Gospel Story Finder

Sept. 13, 1853 I was stopped by ruffians. They said they would sink me in the Bay. (It made me mad.) I asked them if I could say a few words and I commenced to talk. I told them it was their religion that slew righteous Abel, killed the prophets, crucified the Savior and put his disciples to death, persecuted the Saints, martyred the Prophets Joseph Smith and Hyrum, and drove the Latter-day Saints, men, women, and children, into the deserts and mountains among the hostile Indians to suffer death and starvation. Then I told something about the religion of Jesus Christ. The sun was just setting when I stopped, as I saw the man of the sloop coming toward me. He wanted to know if I was ready to go. I told him yes. Says I, “I thought you would have been gone long ago.” “No,” says he, “there has been no wind.” We started for the boat. (Some of my persecutors begged me to forgive them. Says I, “Repent of your sins, be baptized, and get forgiveness of them.”) (11)

Says I, “How long have I detained you in talking to them people.” He said, “About one hour and a half, but there has been no wind.” The wind then began to rise. We made a quick trip over (in silence). As soon as we landed I started to go to Mr. P. Lewis’s. Says he, “Hold on, you must take supper with me.” I was surprised as he had always been my enemy. Says I, “I do not want to be late to meeting.” Says he, “You will not have to wait long. I am going to your meeting.” When we got in the man went in the kitchen. I heard his wife say, “What have you brought that fellow here for?” Says he, “To supper.” And says to her, “I never heard such preaching before as he gave the sailors and roughs. … They were going to drown him and he talked to them by the power of God; and I am going to his meeting and I want you to go. Hurry up the supper.”

The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times. In one memorable incident, a sister missionary called with allergic reaction symptoms. She had eaten mussels and was experiencing throat itching and nausea. As they talked, her symptoms escalated.
“Her tongue and face were swelling, she could hardly swallow, was drooling, coughing and developed a rash,” Sister Warwood remembers. She coordinated care, managing four phones at the same time—with the missionary, her leaders, transportation, and the urgent care centre—so they would be prepared to treat her on arrival.
“The urgent care answered right away,” she marvels, “no eternal ‘on hold’, as usual.” The missionary received immediate treatment. “Everything went so smoothly,” Sister Warwood reflects. The Lord’s hand was undeniable in this event.

President Spencer W. Kimball also recognized the benefits of taking on a challenging goal. He told this story of a goal he made when he was 14:
“When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, … I walked to my home a block away … and I read the first chapters of Genesis. …
“I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.”
That amount of reading wasn’t easy for a teenager, but nevertheless President Kimball persevered and completed his goal. As an adult, he said, “I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover.”
President Kimball benefited from taking the time to think through the logistics of his goal. Even though it sounded daunting, the information prepared him to succeed. As was the case with President Kimball, reaching for and achieving a challenging goal at a young age can bring feelings of confidence and satisfaction to serve us throughout life.

Although not very active in the Church when I was 14, I was invited to attend seminary. By divine design, the Lord blessed me with a simple but profound answer to a prayer only a couple of days earlier and I was prepared to accept the invitation. That year, we studied the Book of Mormon. Through the support of a loving teacher and my classmates, I accepted the invitation to read the Book of Mormon during the year. More importantly, I accepted the prophet Moroni’s invitation to ask God if the book was true. (See Moroni 10:3–5.)
Shortly after starting seminary, I approached my Father in Heaven again, with a sincere heart and real intent, wanting to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was true, and whether Joseph Smith had translated it by the gift and power of God as he had claimed. That same feeling I’d experienced earlier washed over me. That feeling of pure love burned through me, and I knew—absolutely knew—that the Book of Mormon was the word of God.
Simultaneously, I knew that because the Book of Mormon was true, Jesus Christ was my Saviour, Joseph Smith was His prophet, foreordained to restore the Lord’s true Church on this earth, and that a living prophet on the earth gave counsel and guidance that I needed to follow as I tried to live the commandments and standards of the Church. Those were profound things to know as a 14-year-old boy.
That knowledge changed me. I wanted to be good. I wanted to do the right things, and when I made mistakes, I felt sorry for what I had done, I repented, and relied on the Lord to help me to do better. My faith in Jesus Christ grew daily through my strengthening testimony and understanding of the teachings in the Book of Mormon.

