Gospel Story Finder

Jackie didn’t like Mrs. Baxter very much.
When Jackie and her friend Tara played in the street, Mrs. Baxter shouted at them to be quiet. She chased Tara’s kitten away with her newspaper. And when Jackie’s Frisbee landed in the grumpy neighbor’s window box, she wouldn’t give the Frisbee back.
So when Jackie and Tara saw Mrs. Baxter come out of the grocery store and something flutter from her open purse, they didn’t run to pick it up for her.
“She’s mean,” Tara said.
“The meanest lady in town!” agreed Jackie. “She wouldn’t even listen when I said I was sorry that the Frisbee broke her flowers.”
They watched Mrs. Baxter put her sack of groceries on the hood of her car and rummage in her purse. She pulled out her keys, unlocked the car, put the groceries in the trunk, and drove away.
“She doesn’t know she dropped anything!” Tara exclaimed, watching the big black car turn the corner.
Jackie ran to see what Mrs. Baxter had dropped. “It’s a five-dollar bill!”
“Too bad for her!” Tara said. “Finders, keepers—losers, weepers!”
“We can’t keep it!” Jackie looked at her friend in surprise. “We saw her drop it. We have to give it back!”
“What about your Frisbee that she kept?” Tara said. “She owes you for a new one! It isn’t stealing!”
“Wellll …” Jackie looked at President Lincoln’s picture on the five-dollar bill. He seemed to be looking back at her. Quickly she stuffed the money into her pocket. “I guess it wouldn’t be stealing if I get a new Frisbee with it. Come on, let’s look for one.”
There was a sports store nearby. The girls squeezed past a display of gleaming bikes and headed toward the Frisbees.
“I wish she’d dropped a five-hundred-dollar bill!” whispered Tara. “Then we could both get new bikes!”
That would really be stealing, Jackie thought. Keeping five dollars is a lot different from keeping five hundred dollars! Or is it? She tried to ignore the tight feeling in her stomach. Of course it wasn’t stealing—Mrs. Baxter owed it to her.
“How about this one?” Tara held up a fluorescent pink Frisbee.
Jackie put her hand in her pocket, twisting the five-dollar bill around her fingers. She thought about President Lincoln. He was known as “Honest Abe.” What would he think of her if she spent the money?
Tara was waiting for her answer. “I’m not getting a Frisbee,” Jackie said. “It’s Mrs. Baxter’s money.”
“Wait—”
Tara tried to say something, but Jackie didn’t listen. She knew that her friend was saying that it was stupid to give the money back.
Hurrying out of the store, Jackie unlocked her bike and rode off. As she turned into her street, she saw Mrs. Baxter climbing the two front steps to her apartment building, struggling to get out her key with one hand while still clutching the grocery sack.
Jackie hesitated. She’ll probably just yell at me, she thought. Maybe Tara’s right.
Mrs. Baxter was inside by the time Jackie set her bike down and walked slowly toward the door. As she passed the window box, she noticed the broken geraniums. They had been propped up on sticks and tied in place with green yarn. Mrs. Baxter may not like children and kittens, but she loves her flowers.
Jackie stared at the doorbell. Slowly she lifted her finger and pushed. Was that thumping sound her heart pounding, or was it Mrs. Baxter’s footsteps? It was Tara running up the path to stand beside her. Jackie smiled at her friend.
The door opened two inches and Mrs. Baxter peered out from behind the security chain. “What do you want?”
“You dropped this by the supermarket.” Jackie held out the five-dollar bill. As she passed it through the gap in the door, Mrs. Baxter grabbed it, then slammed the door.
She didn’t even thank me for returning the money! She’ll probably always chase the kitten and shout at us and keep our Frisbees, Jackie thought.
Jackie still didn’t like Mrs. Baxter. But she liked herself. Mrs. Baxter may not like me, but I’m glad that I returned the money. She was sure that Heavenly Father was pleased with her, too, and that was what mattered.

