe if Mr. Stone let others into his heart, he could be happy too.
He ended with an invitation: “If you ever want someone to talk to, you could come and talk to me. Bring your dog if you want to. I’m always here. And if you don’t like to talk, I have lots of puzzles. One has two cowboys trying to rope a bear in the woods. Another one has a clown wiping tears from a child’s face. I live across the street in the green house. You can’t miss it.” Jonathan signed his name, folded and slipped the letter into an envelope, and asked Spencer to stamp it and take it to the post office right away.
The next day when Elias went to the mailbox, he opened it as usual and was about to close it as usual, then paused and reached inside, withdrawing an envelope. He opened it and read the letter. Then he looked across the street. Jonathan waved a tentative little wave. Elias narrowed an eye, grunted, and went back inside, the screen door closing with its customary bang!
Jonathan sighed and leaned back against the stack of pillows. Maybe writing a letter wasn’t such a good idea, after all. But mustering fresh courage, he opened his tablet and began another. Maybe, Jonathan thought, like one little match can’t melt an iceberg, one letter can’t get past all the pain of Mr. Stone’s misfortunes. But maybe two, or three, or four will.
In his second, third, and fourth letters, Jonathan wrote about how he knew that beyond the grave families could be rejoined, that if each of us tries daily to live God’s commandments the best we can and extend ourselves to others, the Lord will also help us now.
Each day Jonathan watched Elias Stone take his letter from the mailbox and read it. And each day he saw the tall man’s look softening.
One day a knock came at the door of the boy’s house. Through her surprise, Jonathan’s mother smiled pleasantly at Elias, who stood there holding up a handful of letters. Tuff sat at his feet.
“Your boy has been writing me letters!”
“I see. And you want him to stop, is that it, Mr. Stone?”
“What I want, Mrs. Wright,” he faltered, his eyes lifting slowly toward hers, “is to talk to him … if I may.”
Jonathan’s mother studied the bearded man for an uncertain moment; then, moved by a tear he quickly blinked away, she nodded and smiled again. “You may.”
“Can his dog come in, too, Mama?” Spencer, who was standing close beside her, begged.
“Of course.”
“Don’t play too rough with Tuff, boy,” Elias cautioned bluntly but not unkindly. “He can’t afford to lose another leg.”
Jonathan’s mother tapped on his bedroom door. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“OK, Mama.”
The door opened and Elias Stone edged into the little room.
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Jonathan’s mother said respectfully. Elias nodded appreciatively, and she was gone.
Jonathan swallowed hard and greeted his visitor. “Mr. Stone.”
“Mr. Wright.” Elias held up a handful of letters. “I lost my wife and child many years ago,” he blurted out with a kind of embarrassed desperation.
“Yes, I know.”
“You do, do you?” Elias seemed surprised. A burning need drove out more words almost on top of one another. “You also said that you know there’s a uniting of loved ones after death. How can you say you know that, boy?”
Jonathan picked up his Bible and Book of Mormon from his bedside stand. “The scriptures tell me so, Mr. Stone,” he replied.
Late that night a light was still shining from beneath Jonathan’s door. Elias Stone had gone in at five o’clock and had not come out. When the door did open, Jonathan’s family beheld a man whose eyes were red from the scouring effect of tears working upon loosed bitterness, eyes now filled with peace. His mouth trembled with a ragged smile and these stumbling words: “Sorry to have kept your boy up so late, good people.”
Jonathan’s father struggled past his amazement. “Are you all right, Mr. Stone?”
“For the first time in years.”
After Elias Stone left with his three-legged companion, Jonathan’s family hurried, wondering, into his room. Jonathan was at the window, watching Elias’s dim form moving across the dusky street with Tuff at his side. Elias’s step seemed lighter.
“Tell us what happened, honey,” Jonathan’s mother said.
Jonathan looked back to his family, then tapped the scriptures lying open beside him on the bed. “A kind of miracle, Mama … a kind of miracle. …”

A temple dedication committee came up with two ideas—a poster and a rug—that would help the children feel that this was their temple. Primary children were given posters with a beautiful picture of the San Diego Temple. Underneath the picture, the children wrote down their goals in preparing for the dedication. Angela Pedroza, who lives in Ensenada, Mexico, was excited to write down her goals: saying her daily prayers, beginning to read the Book of Mormon, respecting her parents, and taking friends to see the temple. Writing these goals on the poster helped Angela as well as many other children remember the importance of the temple and what they could do to prepare to go to the Lord’s house.