A few years ago, my wife and I served as a resource to a little inner-city branch of the Church. Our meetings were held in one of the most troubled neighborhoods of a large eastern city.
One Sunday, right in the middle of the branch sacrament meeting, a woman walked in the door off the street. A homeless woman, she was wearing dirty, ragged clothes, and she was coughing, choking, and blowing her nose into a filthy handkerchief. In a loud, hoarse voice, she said, “I want to sing! I want to pray!” and walked right to the front row, sat down next to a member who was wearing a white blouse, leaned against her, and laid her head on her shoulder. The member immediately put her arms around this guest and held her in her arms throughout the remainder of the meeting.
It happened that the speaker had been talking about the parable of the Good Samaritan as the woman came in. As this woman coughed and choked, the speaker continued telling of the parable. As he came to the end of his talk and was quoting a relevant scripture, suddenly, in a loud voice, this homeless woman finished giving the verse that the speaker had begun.
In talking of this after sacrament meeting with the speaker, we thought it had probably been a long time since someone had affectionately put an arm around our visitor. We wondered what better illustration you could have of the parable of the Good Samaritan than what we had just seen, and we were reminded of the Savior’s words that preceded His telling of that parable, “Thou shalt love … thy neighbour as thyself” (Luke 10:27).

Photograph by Christina Smith
When my husband and I lost our first baby, doctors told me I would never have children. I was devastated. I grieved and looked for answers. My husband also grieved. We prayed and knew how important it was to be an eternal family. Eventually, we were sealed in the Los Angeles California Temple.
I was still trying to understand why this loss had happened when I remembered my patriarchal blessing. I started to read my blessing and found a part I had completely forgotten about. It said I would be blessed with sons and daughters. I thought that there had to be something wrong with what the doctors had told me. I went to the doctor and was told again that I was not going to be able to have a baby.
About five years after we lost our first baby, we decided to try in vitro fertilization. At the first appointment, a pregnancy test showed positive. I couldn’t believe it. They ran more tests and confirmed that I was already pregnant. Nine months later, we welcomed our daughter into our family. Now, I am a mom to four incredible kids.
Another challenge came several years ago when my husband and I divorced. This came as a shock to me. I didn’t know how to react. I thought I had a perfect little family. I was also going to dental school at the time. I left school to focus on my children. I feel that this was the best choice. I don’t regret it at all. But I had a lot of anger. How does someone just leave a marriage and four amazing children?
I was also terrified about what was going to happen to me and my kids. I cried and felt a sense of panic, wondering if they were still sealed to me. I talked to my bishop, and he said that Heavenly Father has promised that we are sealed for all eternity, but our agency will determine if we will be together forever. It gave me such relief to know that my kids were still sealed to me.
But I still felt anger and felt that I was not worthy to go to the temple. How can you go to the temple with so much anger? I also didn’t want to go to the temple because I am divorced. I felt like I didn’t deserve it because I was supposed to be in a marriage still.
I talked with my bishop again, and he told me that Satan doesn’t want me to go back to the temple. He wants to make me miserable and to feel that I’m not worthy. It was amazing when I entered the temple again. Going to the temple makes me feel better and stronger. Knowing that Heavenly Father is helping me be a mom, that I’m not alone, and that He is never going to abandon me or my family gives me so much strength. Now I make sure that my temple recommend is always current.
“I know I just need to keep moving forward and get closer to Heavenly Father each day. This is the way I’m going to be with my children forever.”
Even though their dad is not in the picture, I always tell my kids that I am here for them. We’re going to church, we’re doing our scripture study, and we’re praying. We have an understanding of how important family is and that we need to forgive each other, support each other, and cheer each other on.
People have asked me what I would do if I had an extra hour each day. Would I sleep? Would I eat? What would I do? I would have 15 minutes of quality time with each of my children.
I love my children so much that in spite of the great heartache from the relationship with their father, it was worth it to have them. That’s how much they mean to me. I have hilarious, amazing, and kind-hearted children. Even with their struggles, they always think of ways to help others.
Making sure our faith is strong keeps us going as a family. If we do our part, the Lord comes through on His blessings and promises. That’s something that I live by, and I am very blessed.

