Gospel Story Finder

I sat through the lifeguard training class in despair. Staring out over the pool, I listened as the instructor droned on endlessly, describing one lawsuit after another. “These cases,” she concluded, “have been warning flags for the Red Cross. There is a need to upgrade standards and for guards to meet new criteria in rescue skills. This, of course, includes the timed swimming tests you will all be taking.”
Ugh. I felt my heart sink. Two hundred yards in three and a half minutes—anything but that.
I worked at the pool as a swimming teacher and lifeguard. I’d been hired because I taught well. I’d never competed in high school or even been a fast swimmer, but it hadn’t been a problem, until now.
“Places,” she bellowed, blowing her whistle. We all lined up at the deep end of the pool, ready for a practice 50-yard sprint. The whistle sounded a second time and I dove in, hauling my arms out of the water. I plowed down to the other end of the pool, turned, and surfaced, gagging on what seemed like a gallon of water. I couldn’t breathe, my throat and lungs lost in a fit of self-protective spasms. Choking, I crawled back up the lane and a 60-year-old veteran pulled me in.
“Seventy-five seconds,” announced the instructor loud enough for the entire class to hear, not even a hint of sympathy in her voice.
I drove home in tears. I loved my job. I needed my job. College and a good job weren’t easy to combine. Kneeling by my bed in frustration, I gave way to the anger and tears. “I can’t do this,” I heard myself saying to God over and over again. I don’t know how long this desperate monologue continued, but at some point, into my mind came the words, “With God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37). It was the scripture my best friend quoted whenever things got tough. She had it plastered all over her bedroom walls.
But I couldn’t accept anything as simple as this. Besides, the scripture had come special delivery to Mary, and Mary didn’t have to swim 200 yards in three and a half minutes. It had nothing to do with me. On I raged, furious, and again the scripture came into my mind. What kind of answer was this?
“No,” I cried, “I can’t do this. Don’t you understand?”
I was tired of humiliation and afraid that no amount of swimming time I put in would help me pass off the tests. But, despite the doubts, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” returned and sparked a little hope into my heart. I asked Heavenly Father for help in getting my times down enough to make passing a possibility.
Heavenly Father’s help came from the least expected source. At the next class the same seemingly unsympathetic instructor took me aside and told me she wanted to help. “I can take all your times down if you’ll swim with me and follow the workout schedule I give you to the letter.”
Reality dawned. So this was Heavenly Father’s way of helping me pass. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, was the hope that he would just turn me into Janet Evans for a few minutes. I stammered out my thanks and my doubts. “I’m not so sure …” I began.
“It’s not impossible,” she said.
I stared at her in amazement—those very words. “Meet me here at six, starting tonight.”
The next four weeks I forgot about changing places with Janet Evans while I swam, dragged, and pushed my way through the pool. And slowly, every few days, the instructor would scream in genuine delight. “You’ve lost two seconds; you’re cruising. Now, get the lead out! Don’t stop.”
The instructors had postponed the final times test for me as long as they could. The day of judgment arrived, and I sat on the edge of the pool, terrified. A friend who’d passed his tests off a month earlier sat next to me trying to be encouraging. “I’ll follow you,” he said, “and whenever you start to slow down, I’ll tap on your feet.”
“Oh, Randy,” I groaned, “you’re sweet, but tapping isn’t going to do it; you’ll have to push. I’ve worked so hard, but I’m still off on that stupid 200 by three seconds. I just don’t know.”
“You can do it. Come on, she’s ready for you.”
I jumped in the water while the instructor set her stopwatch. Randy did a couple of flip turns and splashed over to my side. “I’m just going along for the ride,” he told her.
“Well, don’t get in the way.” She raised the stopwatch and gave me her ultimatum, “You can and you will do this.” Yeah, I thought, and next week we’re heading for the Olympics. Someone better warn Janet Evans.
I held on to the edge of the gutter, my feet up, ready for the push off. I straightened my goggles, and before I could utter a prayer, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” found their way into my frenzied heart.
“Ready,” the trainer hollered. “Go!”
Off I went, swimming my heart out, Randy hitting my feet whenever I slowed the pace. The first 50 passed and then the next. The third 50 always hit me hard. With God nothing is impossible, I thought over and over, willing it to be so. I hauled through the last 50 and caught the edge, exhausted.
She screamed, “3:28!” I’d passed.
It’s hard to believe that swimming could become a spiritual experience, but through the power of a simple scripture it did. I found help from Heavenly Father at a time when I really needed it. I felt his love and concern and know that, with him, all things I want to accomplish that are righteous are possible.

The role of bishop holds special significance for Elder Stevenson. “When I was 12, my father was called as bishop,” he recalls. “The ward had many widows, and Dad would often take me along when he ministered to them. He would have me take care of the garbage cans, clean up something in the house, or get my friends to join me in raking leaves or shoveling snow. When we left, I always felt good inside. Visiting the widows helped me realize that part of what bishops do is minister to people one on one. The bishops of the Church are my heroes.”
On the Tuesday prior to the October 2015 general conference, then-Bishop Stevenson received a call requesting that he meet with President Thomas S. Monson and his counselors.
“President Monson [extended] a call to the Quorum of the Twelve to me. He asked me if I would accept. … I responded affirmatively. And then … President Monson kindly reached out to me, describing how [when] he was called many years ago as an Apostle, … he too felt inadequate. He calmly instructed me, ‘Bishop Stevenson, the Lord will qualify those whom He calls.’ These soothing words of a prophet have been a source of peace [ever since].”4
Elder Gary E. Stevenson is truly a man without guile. As an Apostle, as he did as Presiding Bishop and as a Seventy and as he has done throughout his life, he will continue to reach out to the poor and needy. He will follow the scriptural charge to “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees” (D&C 81:5). It is a challenging calling, but one to which he is well suited because of his understanding heart.