When our eldest son, Jason, was 11 years old, we had an experience we will never forget. It was Sunday, and as the rest of the family was preparing for church, Jason complained he was feeling ill. We decided to leave him home and promised we would telephone him later to see how he was doing. Our meetinghouse was not far away, and we could run home if he needed us.
Just before sacrament meeting began, I felt prompted to call Jason right at that moment. The telephone rang many times, but Jason didn’t answer. I assumed he was sleeping and did not hear the phone. Yet a nagging feeling told me something was very wrong. Since my husband was in the bishopric at the time and was already sitting on the stand, I left my other children in their seats and told them I would return in a few minutes.
The five-minute trip to our home seemed to take forever. Once there, I raced into the house, frantically calling Jason’s name. For what seemed like an eternity, there was no answer, and I could not find him. Finally, I heard soft crying as Jason cautiously crawled out from behind the couch in the family room. I put my arms around him and could feel him trembling as he related what had happened.
He had been lying on the couch when he had a feeling he should hide. He got up immediately and hid behind the couch. Just then, he heard someone come in the front door. Thinking it must be the family, he quietly peeked out from his hiding place. He was horrified to see an intruder, wearing a black ski mask and gloves, going through drawers. He listened as the stranger wandered throughout the house. At that point the phone began ringing, and the intruder left. Of course, the ringing phone had been my call just before I left the meetinghouse.
I will always be grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost that both Jason and I experienced that day. I am so grateful I was prompted to come home to be there when Jason needed me. Who knows what might have happened if Jason had been discovered by the intruder? Not only was he protected, but I believe the Spirit helped him heal from this traumatic experience. Today Jason is a courageous and strong missionary whose treasured companion continues to be the Holy Ghost.

Christmas dawned on a day as murky as my mood. A dense fog had crept into the Italian city where my husband’s military assignment had taken us. My two daughters were not very excited about the few gifts they had received. Their thoughts, like mine, were with their father, who was in a military hospital in Germany.
“It doesn’t seem like Christmas without Daddy here,” eight-year-old Diana commented. I nodded, thinking about all the seasonal cheer we were missing—decorations, family parties, holiday feasts.
“Well, at least some of us are together,” said 17-year-old Athena quietly.
When my husband called from the hospital in Germany, I talked to him briefly and then handed the phone to Diana. To my surprise, she refused to speak to him, even though she hadn’t seen or talked to him in weeks. Confused by her reaction, I ran the events of the past month through my mind.
Some weeks earlier my husband, Ed, began complaining of pain in his left forearm. In no time it swelled and became stiff. The doctors hospitalized him and gave him antibiotics intravenously. But his hand became useless.
I arranged for our oldest son to stay with his grandmother for Christmas instead of coming home from college. Our three other children tried to help me get ready for Christmas, but the spirit of the season could not penetrate my anxiety.
One night was especially bad. I couldn’t sleep, so at 3:30 A.M. I called the hospital. The nurse said Ed was in such pain he was pacing the floor. Suddenly I knew he needed a priesthood blessing. Since the hour was so early, I hesitated to call our home teacher, Bob DeWitt. But Bob arrived on his own at about 5:00 A.M. He called another priesthood holder and hurried to the hospital. Bob felt prompted to promise Ed he would eventually regain the full use of his hand.
Moments after the blessing, a group of doctors conferred around Ed’s bed. They couldn’t explain what was causing the damage to his arm. Although in pain, Ed commented that it was too bad the X ray couldn’t show more than just the bone in his arm; it would help if they could see the tissue as well. Ed’s words startled the doctors, and they decided to use an ultrasound machine to look at his arm in a manner not commonly used. The procedure was later written up in medical journals.
Using the ultrasound in this new way, they located a large pocket of infection deep within Ed’s forearm. They operated immediately.
“It’s lucky we located the abscess when we did,” the surgeon explained to me later. “Even a few more hours could have cost Ed the use of his arm completely. As it is, I doubt he will ever be able to use his fingers again.”
The doctors transferred Ed to a large hospital in Germany, and I accompanied him while friends took care of our children. Ed’s condition became worse; the bone became infected, and antibiotics were unexplainably ineffective.
Days went by in a blur as Ed underwent multiple surgeries. Ed insisted I fly home to be with the children for Christmas.
So here it was Christmas morning. I held my youngest daughter close, still not sure why she had refused to speak with her father. Finally she hesitantly took the phone, and within seconds, her face was wreathed in a smile.
“I thought Daddy was dying,” she explained later. “He was so sick when he left.”
Holding both daughters tightly, I smiled through my tears. Faintly, through the fog, the tolling of Christmas bells reached us. I reflected on the gift we commemorate each Christmas—our Savior, who redeemed us from eternal death and made eternal families possible. I realized that through the Lord’s Atonement and the ordinances of the temple, we could be together forever.
Ed spent nine months in hospitals—and three long, difficult years passed before he recovered completely. But we never questioned that his priesthood blessing would be fulfilled or that our greatest blessings came through the Lord Jesus Christ.
As I listened to the bells that Christmas morning in Italy, I finally welcomed Christmas into my heart.