It was in that moment that I remembered back to when I was six. We had opened our front door one December night and were completely overwhelmed by the bags of gifts so generously placed on our doorstep. Our house was much warmer than usual that night because my father had been given firewood earlier that day. As a family of nine, we were barely making ends meet. That year especially, I could sense my parents’ uneasiness about Christmas day. I was limited to requesting only one toy. I had carefully chosen to ask for a “Peaches and Cream” Barbie doll, and I placed a torn-out newspaper picture of the doll up on the refrigerator. With my six-year-old heart and mind, I knew my one wish would come true.
Before heading off to bed, we knelt as a family on our old green carpet and gave a prayer of thanks for the few things that we did have. I remember going to bed feeling hungry. Each day food was practically the same—Cream of Wheat, oatmeal, or biscuits. I prayed that tomorrow—Christmas—would be different.
I snuggled in my blankets, and just as my eyes were about to close, I heard a muffled knock at the door. I followed the members of my family downstairs. As the door opened, an overwhelming feeling took over my little body. There were big black bags of gifts and food placed at our doorstep. I was so happy that I couldn’t believe my eyes. I said a whispered prayer of thanks, and I knew that my prayers that night had been heard. We carried the gifts inside and placed the bags of gifts under the tree.
Sleep did not come easily that night, but I managed a few hours before my sister Mary woke me. We eagerly ran downstairs, and to my eyes, it was as if the gifts had multiplied overnight. They were scattered around our tree. I again thought to myself about the one wish I had made. I picked up a gift that had “Meg” written on it, and I opened it carefully. I pulled out the most beautiful “Peaches and Cream” Barbie that I had ever seen. I hugged her, and I knew that I had not been forgotten. I learned several years later that my prayers were answered through the loving hands of those who generously helped out needy families.

Four hundred and fifty kilometers northwest of Udorn, in Chiang Mai, workers are installing a fountain in the manicured grounds of a spacious, modern home. Three children are busily watching. They are Atikun, 13, Punjaree, 8, and Nathanon, 6. Their mother, Datchanee Limsukhon, is the only member of the Church in the family. Her husband, a neurologist, does not object to her Church membership, but sometimes she has to adjust her Church participation to meet her family’s needs.
Sister Limsukhon’s first contact with the Church came when, as a young woman, she heard branch members singing in a rented hall in Bangkok. She liked what she heard and wanted to join “that church” so she could sing with the other members. She believed the missionary discussions, but her family initially refused permission for her to be baptized. “But I knew that I wanted to be baptized, and I was in November 1969.”
In January 1970, she returned to her home in Chiang Mai and earned a nursing degree from the local university. She then went to the Church’s Language Training Mission in Hawaii, where she taught Thai to the missionaries for four months before she was called on a mission herself. On completing her mission in Bangkok, she had the opportunity to go to the United States for additional nursing experience in Utah and Texas. She then went to England to marry her Thai fiance, who was studying there.
When her husband completed his schooling, they returned home to Chiang Mai, where he has been in practice ever since.
“Since I am the only Latter-day Saint in my family, the standards of the Church are most important to me,” says Sister Limsukhon. “I am committed to living them.”

Everything that summer seemed to be a dream or some kind of miracle. My awareness of how much families and gospel principles mean to me came so clear one week in July. This week wasn’t a normal one for the Clarks, Carters, and Tanners. It was an unforgettable family reunion in Hawaii.
In Hawaii there are many great places to go and things to see. My fondest memory is of Diamond Head because it not only opened my eyes to the beauty of the island of Oahu, but also opened my eyes to eternal beauty.
The entire hike was a quarter of a mile long, but you’d never know it the way it seemed to stretch. When my cousins and I began the hike, all we could see was a path that seemed to last a lifetime. We reached an area where some people were stopped along the path saying, “I can’t believe we are doing this. I really see no point in going on any farther.” After I heard this, I began to doubt myself, but I still kept walking.
Next, we reached this long, dark tunnel. My cousins and I went inside. We could hardly see. The only way we could get through this dark tunnel was to hold to an iron railing. We became excited when we could see, in the distance, the end of this long tunnel. We were so happy because we thought our hike was over.
When we reached the end of the tunnel, one of my cousins screamed. There before our eyes was a flight of steps carved out of the mountain. All I could think was, I can’t believe I am actually doing this.
Then my uncle turned to me and said quietly, “I’ve been here before. I know that it is worth it.” As I walked up the steps with aching legs, I thought about his gentle words, “I know that it is worth it.”
When we finally reached the top of the crater, I was completely overwhelmed at the sight, a panoramic view of the island.
As I stood there, I thought how the hike was like our earthly lives. We begin by seeing how far we have to go to become like Christ. We are overwhelmed, but we keep going forward. At times we may listen to people say, “I don’t see the point of going farther.” Even then, we continue through the darkness holding the iron rod. We may think our trials are over, and we find we only have more challenges ahead. We press on, yielding to the words, “You can make it. It is worth it.” When we finally reach our goal, we can look back and know it was worth it.
Since hiking Diamond Head, I have realized our challenges can make us stronger. I have since centered my goals around more spiritual things, such as attending early-morning seminary every day. We can all succeed if we have the faith and courage to keep going through the hard times in our lives.