The train hurried on, and the cadence of the wheels on the tracks repeated: “Not expected of you, not expected of you,” with the emphasis on you.
I was very unhappy. I did not notice the sun nor the other 10 girls who were having fun and singing songs as we returned to our homes in the Netherlands from our week’s vacation in the woods. Not even 15 minutes earlier I was one of these girls. But now, I felt so ashamed. Never, no never, would I do something like that again, even if everybody else did it. I felt shut out and lonely as though I had nothing in common with the rest of the group.
All the girls had been disobedient. But even though I was the youngest of them all, I was the only one who had been scolded. My friend Trees was already 14, Ans was 13, and I was 11. I wanted to blame Trees for everything—she was the one who betrayed me. But in my heart I knew it was my own fault because I had been disobedient.
Nothing really serious had happened. When we arrived at our vacation spot a week earlier we received instructions as to what we were allowed to do and what we were not allowed to do while we were there. We could go into the village to buy postcards to send home, but we were not supposed to buy any candy while there. That’s where the trouble started.
It was incredible to see all the different kinds of candy sold in the village store. We were all too weak to resist. It must have seemed suspicious how often we had to go and buy a postcard in the village after dinner; but after a long, tiring day, the teachers were happy to let us go. And so our money disappeared in the store’s register, and the chocolates and candies disappeared into our stomachs.
At first I heard a little voice telling me I was not supposed to do that. But nobody else seemed to have a problem with it, and it was important to me to be accepted in the group, especially since I was the youngest. And so, on the day we were to go home, I had not a penny left.
On the way to the train, we all bragged about how much money we had received for the trip from our aunts and uncles. Then the teachers asked if we had any money left—they realized not all that money could have gone to buy postcards. We were found out.
I don’t know why one of the teachers singled me out and asked me personally what I had done with my money. But before I could answer, Trees answered for me that I had spent it all on candy. I’m sure the teacher would have guessed the truth since my face turned all red. The only excuse I had was that everybody had broken the rules. And then came those words from the teacher: “But I would not have expected it of you.” It wasn’t even her words that made me so unhappy. It was the disappointment I heard in her voice.
In a corner of the train, I promised myself that from then on I would always listen to the still, small voice in my heart and not be led by other people to do things that are wrong. It was a lesson I would always remember.
The train hurried on, the wheels still repeating, “Not expected of you, not expected of you, not expected of you.”

As their family grew and matured in the gospel, they taught their two sons about the importance of going to the temple. (Their youngest son is currently serving a mission.) The Powells were thrilled that when their oldest son, Barat, got engaged, temple marriage was immediately part of the plan. Ishla, his fiancée, was a new member of the Church. “From the first day I met with the missionaries, I knew the gospel was true, and I loved it,” she says. She grew close to the current branch president’s family, the Isaacs, who had been introduced to the Church by the Powells.
At the time of her baptism, Barat had four months remaining on his mission. “The Isaacs kept saying he would be the right match for me, but I wanted to postpone marriage and serve a mission myself,” Ishla says. Even though the branch and mission presidents approved her missionary application, Ishla explains, “Suddenly and unexpectedly my mind was completely changed. I wanted to pray for marriage.”
When he returned from his mission, Barat was surprised when several people told him that Ishla would be right for him. A short time later they met briefly at the wedding of President Isaac’s daughter but never talked much. Indian society is quite formal about men and women getting acquainted, and both Barat and Ishla wanted to behave appropriately.
Three weeks later Ishla was praying and wondering what to do, and so was Barat. “The Lord showed me through so many ways that Barat was the right one,” Ishla says. “But I was very reserved. I prayed, ‘Lord, if this is the way, then show me how I can speak to him.’”
Barat says, “I had talked to several people about her, and they all had nothing but good to say. Suddenly I thought, ‘I need to talk to her right now,’ but I didn’t know how. I called President Isaac’s sister and asked if she thought it was all right to call.”
Ishla continues, “As I was praying, the branch president’s sister telephoned and said, ‘Barat wants to talk to you. Can I give him your number?’” Half an hour later they were talking. Barat says, “It was as if we had known each other for years.”
Ishla had learned about temple marriage at institute and knew she wouldn’t settle for anything less. Barat felt the same way. But they would have to save money to travel to the temple, and it meant many friends and family members, including Barat’s mother and father, wouldn’t have enough money to travel with them.
“It’s a long way to go, and traveling is very expensive, but we all agreed they should go,” Sathiadhas recalls. “We told them we would celebrate with them at the legal ceremony before they left, and we asked them to take lots of pictures after they were sealed. Then we would celebrate again when they returned.
“We are teaching the younger generation the importance of the temple,” Sathiadhas explains. “We encourage all people to go to the temple, and we wanted our children to go there too.” He says he is particularly pleased with the way Barat and Ishla respected their parents, the customs of their people, and their own agency.
“In India people refer to ‘arranged marriages’ and ‘love marriages,’” Barat says. “We feel we have both.” In fact, Barat and Ishla prefer to call their marriage a “guided marriage.” “We were brought together by our families and friends but also by the Spirit,” he says. “We hope the Spirit will always guide our marriage.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
One Sunday during sacrament meeting, I sensed something that disturbed me. I did not know what it was, but the feeling would not leave. I looked nervously at the clock and longed for the end of the meeting. This was unusual for me.
After the closing prayer, the feeling was still there. I glanced around the chapel and noticed a man clutching his chest. I went to him, and he asked if I would take him to the train station. I told him I should take him to the emergency room instead. He said he had medication at home that would help him. I told him I would drive him home because taking a train in his condition would be too dangerous.
I helped him into my car and asked again if I should take him to the doctor. He said that was not necessary and that I could just go to his home. I silently prayed, asking my Father in Heaven to help him be all right and to help me drive him home safely! I drove carefully, opened the car windows, and tried to calm him down. After some time, he leaned back in his seat and slowly began to relax.
When we arrived at his home, he invited me in. I was glad because I wanted to make sure he got his medication and that it worked. He took his medication and started to feel better. He said his chest still hurt a bit but that he felt safe at home.
He invited me to stay for dinner, and since that afternoon, we have become good friends. We often go on outings together and help each other. Before this experience, I had many friends who were not a good influence on me. But my friendship with this man has blessed my life.
Sometimes out of a crisis, a great friendship can arise. If I had simply put him on the train, I wonder if he would have made it home. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened to him. I am grateful to my Father in Heaven that the Holy Spirit led me into this situation and that, in the process, I was able to gain a true and dear friend!