1. “Lunch is ready!” Mom called.
2. Three-year-old Trevor raced to the kitchen and quickly sat down on the stool.
3. His eyes flew past his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and apple slices to the shiny green glass full of milk.
4. “Hooray!” he exclaimed. Trevor and his five-year-old sister, Andrea, both liked to drink from the beautiful green glass. Since there was only one green glass, they took turns. Today was Trevor’s day.
5. “But, Mom, I really wanted to have that glass today!” Andrea declared. The look on her face was stormy and disappointed as she stomped to the counter.
6. “I’m sorry, it’s Trevor’s turn today,” Mom said.
7. Trevor looked at his sister. He knew she had a cold and didn’t feel well. She was always loving and kind to him. She was quick to share, and she was a great playmate. Trevor knew he loved the green glass, but he loved Andrea more.
8. “Here, sister,” he said simply as he slid the glass by her plate. “In nursery, the teacher said when people are sad, we share.”
9. “Oh, Trevor!” Andrea said with a smiling face as she gave him a hug. Trevor knew her happy face and warm hug were better than drinking from the green glass.

A young woman found that she had developed a spirit of criticism. She felt that this was hampering her spiritual growth. As she partook of the sacrament, she promised the Lord that she would not criticize anyone in her family for one week.

Each week she renewed her effort and asked for the Spirit to be with her. She overcame this weakness, though it was not easy and progress was slow. Her friends now use her as an example of one who never speaks unkindly of others.

Sam looked sad.
“What’s the matter?” Jackie asked.
“There’s still no snow,” Sam said. “What fun is winter without snow?”
Jackie had an idea. She went into her room and shut the door.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
“You’ll see,” she called.
Sam waited. He heard crinkle, crinkle, snip, snip, snip. He was curious! So he knocked on the door. “What are you doing?” he asked again.
“Be patient,” Jackie said. “You’ll see.”
Sam was tired of waiting. He sat on a chair in the living room and read a book. After a while he felt something fall softly on his head. He picked it up.
“A snowflake!” he declared.
Then more snowflakes fell on him. He looked behind the chair.
“Surprise!” Jackie shouted. “It’s snowing!”
Sam laughed as he held up a snowflake. “This is the best kind of snow,” he said. “It never melts.”

While the pioneers were crossing the plains, a small six-year-old boy wandered away from his handcart company during a storm and was lost. When the storm subsided, Robert and Ann Parker realized their boy was missing and began searching. For two days, an organized search was unsuccessful. The decision was taken that the company must move on because of the approaching winter.
A pioneer journal records:
“Ann Parker pinned a bright [red] shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of … trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son.”
One suspects that he did not just casually look behind a few trees or leisurely walk along the trail, but that he vigorously investigated every thicket, every clump of trees and gully or wash.
“At last he reached a … trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. [The boy] had been ill from exposure and fright. [But] God had heard the prayers of his people.
“Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl [above her husband’s head], the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. … [She] slept for the first time in six … days.”*