“Throw ’em in the rag bag,” Mom would say whenever I outgrew an article of clothing. Sometimes it was hard to think that a favorite blouse or skirt would end up as a cleaning rag.
But one rainy day, Mom told me how I could make something new from my old clothes. “I’ll show you how to make a rag rug,” she said.
We got out the sack of old clothes. First, we tore the clothing into inch-wide strips. These varied in length. For instance, the pieces from a skirt were longer than those from a blouse.
“Roll the strips into balls,” Mom said. “That way, the pieces won’t get all tangled up.” So I made separate balls of woolen cloth strips, cotton strips, and strips made from knit fabric. Mom explained that it was better to make my rug from one kind of fabric. If the strips were similar in bulk, it would be much easier to “work” the rug.
When there was a variety of strips, I sewed them together, end to end. I sewed mine by hand, but a machine works fine, too. By alternating strips in color and design, I created a pretty pattern. It takes many, many of these strips sewn together to make a rug. I figured about 680 yards would make a 24-by-45-inch rug.
Using a large wooden crochet hook (size 15), Mom showed me how to make a chain. This was the base of my rug.
Size 15 (Actual size.)
I made a slip knot with my cloth strip and inserted my hook through it from right to left. By pulling both ends of the strip, I drew the loop up close to the hook (figure 1).
Figure 1.
“Not too tight,” Mom directed.
With my right hand, I held the hook. I looped the strip over the hook with my left hand. Then I pulled the strip through the loop to make a chain stitch. I repeated this over and over until I had 45 chains. That is, I had 45 chains plus the one on my hook (figures 2a and 2b). This made my rug about two feet wide.
Figure 2.
Next, I inserted the hook down through the second chain from the hook. I looped my strip over the hook and pulled it up through the chain (figure 3a). I then had two loops on my hook. Putting the strip over the hook once again, I pulled it through both of the loops. That made one single crochet (figure 3b). This procedure was repeated in each chain. When I got to the end of the row, I chained one more, then turned my work (figure 4).
Figure 3.
Figure 4.
The second row was formed by making a single crochet in each single crochet of the first row. I again chained one before starting the next row.
I kept repeating this until my rug was the length I wanted. Eighty-five rows of single crochet made a 45-inch rug. It took me approximately 56 hours to make it.
To finish the rug, I removed the hook. Pulling the loop out, I worked the end of the strip back and forth through the rug’s stitches.
At times, weeks would go by before I’d work on the rug. Then I’d be in the mood to crochet again, so I’d do a few more rows.
Sometimes my girl friend would help. I’d let her crochet while I watched. Once in a while, Mom and I would work on our rugs together. Those were nice sharing times.
When it was finally finished, it made a colorful spot by our door. I felt good when I’d see my favorite old clothes still being useful in a bright rug.

I love the Friend magazine stories because I love to learn more about the gospel and I love reading about all the kinds of things children do. A month after I read an article by Elder Quentin L. Cook called “How Can I Be a Missionary Now?” (April 2010), I told my schoolteacher about the temple. She didn’t know what a temple was. The next day, I brought her a picture of it and told her it is a place where families can be sealed together forever. A couple of weeks later, I got to see Elder Cook at our stake conference. I like being a missionary!