By the time Nicky got to the street where he lived, he was almost jogging. When he reached his house, he dashed inside, slamming the door a little too hard, and called, “I’m home, Old Nonno!”
There was no answer.
Nicky rushed through the house, looking for Old Nonno. Finally he found Old Nonno sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. “Hello, Old Nonno,” Nicky said as he went up to his great-grandfather and put his arms gently around the old man’s neck to give him a hug. “Are you ready?”
Old Nonno smiled at Nicky through his watery, cloudy, 102-year-old eyes. They were kind eyes, understanding eyes that had seen much during his lifetime. “Of course I’m ready!”
Both his grandfather and his great-grandfather had lived with Nicky and his parents. Grandfather was called Nonno, so great-grandfather was called Old Nonno. Then two years ago Nicky’s grandfather had died. But it had been his great-grandfather who had taken the time to talk and play with Nicky. He couldn’t imagine a better friend than Old Nonno.
By the time Nicky changed into his work clothes and went back outside, Old Nonno was already in the garden with the wooden boxes filled with the tomato plants that the two of them had started weeks earlier from seeds.
Nicky carried a bucket of water to the garden and Old Nonno started forcing his thick, pointed stick into the soft soil and pulling it to one side to form a hole. Nicky poured water into the hole, then held a six-inch tomato plant in it while Old Nonno pressed the soil around the plant’s roots.
When they finished the second row, Old Nonno paused. He picked up a handful of the black dirt and slowly straightened up, a faraway look in his eyes. Some of the dirt trickled between his fingers. Nicky looked at Old Nonno’s gnarled knuckles, swollen and misshapen by arthritis, and he wondered if being old hurt. Then Nicky looked up into Old Nonno’s face and saw that it wasn’t pain that had caused him to stop. It was his memories.
Old Nonno had been a teenager when he’d left his parents in Italy to live in the United States. It had taken many years of hard work before he’d been able to buy a small vegetable farm just outside a big city where, for almost fifty years, he had raised millions of tomatoes and other vegetables. Now that land was covered with streets and lawns and trees and homes.
Old Nonno bent over and patted his handful of black dirt around the last small tomato plant, then turned to Nicky. “Let’s hurry and clean up here, Nicky, so that we can go tend our magic garden.”
Fifteen minutes later they were upstairs in Old Nonno’s room. Except for the door, the closet, and the window, all the walls of Old Nonno’s room were covered with bookshelves filled with books that the old, cloudy eyes could no longer read.
“Your mind is a magic garden,” Old Nonno often said to Nicky. “It’s a magic garden because anything that you plant there grows into either seeds or weeds. Every day you choose which one you plant in your magic garden.”
Old Nonno sat down in a big chair and used his hands to lift his feet onto the footstool. From the table next to him he took a small framed picture of his wife and looked at it lovingly. Nicky had never known Old Nonnì. She had died more than twenty years before Nicky was born.
Nicky sat in his chair on the other side of the table and opened up Old Nonno’s Bible to the bookmark. Every day, the first thing was for Nicky to read to Old Nonno from the scriptures.
Nicky found the next marked verses, and read aloud: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted” (Eccl. 3:1–2).
As Nicky closed the Bible and put it back on the table, old Nonno said quietly, “Isn’t that beautiful, Nicky? That’s one of my favorite passages.”
Nicky nodded, although he wondered if he’d really understood what he’d just read. He decided to think about it later. For now, he’d just continue reading. “We finished Huckleberry Finn yesterday, Old Nonno. What do you want to read now?”
“That one,” Old Nonno said, pointing.
Nicky got the large book, opened it to Chapter One, and started to read. He looked at Old Nonno, who had his eyes closed and a happy smile on his face.
Throughout the spring, Nicky and Old Nonno pulled weeds in the outside garden and supported the growing tomato plants with wooden stakes. By summer the little yellow flowers on them became green tomatoes that grew larger every day. Nicky and Old Nonno tried to guess which of two tomatoes that they were especially watching would ripen first.
The day came when one of the tomatoes was fully ripe. As soon as Nicky’s baseball practice was over, he hopped on his bike and pedaled hard for home. He and Old Nonno were going to pick the tomato, eat it with their lunch, then walk to the ice-cream store and buy a treat. But when Nicky pulled into the driveway, his mother was outside waiting for him.
“Nicky,” she said softly, “something has happened to Old Nonno. Your father went with him in the ambulance to the hospital a few minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting here for you.”
Nicky dropped his bike on the lawn and got into the car. As his mother started to back the car out of the driveway, Nicky called out, “Wait!” He got out of the car, ran back to the garden, and tenderly picked the ripe tomato.
The hospital was only three miles away, but the drive seemed to take forever. Maybe it’s nothing serious, Nicky hoped.
At the admittance desk Nicky’s mom asked the emergency room nurse about Old Nonno. A few minutes later, a doctor in pale green hospital pants and shirt came through the metal swinging doors with Nicky’s dad.
“There was nothing more we could do,” the doctor said. “But if it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Mariani seemed to die peacefully.”
Nicky’s mom started to cry, and so did Nicky. Finally, when his tears subsided, Nicky realized that he was still holding Old Nonno’s tomato. He took it to the nurse’s desk. “Maybe somebody here would like to have this,” he said, handing her the tomato and trying to smile.
The nurse took the tomato and smiled back kindly.
The morning of the funeral the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky. A good day for farming, Nicky thought as he walked between the rows of tomatoes—Old Nonno’s last crop. Just a few months ago Old Nonno had poured a bunch of tiny seeds into the palm of Nicky’s hand. Now those seeds had turned into rows of healthy plants with bushels of beautiful tomatoes on them.
Nicky went to Old Nonno’s room to wait while his parents finished getting dressed for the funeral. He walked past the bookshelves, stopping to read some of the familiar titles. Books. Hundreds of books that Old Nonno loved. Thousands of seeds for their magic garden. Nicky sat in Old Nonno’s big chair, picked up the picture of Old Nonnì, and looked at her smiling face. Wherever Old Nonno is, he decided, he’s with Old Nonnì, and they are happy together.
He glanced up at the books again as he suddenly understood the real magic of Old Nonno’s magic garden. The books were still here in this room, but Old Nonno had taken the “seeds” in them with him!
A similar thought came to Nicky in the cemetery as he watched the casket being lowered into the grave. It wasn’t really Old Nonno inside that casket; it was just the body that Old Nonno had left behind, an old, worn-out body.
As the casket settled into the grave, tears clouded Nicky’s eyes, and a dull ache persisted. He was really going to miss Old Nonno. But through the pain, some familiar words came into Nicky’s mind: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” When he had read them before, they were only words. Now those words had meaning. “A time to be born, and a time to die …” Other seeds that had been planted in Old Nonno’s magic garden came to Nicky’s mind: “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Suddenly it was becoming clear to him. Everything has a purpose. Even death has a purpose, and it is not really that scary. When he had been helping Old Nonno plant seeds in his magic garden, he had also been planting his own magic garden of special memories that would last forever.