Despite our best efforts to raise children who love the Lord, follow His commandments, and live happy, productive, and healthy lives, our sons and daughters sometimes go astray. Straying can mean involvement in drug abuse, criminal activity, immorality, and even abuse of parents and others. Other forms of drifting, perhaps less serious but nevertheless troubling, include underachieving, dropping out of school, and finding little purpose or happiness in life.
Typical parental reactions include sorrow, despair, desperation, depression, feelings of guilt and unworthiness, and a sense of failure. In such circumstances, parents may also experience anger and withdrawal and may feel like simply giving up. These reactions usually make matters worse, deepening the problems they face.
My wife and I have friends who, because of their son’s behavior, have suffered almost every emotion identified above. The past five or six years have been a hideous nightmare for them. They have tried every possible approach, even placing their son in expensive rehabilitation programs in which he typically lasts only a week, despite his good intentions.
The father shared his lament and his hope in these words: “There is no how-to book for parents with young people like our son. You pray to the Lord that He will guide your thoughts and your actions, and you hope you will make wise decisions.” He and his wife, firm in their faith, declare: “We have the ultimate hope that because he has been sealed to us in the temple, the bonds of eternal covenants will be stronger than the bonds of the adversary that now seem to grip his life. We live with hope that the day will come when he will return to his eternal family and repent of his way of life.”
Our friends represent thousands of others in similar circumstances who are meeting challenges almost beyond their capacity to endure. Trials of parenthood are most often associated with children’s growing-up years, but these challenges can arise with children of any age. As parents, we don’t cease our concerns when our children reach adulthood.

President Thomas S. Monson lives this principle better than anyone I know. There is ever present in his heart a prayer that God will reveal needs and means for him to assist those around him in any given day or moment of the day. One example from his time as a bishop illustrates the fact that sometimes even a little effort may, with the workings of the Spirit, yield remarkable fruit.
“One to whom [President Monson] reached out was Harold Gallacher. His wife and children were active in the Church, but not Harold. His daughter Sharon had asked Bishop Monson if he would ‘do something’ to bring her father back into activity. As a bishop, he felt prompted one day to call on Harold. It was a hot summer’s day when he knocked on Harold’s screen door. The bishop could see Harold sitting in his chair, smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper. ‘Who is it?’ Harold asked sullenly, without looking up.
“‘Your bishop,’ Tom replied. ‘I’ve come to get acquainted and to urge your attendance with your family at our meetings.’
“‘No, I’m too busy,’ came the disdainful response. He never looked up. Tom thanked him for listening and departed the doorstep. The family moved without Harold ever attending services.
“Years later … Brother Gallacher phoned the office of Elder Thomas S. Monson and asked to make an appointment to see him.
“… When the two met some time later, they embraced. Harold said, ‘I’ve come to apologize for not getting out of my chair and letting you in the door that summer day long years ago.’ Elder Monson asked him if he [was] active in the Church. With a wry smile, Harold replied: ‘I’m now second counselor in my ward bishopric. Your invitation to come out to church, and my negative response, so haunted me that I determined to do something about it.’”

If an obnoxious weed tucked deep in a flower bed seems to heave a smug sigh of relief when the local teenager shows up to mow the grass—because, hey, a teenager coming to do a quick job is no big threat to its existence, right?—then that moment of satisfaction is going to be short-lived if 13-year-old Nathan D. is the one behind the mower.
Nathan started mowing lawns for his neighbors in 2012. He knows how to keep customers happy, in part because he believes in not merely doing the job right but also in doing a bit more than is required.
Once he turns off the mower at a job, he double-checks the lawn. “Make sure everything is done right and that you haven’t missed any spots,” he advises to others interested in lawn care.
After that, it’s time for the little something extra. “Before leaving the job you’ve done,” Nathan says, “look for some extra things that wouldn’t take much time to do.” Pulling stray weeds is one of his favorites.
As a result of his income, Nathan has also learned great budgeting skills. Now in his second year of mowing lawns, Nathan has been able to buy school clothes and save for a mission.

“We think Australia is the greatest!” said Bill Foggle as he and the other young Latter-day Saints rushed to explain some of the unique and unusual facts about their homeland and its inhabitants.
Young Latter-day Saints in Sydney often meet together to do service projects, work on the local Church welfare farms, participate in sports, and see the sights of their fair city. On this Saturday the young people met at the famous Sydney Opera House, then took the ferryboat across the harbour to Taronga Zoo, where they laughed at the animals’ antics and lunched on meat pies and chips.
From the zoo, the young people caught another boat ride back to the Rocks area on the western shore of Sydney Cove. Here they caught a glimpse of the very early colonial life of the city. After a walk under the bridge and a stop at the Argyle Center to see some aboriginal art and shops featuring Australian sheepskins, pottery, and needlework, the day was gone. Bill and his friends had to hustle back to the opera house parking lot where everyone said their good-byes and ta-ta’s and went their separate ways for home.