My dream of attending the Air Force Academy was deep-rooted. My father was a career man in the air force, and those summers I spent with him, learning to fly, and becoming familiar with the ins and outs of air force life, were some of the greatest experiences I’ve had. My parents divorced when I was quite young, so I didn’t get to see my father very often, and those times when we were together were very important to me.
During my junior year at Lewiston High School (in Idaho), I made my official application for the Academy appointment. School was going well for me; I was making good grades; I was active in my priests quorum; and in the spring of that year, I was elected student-body president. The possibility of receiving an Academy appointment looked better and better. As much as I wanted it, though, one thought kept repeating itself in my mind: “You should go on a mission.” I knew President Kimball had counseled that every young man in the Church should fulfill a mission, but I felt my case was an exception. If I accepted a mission call, my chances of ever entering the Academy would be very slim, since most cadets went in immediately after high school graduation. I also felt that living a good LDS life while at the Academy would, in a sense, be a mission in itself. Despite my reasoning, however, the prompting continued, and so did my efforts to squelch it.
After school was out, I flew to Virginia to spend the summer with my dad, who is not a member of the Church. Discussing with him the likelihood of winning an appointment made the prospect even more exciting. Dad’s encouragement was motivating, and I returned to Lewiston even more determined to make him proud of me, his son, the future Air Force Academy cadet! The summer had done a fairly good job of deadening my thoughts of serving a mission, but almost the first Sunday I was home, those old, unwelcome feelings began to stir. I realize now that the Holy Ghost was working overtime on me, and since then I have gained a strong testimony of the power of his influence. Every single day my thoughts were occupied with thoughts of the Academy versus a mission. I began reading my patriarchal blessing frequently; it said that when the time came, I would serve a mission. Still, my desires were with the Academy, and I was becoming more and more confused.
During these months I spent a lot of time talking to my former bishop, President Rex Tolman, who is now second counselor in the Lewiston Stake presidency. He is a professor at the Lewis-Clark State College, and I spent hours in his office, trying to sort out my feelings and decide what I should do. He didn’t try to influence my decision, but told me he would support me in whatever I decided. His confidence in me was a great support. As I prayed for guidance in making the right decision, I felt assurance that I would.
Then on October 10, 1976, as I was sitting in testimony meeting, I suddenly knew that I had to go on a mission and that the Academy would have to wait. I had in my jacket pocket a missionary handbook that had been distributed in priests quorum meeting months and months before. I took it out and wrote in Spanish (so no one else would know what I was writing), “When I’m 19, I’ll go on a mission.” I recorded the date, and then I put it away. I didn’t think about it again for a couple of weeks. I’d made my decision, and my conscience wasn’t working quite as hard.
It was just about this time that the nominations to the Academy were being announced. I was named. It was a little hard to explain to some of my friends and teachers that what I had worked for for years, now a reality, was going to be turned down. I went over to the college and talked to President Tolman for about an hour and a half. He said, “Chris, I really think you’ll be happy with this decision. I believe you’ve made the right one.” As we talked I began to have a desire to serve a mission rather than just a feeling of obligation.
Then it came time to tell my dad. I didn’t know what to do; I felt sure that he would never be able to understand or accept my decision. To him the air force was everything, and I knew that when I told him, it would be the last time I’d ever talk to him. I prayed constantly for the courage to tell him, that somehow he would be able to accept it.
When I heard his voice on the other end of the line, I nearly hung up. Somehow, though, the words came out. After I told him, there was at least a full 30 seconds of total silence. I had expected anger and disappointment, but the silence was even more unnerving. Finally he spoke: “Well, Chris, just what is a mission?” He asked me what I would be required to do, how long it would be, where I was going. After listening to my explanation he said firmly, “If that’s what you really want, then I’ll support your decision.” It took me by complete surprise; I couldn’t talk. I gave the phone to my mother and went downstairs to my room.
Since that time my dad and I have kept a regular correspondence going, and he has even offered to help support me financially. My gratitude to him has increased tremendously as I have come to realize more that ever before his great love for me.
I’ve had times since our conversation when I’ve thought, “I had the Academy in my grasp, and I let it go, and now I’ll never get it again.” Those times, though, aren’t very long-lasting and are few and far between. I realize that I won’t die if I don’t get to go to the Academy and that serving a mission is what the Lord wants me to do. I’m excited about it, and nothing will keep me from serving the best that I can!