Working in my father’s blacksmith shop as a young boy, I was given a small steel bar drilled with three holes to use as a pattern. Carefully I began drilling the three holes in several blank bars. Anxious to please my father, I drilled each hole with exactness. He came over to inspect my work, measuring the holes. Looking at me a bit puzzled, he said, “Son, these holes are not as accurate as they should be. Show me what you are doing.” Picking up a blank bar of steel, I placed it under another bar in which I had already drilled three holes, matching the edges precisely. At that moment my father said, “Son, I know where the problem is. You must always drill through the original pattern I gave you.”
Even being as careful as possible, unless I used the original pattern given to me by my father, the holes became a little more distorted each time a different pattern was used.

“Late again,” Mother sighed as she loaded Kelly, Maggie, and baby Grant into the car. As they drove to church, six-year-old Kelly glanced at Mom. She could always tell how well her new baby brother had slept the night before by how tired Mom looked in the morning. Kelly could see that Grant had not slept well last night. And Kelly could see from Mother’s wrinkled brow that she didn’t feel very happy.
Several Sundays in a row, Kelly and her family had been late for church. Dad always had an early meeting there on Sunday mornings, so Mom was alone to feed the children breakfast, clean up the dishes, pack a snack for Maggie, dress the children and herself, fix their hair, and drive to church. Sometimes things went smoothly and they arrived before sacrament meeting began. But lately Sunday mornings seemed to be a problem. …
One morning Grant had spit up just as they were about to leave, and Mom had had to change all his clothes. Another morning two-year-old Maggie couldn’t find her lacy slip and had refused to wear the plain one. It took Kelly and Mom a long time to find the lacy slip on a teddy bear in Maggie’s toy box. Last week they’d driven down the street on the way to church and had had to turn back because Mom remembered that she hadn’t packed Maggie’s snack for nursery.
Today Kelly herself had been so excited about her new tights that she had carried the package around with her all morning. But when it was time to get dressed, she couldn’t find the tights. She and her mother searched all over the house before finally finding the package under Kelly’s bedspread.
During the ride this morning, Mom was quiet. Usually she hummed a few notes of a Primary song and asked the girls if they knew which one it was. Then they’d sing the whole song. Maggie’s favorite was “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” because she was almost a Sunbeam. Kelly’s favorite was “On a Golden Springtime,” and Mom’s was “When I Go to Church.” Kelly quietly began to sing, “I always have a happy feeling when I go to church. The organ plays so soft and sweet. …” She stopped when Mom just smiled but didn’t join in. Kelly looked out the car window and noticed all the beautiful spring colors. “Wow, Mom! Look at that bright yellow bush!” Her mother softly said, “Oh!”
In Sharing Time that day, Sister McPhee, the Primary president, talked about being peacemakers. She said that children help bring peaceful, happy feelings to their homes and classes when they help to solve problems. She challenged the children to be peacemakers by becoming problem solvers. Kelly thought about Sunday mornings. Can I help solve our Sunday morning problem? she wondered.
That night after Mom and Dad tucked her into bed, Kelly lay quietly thinking about the day. It had turned out great. In her Primary class, she was chosen to help Brother Bookstaber by holding up pictures as he told a story. After church, her whole family went on a long walk; they all oohed and aahed over the crocuses and the forsythia bushes in people’s yards. Then she and Maggie helped Dad gather a few pussy willows in their own backyard to mail in a tall, narrow box to Grandma. After dinner, their friends the Naganos came over, and Kelly helped her mother serve dessert. It was Kelly’s favorite—warm apple crisp and vanilla ice cream. It had been a great day—except for the morning. As she remembered how sad Mom had looked on the drive to church, Kelly had an idea. She could hardly wait for the next Sunday.
When Kelly woke up Sunday morning, she didn’t go downstairs and play with her kitty as she usually did. She quickly made her bed, went to her closet, and took out her Sunday dress. She hopped to the dresser and took out her slip, her tights, and her Sunday shoes and placed them all on her bed.
Next she went to Maggie’s room. She found her sister’s dress, tights, and shoes quickly, but Maggie’s lacy slip was not in her dresser drawers or in her closet. Kelly looked under Maggie’s bed and in the laundry hamper. The slip was nowhere to be found. Uh-oh, she thought. Maybe my plan won’t work, after all. Then she remembered that Maggie had been playing dress-up a few days before. Kelly ran to the dress-up basket, and there was her sister’s slip! Kelly quickly made Maggie’s bed and carefully laid out her Sunday clothes.
As Kelly went downstairs, she heard Mom in the shower. Kelly quickly found Maggie’s lunch box and placed an apple, a few crackers, and a juice box inside, then placed the lunch box on the counter.
When she finished her breakfast, she stayed in the kitchen and carried the dishes to the sink while Mom finished feeding Grant. Then Mom noticed the lunch box. She was surprised to open it and see a snack already inside. “I guess Dad made Maggie’s snack before he left,” she said. Kelly just smiled.
After Mom cleaned up Grant, she said, “Girls, it’s time to get dressed. Please run upstairs now.”
Kelly grabbed her sister’s hand and said, “I’ll race you upstairs!”
The girls dashed upstairs, and Mom followed. She looked in amazement at Maggie’s bed. “Why, who in the world made your bed? And who set out your clothes?” When she walked into Kelly’s room and saw her buckling her shoes, dressed and ready, she put the baby down and threw her arms around Kelly. “Oh, Kelly! Dad didn’t make a snack for Maggie—you did! And you cleaned the dirty dishes from the table and made the beds and set out the clothes. Thank you, sweetheart! Today will be the first Sunday in a long while that we’ll get to church on time. Thank you.” She squeezed Kelly again.
On the drive to church, Mom exclaimed, “Look, girls! Have you ever seen such beautiful spring flowers!” Kelly felt warm all over as Mom began to hum, “When I Go to Church.”