When I was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes, it was very hard for me. I had to prick my finger every two hours and get a lot of shots from my mom every day. Sometimes it hurt.
Then last year my mom and I decided to start looking for the good side of having diabetes. First, I have made new friends who also have diabetes. They help me a lot. I can help others who have diabetes by babysitting for their families or by talking and listening.
My brothers have also been blessed by learning to have patience and to be loving when I don’t feel well. The school nurse is my friend, and I’ve been blessed with Primary teachers who understand and help me. In our family we hug and support each other more.
The blessings of diabetes are all around me. I am thankful that my parents teach me to seek and find these special blessings. I know my Heavenly Father always blesses me and always will.Heidi Millett, age 8, and her mom, Queen Creek, Arizona

In my youth I gained a great respect for this power, especially as it was manifest in priesthood blessings. While serving as a young missionary in Chile, my companion and I were arrested and separated. We were never told why. It was a time of great political upheaval. Thousands of people were taken into custody by the military police and never heard from again.
After being interrogated, I sat alone in a jail cell, not knowing if I would ever see my loved ones again. I turned to my Heavenly Father, fervently pleading: “Father, I have always been taught that Thou watcheth over Thy missionaries. Please, Father, I am nothing special, but I have been obedient and I need Thy help tonight.”
The seeds of this help had been planted many years earlier. After my baptism, I was confirmed a member of the Church and given the gift of the Holy Ghost. As I prayed, alone, behind bars, the Holy Ghost immediately came to me and comforted me. He brought to my mind a very special passage from my patriarchal blessing, which is another blessing of the priesthood. In it, God promised me that through my faithfulness I would be able to be sealed in the temple for time and eternity to a woman full of beauty and virtue and love, that we would become the parents of precious sons and daughters, and that I would be blessed and magnified as a father in Israel.
Those inspired words about my future filled my soul with peace. I knew that they had come from my loving Heavenly Father, who always keeps His promises. In that moment, I had the assurance that I would be released and live to see those promises fulfilled.
About a year later, Heavenly Father did bless me with a wife who is full of beauty and virtue and love. Lynette and I were sealed in the temple. We were blessed with three precious sons and four precious daughters. I became a father, all according to God’s promises in the patriarchal blessing I received as a 17-year-old boy.

Back in Manchester, a young man named Oliver Cowdery was staying with Joseph’s parents. Oliver was a year younger than Joseph, and in the fall of 1828 he had begun teaching school about a mile south of the Smiths’ farm.
Teachers often boarded with the families of their students, and when Oliver heard rumors about Joseph and the gold plates, he asked if he could stay with the Smiths. At first he gleaned few details from the family. The stolen manuscript and local gossip had made them wary to the point of silence.15
But during the winter of 1828–29, as Oliver taught the Smith children, he earned the trust of his hosts. Around this time, Joseph Sr. had come back from a trip to Harmony with a revelation declaring that the Lord was about to begin a marvelous work.16 By then Oliver had proven to be a sincere seeker of truth, and Joseph’s parents opened up to him about their son’s divine calling.17
What they said captivated Oliver, and he longed to help with the translation. Like Joseph, Oliver was dissatisfied with modern churches and believed in a God of miracles who still revealed His will to people.18 But Joseph and the gold plates were far away, and Oliver did not know how he could help the work if he stayed in Manchester.
One spring day, as rain was falling hard against the Smiths’ roof, Oliver told the family he wanted to go to Harmony to help Joseph when the school term was over. Lucy and Joseph Sr. urged him to ask the Lord if his desires were right.19
Retiring to his bed, Oliver prayed privately to know if what he had heard about the gold plates was true. The Lord showed him a vision of the gold plates and Joseph’s efforts to translate them. A peaceful feeling rested over him, and he knew then that he should volunteer to be Joseph’s scribe.20
Oliver told no one about his prayer. But as soon as the school term ended, he and Joseph’s brother Samuel set out on foot for Harmony, more than 100 miles (160 km) away. The road was cold and muddy from spring rain, and Oliver had a frostbitten toe by the time he and Samuel arrived at Joseph and Emma’s door. Yet he was eager to meet the couple and see for himself how the Lord worked through the young prophet.21