I kind of know what Preston Taylor, author of “G-Rated Recruit” (Mar. 2003), went through when he was at boot camp where everybody was cussing. When I was at soccer camp, one of my coaches would cuss a lot, and I asked him to stop. And the reaction I got was amazing. He said he was really sorry and that he would try to stop. During the camp he kept apologizing to me. It was kind of cool that he actually listened to me and stopped cussing.Scott Rollins, Fairfield Ward, Cincinnati Ohio North Stake

He gave much of this service while he and Susan were raising three young sons and he was making a remarkable contribution in his work at the University of Arkansas. Doyle Z. Williams, dean of the College of Business at the University of Arkansas, describes Elder Bednar’s contributions not in terms of offices held or honors received—of which there were many—but in terms of personal influence: “David Bednar was part of our leadership team. He sharpened our vision. He always exuded enthusiasm for students and a passion to help his fellowman. To all our discussions he brought reason and compassion. He inspired his colleagues and students by his example and was held in the highest esteem.”

Dean Williams, who is not a member of the Church, saw a power to influence others that was also observed by Jerry Abram, President Bednar’s counselor in a far-flung Arkansas stake. Brother Abram describes his impressions this way: “We traveled an average of 2,000 miles [3,200 km] per month together, so I got to know him very well. He called my wife to be the stake Relief Society president, and he set my daughter apart when she departed for England to serve her mission. He spoke at her twin sister’s funeral with such power and compassion. Our daughter was 17 years old when she and two of her girlfriends died in a tragic automobile accident. The funeral was tender, but Elder Bednar helped make it bearable. He stood behind our family during our darkest hour. After the funeral I wrote in my journal that he was the most spiritual and compassionate man I had ever met.”

I could see the young deacons losing interest as my mission companion talked. He was explaining the importance of doing missionary work at their age—planting seeds with their friends.
One young man finally spoke up, “What can I do? I’m only 13. My friends aren’t interested in the Church, and even if they were, their parents wouldn’t let them join.” My companion persisted with the young men, but my mind drifted back to when I was about 12 years old.
I had a best friend, Chris. We did everything together. But whenever a group of us would gather to do something “crazy,” like throw snowballs at cars or toilet paper a house, Chris would always back out. He said his parents would be mad if they found out.
Then one day I talked Chris into stealing tennis balls from the people on the local courts. He followed me, even helped me gather a handful of balls, then took off with me through a hole in the fence. When we arrived at my house I noticed Chris’s face was white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We’ve got to take those balls back,” he blurted out.
“No way, they’re ours now,” I replied, but Chris grabbed them and started to run. I’ve always been faster than Chris, but I couldn’t catch him that day. He ran right to the tennis players and gave every ball back. He said he was sorry and then did something I’d never seen before. He asked them for forgiveness. I just knew we were going to be turned into the police, but the men let him go.
When we got home I had a few questions for my best friend.
“I’m a Mormon,” he said.
“I know. You told me.”
“But I didn’t tell you how important my church is to me.” He went on to explain the standards of honesty he had been taught and how he could not feel right about stealing.
Six weeks later I found myself in a font, full of water, ready to be baptized a Latter-day Saint.
Suddenly I came back to the deacons in front of me. I don’t know if it made much difference to those boys, but I was able to say it was an active young man their age who brought me into the Church. I told them they could and should do missionary work. They could plant seeds with their example, just as Chris had done.