Brother Stoneman from up in the north area had been a member of the United Church of Canada. He’d been employed by the United Church of Canada. He was their printer. He lost his job. He found another, better one. He and his wife would go to the investigator who has been a member of the United Church of Canada and bear their testimony. He said, “I lost my job. I lost many of my friends, but I found a wealth of new friends, and I found the truth. You will not regret it.”

One weekend in August 1974 an unexpected change of conference assignment came, sending Elder Monson to the Shreveport Louisiana Stake. The Saturday afternoon schedule was filled with many meetings. Rather apologetically, the stake president asked Brother Monson if he had enough time to give a blessing to ten-year-old Christal Methvin, who was afflicted with cancer. Brother Monson said he would be pleased to do so and then asked if she would be coming to the conference meetings or if she were confined to a Shreveport hospital. Almost reluctantly, the stake president said Christal was unable to leave her home many miles from Shreveport.
Elder Monson examined the meeting schedule and found that there simply was no available time. As an alternative, he suggested that she be remembered in the public prayers which would be offered throughout the conference. Surely, he consoled, the Lord would understand and bless the Methvin family accordingly.
Prior to the stake conference, and unbeknown to Brother Monson, Christal had lost her leg to surgery, only to discover later that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs. A trip had been planned to Salt Lake City, where she might receive a blessing from one of the General Authorities. The Methvins knew none of the Brethren personally, so they placed before Christal a picture of all the Church leaders. She pointed to the photograph of Elder Thomas S. Monson and said, “I would like him to give me a blessing.”
But Christal’s condition had deteriorated so rapidly that the flight to Salt Lake City had to be cancelled. She was growing weaker in body but not in faith. She said, “Since a General Authority is coming to our stake conference, why not Brother Monson? If I can’t go to him, the Lord can send him to me.” At about the same time, Brother Monson received the unexpected change in his stake conference assignment which sent him to Shreveport.
As one final favor to Christal, they agreed to kneel by her bedside and ask for just one more blessing—the chance to enjoy Brother Monson’s personal visit.
After receiving word from the stake president that Brother Monson would be unable to visit Christal because of the extremely busy meeting schedule, the Methvins were understandably very disappointed. They knelt again around Christal’s bedside, pleading for a final favor for her: that somehow her desire for a blessing at the hands of Brother Monson would be realized.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt around Christal’s bed, Elder Monson was shuffling his notes, preparing to speak at the concluding portion of the Saturday evening session. However, as he began his move to the pulpit, a voice whispered in near-audible tones a brief but very familiar message: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
His notes became a blur as his eyes filled with tears. He attempted to follow the theme of the meeting as outlined, but the name and image of Christal Methvin would not leave his mind. Then, ever faithful to the precious gift so demonstrably his, he responded to the spiritual message. He instructed that changes in the next day’s conference schedule be made, whatever the cost in confusion and disruption. Then the meeting continued.
After a very early Sunday drive over many kilometers, Elder Monson gazed down upon a child too ill to rise, too weak to speak. Her illness had now made her blind. Deeply touched by the scene and the Spirit of the Lord which was so prevalent, Brother Monson dropped to his knees and took the child’s frail hand in his own. “Christal,” he whispered, “I am here.”
With great effort she whispered back, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.”
A blessing was pronounced commending a sweet child’s body and spirit to the loving watchcare of her Heavenly Father, who surely must have been observing that tender scene. Her barely audible “Thank you” gave eloquent benediction to the blessing and to the sweet life of faith she had lived. The next Thursday, as she was being remembered in the prayer circle of the First Presidency and Council of the Twelve where Elder Monson had placed her name, Christal Methvin’s pure spirit left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.

“This assignment will be due two weeks from Friday,” said Mr. Perkins. “I’m distributing a reading list to aid you in your research.”

Hastily, John Salinger jotted down the details of the assignment on the back of the reading list: three-page paper, due on the fifth, world hunger, population explosion, use reading list.

The bell rang, and John made his way down the hall toward the cafeteria. Near the library he passed the locker informally shared by most of the LDS girls at Royal High. As usual, John found most of the LDS boys there, too. By the time they reached the cafeteria, other LDS students and nonmember friends had joined them.

When the “Mormonism-for-lunch-bunch” were seated in their usual places in the cafeteria, John asked Julie Marshall a question:

“Did Mr. Perkins give your class an assignment on population and hunger today?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Julie. “I hope I can find my research notes for the paper I did on this same subject for him last year.”

Soon it was established that not only had Julie’s history class received the assignment, but also Kamio Kamura’s economics class, as well as John’s government class.

“It’s not just Mr. Perkins,” added Lisa Ballard. “It seems as though I’ve received a similar assignment at least once each semester from one teacher or another ever since I started here as a sophomore three years ago. If it isn’t overpopulation, it’s abortion, or capital punishment, or world hunger.”

“I think some of the teachers at this school have a one-track mind,” said Julie. “And the stuff in the reading list makes it pretty clear what your conclusions are supposed to be: ‘The world is overcrowded. No one should have a large family. Abortions are needed to control population growth. We’re running out of food.’ I don’t believe all that stuff.”

“Maybe we’re being unfair to the teachers,” said John. “It seems to me that Mr. Perkins is a genuine idealist. He gives lots of assignments on these subjects because he’s really concerned about them. I think the same is true of the other teachers, too. And many of them agree with what the Church teaches.”

“Maybe so, John,” answered Lisa, “but how do we do the assignment when the teacher’s opinions don’t seem to square with what the Church teaches?”

“Right!” agreed Rick Baker, a recent transfer student from Utah. “I know what the Church teaches, and I believe it.* But how do you disagree with a teacher? Can you just put what you believe in a term paper? How do you go against everything on the reading list? Will Mr. Perkins take a quote from the scriptures?”