Ali smiled as she closed the last bright blue envelope. Her eighth birthday was next week! She had spent the whole morning making invitations for her birthday party.
“Ready to go?” Mom asked.
Ali nodded. They were taking an invitation to her friend Tiffany in the hospital.
“I think Tiffany will be glad to see you,” Mom said as she and Ali climbed into the car. “Her mom told me they had to shave off some of her hair for the surgery.”
Ali’s eyes got wide. “But school is starting soon! How can she go to school with no hair?”
“They didn’t shave off all her hair—just a little bit,” Mom said. “And taking care of our bodies is much more important than how we look.”
Ali ran her fingers through her own long hair. It almost reached her waist. “I feel sad for Tiffany.”
“That’s why we’re going to visit her,” Mom said. “It’s part of bearing one another’s burdens.”
Ali scrunched up her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means helping others when they are going through a hard time,” Mom said. “It’s something you’ll promise to do when you get baptized.”
Ali smiled. Her baptism was coming up! “So I guess helping Tiffany feel better is one way I can practice doing that?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Mom. “That’s a great way to think of it.”
When they got to the hospital, Ali followed Mom to Tiffany’s room. They walked down a long hallway with brightly painted walls and open doors. Inside the rooms, Ali could see children resting in big white hospital beds. Some of them didn’t have any hair.
Finally they got to Tiffany’s room. Tiffany was happy to see Ali.
Ali saw that Tiffany had a bandage on the side of her head. “How are you feeling?” Ali asked.
“Pretty good,” Tiffany said. “The doctor says the surgery went great.”
“Yay! I’m so glad you’re OK,” Ali said.
Then Ali held out a bright blue birthday invitation. “When you’re feeling better, I hope you can come to my birthday party! And maybe you can even come to my baptism.”
Tiffany gave Ali a big hug. “Thank you!”
When it was time to go, Ali walked back down the hallway with Mom. Ali noticed a poster hanging on the wall. It had a picture of a girl holding a long ponytail of her hair. She was smiling. The top of the poster said, “Donate Your Hair for Wigs.”
“Mom,” Ali said. “Can I do that?” She pointed to the poster.
Mom turned to read it. “But Tiffany doesn’t need a wig.”
“I know,” said Ali. “But there are lots of kids at the hospital who do!”
Mom smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
On the morning of Ali’s birthday party, Mom took Ali to get her hair cut. After lots of combing and snipping, Ali looked in the mirror. Now her hair reached just to her chin. She felt happy inside when she imagined a girl sitting in a hospital bed, putting on a wig made with some of Ali’s hair.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked.
“So happy that I made up a joke,” said Ali. “Want to hear it?”
Mom nodded.
“I’m getting a head start on my baptism promises!” Ali said with a laugh. She couldn’t wait to keep helping others bear their burdens.

One way we can increase our help to the poor and the needy is to pay a generous fast offering. President Brigham Young (1801–77) said:
“The first year that I came into this valley I had not flour enough to last my family until harvest … , and persons were coming to my house every day for bread. I had the blues about [it] one day; I went down to the old fort and by the time I got back to my house I was completely cured. I said to my wife, ‘Do not let a person come here for food and go away empty handed, for if you do we shall suffer before harvest; but if you give to every individual that comes we shall have enough to last us through. …
“I intend to keep doing so, that my bread may hold out, for if I do not I shall come short.
“Do you believe that principle? I know it is true, because I have proven it so many times.”2

Oliver Cowdery did not leave at once upon his assignment. Winter was at hand and the traversing of a thousand miles of snow-covered prairie was no easy task. It was not until the summer of 1833 that the printed sheets for the Book of Commandments were assembled, ready for binding. The work on the old hand press of W. W. Phelps & Co., at Independence, Missouri, had been slow and tedious. Material for book covers was lacking but proved unnecessary. On July 20, 1833, a mob broke into the printing establishment, carried away the press, scattered the type, and burned most of the papers and printed matter. One of the elders working on the publication, upon seeing the mob at the front door, hastily snatched up an armload of the assembled sheets of the Book of Commandments, and finding his way through the rear door, buried them beneath the hay of an old barn. The copies, at least twenty in number, were preserved.

Illustration by Bradley Clark
I had been home from my mission for only three months when I began to struggle with reading the scriptures.
I had read the scriptures every day on my mission and promised to continue when I returned home. But as time passed, things just seemed to get in the way. I either had too much homework, was too busy working, or was just too tired. With each excuse, my scripture reading dwindled until I was hardly reading at all.
I opened the Book of Mormon one night and planned on reading just a verse. The verse I read reminded me that the scriptures contain “the pleasing word of God, yea, the word which healeth the wounded soul” (Jacob 2:8).
I pondered this verse and realized the negative effect neglecting scripture study was having on me. I felt more stressed at school, more apathetic at church, and more distanced from God. My soul needed the healing word of God found in the scriptures. I knew I needed to reorganize my priorities.
I turned to my friends, family, and Church leaders to ask for suggestions to rejuvenate my scripture study. I found three things to be helpful.
First, I realized that studying the scriptures at night was not effective for me. Studying in the morning allowed me to ponder throughout the day the doctrine and principles I had read that morning.
Second, we are taught to read scriptures with our families, but since I was at college and away from my family, I started reading scriptures with roommates and friends. This helped me stay accountable, and it sparked great gospel discussions.
Third, I started writing down promptings and thoughts I received during scripture study. This helped me focus on what I was reading and helped me better recognize the voice of the Spirit.
Once scripture study became a priority in my life again, I found that I had more time and energy to accomplish everything I needed to get done. Most important, I felt a closeness to God again as I read and pondered the scriptures. Now when I spend time in the scriptures, I feel peace and find healing for my soul.