These young people have raised some interesting questions. Frequently, the opinions of teachers will differ from Church policies, the statements of Church leaders, and the scriptures.

Teachers are seen as authority figures, persons whose positions are based upon their having considerable knowledge of their subject field and persons who are the judge and jury at report-card time.

In the case of Royal High School, the LDS students found some good guidance close at hand.

“Well, it’s quite a riddle,” said John, “and I don’t have the answer. But I do know where to find the answer. Let’s go talk to Mr. Morgan. He’s taught at this school for a hundred years, and he’s been a bishop and a seminary teacher longer than that.”

Bishop Morgan was in his room in the science wing when the “Mormonism-for-lunch-bunch” arrived. John quickly related the group’s questions.

“I can see that you do have a problem,” said Bishop Morgan, “but it’s not the problem you mentioned. You are assuming that you may use only the sources on Mr. Perkins’ reading list and that you must reach the same conclusions as the authors on that list.

“I have no doubt,” continued the bishop, “that you are welcome to use other sources, and to state other points of view, and to reach different conclusions if that is what your research leads you to.”

“But are there books and articles that support what the Church teaches?” asked Lisa.

“Certainly,” replied Bishop Morgan. “There are few fields of study without controversy. Honest, sincere researchers, working with the same data, may come to widely different conclusions and then publish documented articles and books in support of their conclusions.

“Some scientists are sure that the world is overcrowded with four billion people. Others feel that the earth is capable of providing well for 40 or 50 or even 100 billion people.

“And among social scientists the differences of opinion are probably even greater because they work with the most complex subject of all: people. That’s why you get strong, conflicting opinions on subjects like abortion, capital punishment, mercy killing, and the like. There are no easy answers.

“As Latter-day Saints, we are fortunate to have revealed truth to guide us in these controversial subjects, and we should be grateful for that. And there are also many researchers, both LDS and otherwise, whose writings agree with what the Lord has revealed. Your problem is simply to find these writings and then decide which of them will be useful in your assignments.”

As the bishop concluded, the students were quiet for a moment. Then Kamio asked one last question:

“But what about Mr. Perkins? Are you sure we won’t be penalized if we turn in reports that disagree with his point of view?”

“I know Carl Perkins,” said the bishop. “Yes, he has strong opinions, but he’s a good teacher and a fair man. He won’t grade you down for differing with him. He’d be pleased if you went beyond his reading list. Just be sure that what you do is well written and researched, and don’t automatically assume that everything on that reading list is wrong. Read it with an open mind.”

In the next three weeks John, Julie, and Kamio did a lot of hard work. Working together, they carefully read everything on Mr. Perkins’ reading list and then began digging into both the school and the public libraries.

They contacted Church Social Services in their area and their bishop and obtained some useful materials and references. Both the U.S. Government and United Nations agencies were found to have prepared good statistical summaries. An LDS anti-abortion filmstrip, “Very Much Alive” (available in both an LDS and a worldwide edition), was borrowed from the meetinghouse library and used. Other teachers were consulted.

John and Julie and Kamio received top grades for their work in presenting the Church’s stand. They were invited to present their findings to their respective classes and to answer questions from other students. They were well prepared to defend their positions. They had found facts to back up their beliefs.

Best of all, they learned that there really are good and valid reasons for the Church’s stand on tough moral issues. They discovered that some teachers with strong opinions respect students who do a good job of disagreeing with them. And they learned that the gospel of Jesus Christ is always in harmony with truth from whatever source.

When we got to the pile of junk, we had to lift off an old bedspring so that we could sift through the smaller things underneath. Ed found a rusted shovel he could sharpen and fit with a new handle. And I dug out a powder compact with a mirror. There was a pretty good washbasin that could be fixed by pulling a rag through the hole, and one or two bottles to add to my collection. We found a stove poker and a coal scuttle that were better than the ones we were using at home, so we decided to take them to Mama.

We put the other treasures inside the coal scuttle and sat down on the edge of the bedspring to talk. “You’re lucky you’re not going to school,” Ed complained. “There’s always some big bully who wants to beat you up at recess. And the teacher is mean. If you don’t know the answers, he cracks your knuckles with a ruler, or makes you sit in the corner, or has you write I WILL NOT FORGET TO STUDY MY LESSONS a hundred times on the blackboard after school. Just think of all the fun you can have outside while I’m cooped up at school!”

“It’s no fun being all alone,” I disagreed. “Besides, I want to learn to read.”

“What for? Who needs to read?”

“I do. There are places to find out about that I’ll never see and lots of things to learn that are written down.”

“It’s not fair that you get to stay home.” Ed accented each word with a bounce on the springs. “Say, these are pretty good springs. Couldn’t we use them?”

“There’s no place to put them,” I replied.

“That’s too bad,” he said, jumping higher.

“We could take them to our Indian grandma,” I suggested. “Then she wouldn’t have to sleep on that hard ground.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Maybe I could make her a mattress with corn shucks like Mama made.”

The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. Piecing together the scraps for the mattress would help fill the days when everyone else was at school.

Ed picked up the coal bucket with our treasures, and we hurried home to ask Papa if he’d pick up the springs with the wagon.

All of a sudden I felt anxious for school to start so I could get on with my project for Grandma. Mama was glad I had something to keep me busy and helped me find plenty of scraps of heavy material to stitch together for the mattress. She was true to her promise about the ABC’s, too, and took me to the store the first day everyone else was back in school. She hesitated a little over the cost, and Mr. Younger said, “I have another set I can let you have for less because the box got lost when they were displayed in the window, and I had to put them into another box.”

Mama said that would be fine, and he climbed up his ladder to get the box off a high shelf. It had a picture of a beautiful lady in a wide-brimmed hat, and I liked it better than the proper box that only had a picture of the ABC’s that were already inside. The letters were printed in black on blue cards, and some of them had faded in the window, but that didn’t matter. Mr. Younger said there were four sets: lower and upper case in printing and cursive, with extras of the most-used letters.

“She can make words until the cows come home,” he said.

That’s exactly what I intended to do. I didn’t know what he meant by cursive and upper and lower case, but I knew right where I was going to hide the box in the loft so no one else would find it and lose any letters.

The days went fast while the others were at school. I made words with my cards the same as the ones in the nursery rhyme book and practiced copying the letters on a piece of blackboard I’d found at the junkyard. When I got tired of that I’d come down from the loft and sew on the quilt pieces until Caroline and Ed came home.

To make sure I could go to school the next year, I practiced talking while I sewed. I learned to say things like, “Peter Piper picked a peck of prickly, pickled peppers,” or “Bumpy rubber buggy bumpers.” Sometimes I could say them better than Ed.

After I’d pieced together the top and bottom for the mattress, Mama showed me how to put the clean, dry corn shucks between the layers of cloth and tack it together in enough places so they stayed where they should. Corn shucks make a nice, friendly mattress that whispers and sighs all night, like someone is keeping you company. It would keep Grandma from being lonely while she slept.

Each spring we got more of our land under cultivation, and by the third or fourth year it was producing abundantly. The pastureland was fenced, and the eucalyptus trees we had planted for shade and as a windbreak were starting to do their job. The orchard was growing bigger, both in size and number of trees, and we had more horses, cows, chickens—even some new pigs. Every penny Papa earned went back into improving the farm.

As the farm grew, so did the family. Soon we had three more girls, and they, too, were named in alphabetical order—Helen, Ida, and Janice.

Janice was a weak little girl with a bad heart. If she cried hard or got too excited, she couldn’t get her breath and went into a fainting spell.

One time Papa and Mama took Janice to the doctor in Harmony to see if anything could be done for her. The three boys and I were trying to think of a game to play while they were gone.

“Want to play hopscotch?” I asked as I scratched the pattern in the dirt with a stick.

“Naw, that’s a sissy game,” Ed scoffed.

“Besides, it makes you too hot,” Frank said.

“Let’s go over to Grandma’s then,” I suggested, “and see if she still likes her mattress.” Even after all this time I could get excited just thinking about how much I’d enjoyed making it and how pleased she was when we took it over to her.

Have you ever felt alone? One day when our granddaughter Ashley was six years old, she was the only one without a friend to play with on the school playground. As she stood there, feeling unimportant and unseen, a specific thought came into her mind: “Wait! I’m not alone! I have Christ!” Ashley knelt down right in the middle of the playground, folded her arms, and prayed to Heavenly Father. The moment she opened her eyes, a girl her age was standing there asking her if she wanted to play. Ashley came to know, “We are important to the Lord, and we are never truly alone.”

“I want you to finish page twenty-seven in your spelling book tonight,” Mrs. Fielding reminded her class. “And your oral reports on what you want to be when you grow up are due Monday morning.”
The boys and girls buzzed eagerly about their oral reports. Only Carlos sat silently staring at his desk. His friend Robert smiled at him. After six weeks in his new school, Carlos had made only one friend—Robert. Somehow it was easy to talk to Robert.
The recess bell rang, and the chattering class hurried outside.
“Hey, Robert! C’mon! We’re starting a game!” It was Steve, the captain of the class baseball team.
“Great!” Robert called back. “Can Carlos play too?”
Steve hesitated. “I guess so. Is he any good?”
“He’s good,” said Robert. He turned back to Carlos and said, “Come on, Carlos, show them.”
But Carlos pulled back. “No,” he mumbled, “not today. I—I just don’t know how to talk to them. And when I don’t talk, they think I don’t know how to play baseball.”
“Carlos, you’ve got to talk to people,” Robert told his friend. “What are you going to do when you have to give your oral report next week in front of the whole class?”
“I don’t know,” Carlos answered glumly.
Robert smiled encouragingly at his friend. “Come on, Carlos, let’s play catch and not worry about it now. We’ll think of something for your report.” He tossed the ball to Carlos. “It’s easy to have friends. Just show them you’re friendly.”
After school Robert walked home with Carlos. As they climbed the steps, a man opened the front door.
“Uncle Ernesto!” Carlos yelled excitedly, hugging his uncle.
After he introduced Robert to Uncle Ernesto, Carlos told Robert that his uncle’s hobby was making puppets and putting on plays. “Uncle Ernesto lets me help with the shows sometimes,” said Carlos. They all went inside, and Uncle Ernesto brought out his new puppets to show the boys. Carlos picked one up and demonstrated how the strings made the puppets appear to wave, dance, and even talk.
“Aren’t you nervous doing a show in front of people?” asked Robert, admiring a little donkey puppet.
“Not really,” answered Carlos. “It’s as though I’m one of the puppets instead of me. I feel much braver then.”
“I guess I understand,” said Robert. “I feel that way when I’m a player on the field.” He thought for a moment, gently wiggling the strings on the bullfighter puppet. Suddenly his face lit up and he exclaimed, “Say, Carlos, why don’t you let the puppets give your oral report to the class! You could talk, but everyone would be watching them.”
Carlos grinned happily. “That’s a great idea!”
On Monday three other students gave their reports before Carlos gave his, and everyone was impatient to see what was in the large box he had brought with him. When it was finally Carlos’s turn, he asked for permission to set up a small puppet stage on Mrs. Fielding’s desk.
The curtains opened, and even Robert was surprised to see two baseball player puppets. Carlos made them look as if they were playing catch while they talked about baseball. Carlos really knew a lot about baseball. Steve and the other boys looked at each other in surprise.
The puppets batted and ran and slid, and the class was delighted as they listened eagerly to Carlos’s report.
“You are part of a team,” said one of the puppets in a deep voice, “so you try to do your best for your friends.”
“That’s why I want to be a baseball player,” the second puppet said in Carlos’s natural voice. Then the puppets made funny little bows and bounced off the stage.
The class whispered noisily, and Steve spoke up. “That was great! He really knows the game.” Later, at recess, Steve walked over to Robert and Carlos. “Hey, you guys, let’s play ball. We need you both on the team.”