I’m not a baby anymore. I’m a Star A in Primary, and I can tie my shoes and count to ten! When I was a baby, I couldn’t do those things, but now I’m getting BIG.
I have two sisters. Their names are Katy and Jennifer. Sometimes they forget that I’m getting big and call me Baby Benjamin. When I tell them, “I’m not a baby anymore,” they always say that they’re sorry. Mom says that when I was born, my sisters loved me so much that they wanted to hold me and rock me all the time and that they got so used to calling me Baby Benjamin when I was little that it’s hard for them to stop now. So sometimes I have to remind them.
Like last week. We were in the garden, and Katy and Jennifer were helping Mom pull weeds, and I was pulling up the rhubarb. Mom lets me eat a stalk of it right out of the garden before it’s cooked into jam. She says that she doesn’t know how I can stand to eat it plain, but I like it. And I never, ever eat any of the leaves. I know that they could make me very sick. But the stalk won’t. It’s a pretty color—sort of red and green—and it tastes real sour! It makes me shiver and pucker up like I’m going to give someone a great big kiss. Mom always laughs when she sees me eating it.
Anyway, I was sitting in the dirt eating my rhubarb when Katy and Jennifer started talking about the hat contest again. The teenagers in our ward were going to have a Children’s Day for all the kids in Primary. Katy was going, and Jennifer was going, and so was I.
There was going to be a hat contest, and Katy decided to wear one of Dad’s old golfing caps. Jennifer chose a sun hat that looks like a pioneer hat. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find the right hat to wear. Jennifer said that I could wear Dad’s baseball hat, but I wanted to choose my own. I was still thinking about it when I climbed into bed that night. And that’s when a good idea just popped into my head. I decided that I wouldn’t tell anybody about my good-idea hat until the hat contest. It would be a surprise.
When Children’s Day finally came, I got up early and put my hat in a big paper sack. Katy and Jennifer kept asking me to show them my hat, but I told them that they would have to wait.
I had to wear my Sunday shoes because my sneakers didn’t have any shoelaces in them. Katy and Jennifer had tried to find new laces for me before we left, but Mom said that we were all out. I told them not to worry about it, because I thought my shoelaces were just taking a vacation.
When we got to the meetinghouse, Katy and Jennifer put their hats up on a shelf. They wanted to put mine up there, too, but I didn’t want anybody to see my hat until the contest. I had to hold on to my bag with one hand while we played games and ran races and ate cupcakes, but that was OK.
Then it was time for the contest. Katy and Jennifer put their hats on.
“Do you want me to help you put your hat on, Benjamin?” Jennifer asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I can do it myself.”
Katy and Jennifer went into the room where the hat contest was going to be, and I went with them. All the other kids had their hats on already, so I decided that it was time for me to put mine on too. I reached into my bag and pulled out three small stalks of rhubarb with lots of leaves on them. Katy’s eyes got very big.
Jennifer looked surprised, too, but not the kind of surprised that I was expecting. “Oh, Benjamin,” she said. “You were supposed to bring a hat! This is a hat contest!”
“This is my hat!” I told her, and I put my rhubarb hat on my head.
“So that’s where your shoelaces went,” Katy said. “You used them to tie the stalks of rhubarb together! Look, Jennifer, it really is a hat!”
The tied-together stalks stuck straight up in the air, and the big leaves sort of hung down all over my head.
Katy and Jennifer were still giggling when Sister Brown started to call the names of the winners. Danny Lopez won the prize for the biggest hat, and Jamie Jones got a prize for having the hat with the most flowers on it. When I heard Sister Brown call my name for the most unusual hat, I was surprised. She shook my hand and gave me a coloring book, and Katy and Jennifer just kept saying, “I can’t believe it! Benjamin’s rhubarb hat won a prize!”
When we got home, I held out the coloring book for Mom to see.
“What’s this?” Mom asked.
“A prize!” I told her.
“He won it for his hat,” Katy said. And between the three of us, we told Mom all about my rhubarb hat.
“Oh, Benjamin,” Mom exclaimed with a big smile, “I’m so proud of you! But where is your hat? Let me see it.”
Nobody said anything for a minute, then Jennifer spoke up.
“He can’t.”
“Why not?” Mom looked at me, puzzled.
“Well-l-l-l”—I gulped and grinned—“I ate it on the way home!”