As I neared my 12th birthday, there were several requirements to be completed before I could graduate from Primary. One was to recite the thirteen Articles of Faith in the prescribed order. The first twelve articles were relatively easy, but the thirteenth was much more difficult. It was remembering the order of the virtues that presented the challenge. Thanks to a Primary teacher who was patient and persistent, I finally completed the memorization.
Years later my wife and children and I moved into our first home. We were surprised to learn that my former Primary teacher would be our neighbor. For the 40 years we have lived in the same neighborhood, she has kept our little secret concerning my learning disability.
“We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things” (Articles of Faith 1:13).

From a missionary I received an unforgettable letter. He wrote: “I still am not certain why it was that I was [afflicted] with [cancer], particularly during the time I was serving the Lord on a mission, but I can say with all honesty and sincerity that I am eternally grateful to our gracious Heavenly Father for allowing me to have that experience. … Not a day goes by,” he continued, “that I don’t think about the days I spent lying in the hospital suffering through chemotherapy or grimacing with the pain from another operation. … Not a day … passes when I don’t think of the days I spent studying the scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon, and remembering the overwhelming feelings of comfort and peace which I felt. I often think of the nights when I would retire to bed and pour out my soul to my Heavenly Father and thank Him for preserving my life.” Then the elder shared this wonderful news: “I returned to the doctor this week … and … he found no evidence of any disease in my body.” I love such faithful missionaries!

His mother, Jean, joined the Church as a teenager in Hawaii, USA, and later attended Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA, where she stayed with the family of Gerrit de Jong, the first dean of the College of Fine Arts. “The de Jongs helped me understand what a gospel family is like,” she says.

After BYU, Jean attended Stanford University in Palo Alto, California, USA, where she met Walter A. Gong. “He was already a Christian and quickly understood what the restored gospel offers,” Jean says. He joined the Church, and a year later they were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Both became professional educators and collectively spent more than 70 years teaching.

“Dad also became a patriarch,” Elder Gong says, “and because patriarchal blessings were given in our home, our home was filled with a deep reverence for God’s love for each of His children.”

On December 23, 1953, in Redwood City, California, the first of Jean and Walter’s three children was born. “His given name, Gerrit, is Dutch, to honor Gerrit de Jong,” Jean explains. “His middle name is Walter, to honor his father. And our family name is Chinese, which honors his heritage.”

Jean says Gerrit was considerate to his younger siblings, Brian and Marguerite. “He liked to help them,” she says, “even with little things like teaching them to tie their shoes.” She remembers coming home from church one day and overhearing Gerrit and Brian saying they thought a sacrament meeting talk was boring. “So I challenged them: ‘Then you come up with a better talk.’ They took the challenge and started paying more attention to all the talks,” she says.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”
If I had lowered my standards, would the Holy Ghost have stayed with me? Or would I have lost my guide?
By choosing the right, I allowed the Holy Ghost to be my companion. With Him as my guide, I had help making the right decisions, and my testimony was strengthened.

I would like to tell you about a group of loud young men who came into my life when I was a young bishop in Seoul, Korea, many years ago. These were boys who lived in the neighborhood. Only one or two of them were members of the Church at the time. The boys who were members were the only members in their family. They were all friends, and they came to the church to play and to be together. They liked to play Ping-Pong during the weekdays, and they liked to have fun activities on Saturdays. Most of them were not good students in school and were considered by many to be troublemakers.
I was a young father of two sons, who were seven and nine years old at the time. I did not know what I could do for these young men. They were so rowdy that once my wife, Bon-Kyoung, asked me if we could move to another ward so that our sons could see good examples from other young men. I pondered and prayed to Heavenly Father to help me to find the way to help these young men. Finally I made the decision to try and teach them how they could change their lives.
A vision came upon my mind very clearly. I felt that if they were to become missionaries, their lives would be changed. From that moment on, I became very excited, and I tried to spend as much time as possible with them, teaching them the importance of missionary service and how to prepare for a mission.
At that time, Elder Seo, a full-time missionary, was transferred to our ward. He was one who had grown up in the Church and as an Aaronic Priesthood youth had participated in a young men’s singing group with his friends. He met those boisterous boys in our ward. Elder Seo taught those who were not members the missionary discussions, and he also taught them the songs he used to sing. He made a triple quartet with those loud boys and named them the Hanaro Quartet, which means “be as one.” They were happy to sing together, but we all needed “big” patience when we listened to their singing.
Our home was open to the members anytime they wanted to visit. The boys visited our home almost every weekend and even on some weekdays. We fed them and taught them. We taught them the principles of the gospel as well as the application of the gospel in their lives. We tried to give them a vision of their future life.
They sang together every time they came to our home. Their loud sound hurt our ears. But we always praised them because listening to them sing was far more enjoyable than seeing them get into trouble.
Through the years these activities continued. Most of these young men matured in the gospel, and a miracle happened. Over time, nine of the boys who were not members were baptized. They changed from loud, rowdy boys into valiant stripling warriors.1
They served missions, met beautiful young sisters in the Church, and married in the temple. Of course, there were different challenges for each of them as they served missions, attended school, and got married, but they all stayed faithful because they wanted to obey their leaders and please the Lord. Now they have happy families with children born in the covenant.
Nine loud boys have become 45 active members in the Lord’s kingdom, including their wives and children. They are now leaders in their wards and stakes. One is a bishop, two serve in bishoprics, one is serving on the high council, and two are Young Men presidents. There is a ward mission leader, an executive secretary, and a seminary teacher. As a group, they still sing together, and the other miracle—they actually sound good!
Now, we have three of our own sons, including our youngest, who was born during the time I served as bishop. As our sons grew, those nine boys became the leaders of the ward and the stake, and they became the teachers and leaders of our sons. They taught our boys and other boys in the same way I taught them when they were troublemakers. They loved our young boys in the same way I loved them. These loud, rowdy boys of the past became our children’s heroes. Our sons liked to follow their great examples of becoming wonderful missionaries and getting married to righteous companions in the temple.

I noticed that I was having a hard time paying attention in school. I was daydreaming a lot, and I wasn’t learning everything that I was being taught. So one night I prayed to Heavenly Father, “Please help me to pay attention in class so that I can raise my grades.” The next day I went to school, and it was a good day. I learned a lot and was able to pay attention to the teacher that day. Now I know that if you ask with all your heart, Heavenly Father will answer your prayer.
Brock P., age 11, Utah, USA