One Saturday afternoon I decided to study the Sunday School lesson for the next day’s class. It was on miracles. “If ever we needed a miracle, it is now,” I thought. My mother was a widow, and our family was going through a difficult time financially.
Ever since my sisters and I were little girls, we had devoted ourselves to the art of horsehair weaving. We would wash the horsehair, color it with dyes, and then weave it hair by hair into shapes such as butterflies, mice, and copihues (the national flower of Chile). It is very fine work and unique to our country. All winter long we would weave, and in the summer we would sell our work at art fairs.
The national economy was depressed that year and greatly affected our business. In the past a major source of our income had been an art fair in Temuco, a tourist town in southern Chile. But that year we had not been invited. We had even called the fair’s organizers, but they refused to give us a booth. We worried about how this loss of income would affect us.
But as I studied the Sunday School lesson that afternoon, my attitude changed completely. First I read Mormon 9:19: “[God] ceaseth not to be God, and is a God of miracles.” This promise lifted my spirits. Then as I read verse 21, I felt even better: “I say unto you that whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, whatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him.”
I thought about the miracle my family needed, and I decided to travel the four hours to Temuco to plead our case.
When I arrived at the office of culture, I was discouraged to see many other people there to make the same request and to learn that all these people had been told no. Still I felt the Lord was with me.
When my turn came to speak to the man in charge, he bluntly told me there was only a remote possibility we could have a booth but that a final decision could not be made yet. I explained that a booth would mean bread for my mother during the winter months, but I felt as if I were talking to a wall. Then without thinking, I told him I believed in miracles and left his office.
I called my husband and asked him to fast with me. My mind constantly reverted to the words of the Sunday School lesson: “[God] is a God of miracles.” I needed a miracle—now.
I waited for six hours at the office of culture, feeling greater anguish with each passing minute. Finally I saw craftspeople arriving from every corner of Chile and also from other countries. The fair was starting. With a lump in my throat, I prayed, “Thy will be done.” Suddenly a feeling of peace overcame me, and I decided to talk one more time to the man in charge.
When I entered his office, I could see his attitude had changed. He courteously told me I could have a booth. Once again I told him I believed in miracles.
We made the money we needed at the fair, and I learned for myself that God continues to work miracles today. My faith grows each day because of all He gives me.

A few years ago, while serving as a mission president, I received a call on a Sunday night from a leader at the Provo (Utah) Missionary Training Center. He said that a missionary who was assigned to our mission—and who would arrive the next day—was having a crisis of faith. While in the MTC, he had begun to question whether he really believed what he had been taught all his life. He then called his parents and said he needed to return home because he did not have a testimony. They were loving and supportive but encouraged him to give it at least one day in the mission field. He hesitantly agreed and the following day I sat with him in an initial interview. With much nervousness he described that he did not know how he could possibly be a missionary when he did not know if the Church and its teachings were true.
An inspired question came into my mind: “Elder, what do you know is true?”
“I know my family loves me.”
I then told him I would assign him a wonderful companion and encouraged him to simply go out and bear testimony of what he did know was true—how a loving Latter-day Saint family has blessed his life. I bore my testimony to him that as he studied the Book of Mormon each day and did all that was asked of a missionary, the Spirit would help him gain the testimony he desired. He nervously agreed to give it a try; and as he left the office, I wrote on my notepaper 50 percent (meaning there was a 50/50 chance he would make it through the first week).
All week long I worried about this sincere and good young missionary, who had so many doubts and who questioned his faith. I resisted the urge to call him and see how he was doing, knowing that might make it too easy for him to ask to be sent home. So instead I anxiously awaited his first weekly letter to the mission president. My joy was full as I read the following:
Dear President Palmer,
I can honestly say I’ve had a great past week. When I spoke with you in our interview, the only thing keeping me going was fear of what would happen if I went home. I truly had no desire to stay and serve a mission for two years.
But as of right now, I’m so glad that I stuck it out. I still don’t know everything that I need to. But just in the last few days I’ve come to fully understand how the Church brings change and happiness to people’s lives. That’s what I am basing my testimony on. I know I still have a lot to develop my faith on, but this is a huge step for me. I had been stuck between what I was learning in Church and what my brain was telling me made more logical sense. But I’ve felt the Holy Ghost.
On Saturday night, we taught a guy named Cory. My companion brought the Spirit so strongly, and I knew Cory was feeling it as strongly as I was. When it was my turn to speak, I explained how Joseph Smith read in James and then prayed to know if it was true. While I quoted the First Vision I could hardly breathe. My heart was pounding. It was so awesome.
Like I said earlier, I don’t have a testimony of everything yet, but one thing I cannot deny is that Cory’s life will never be the same. We didn’t even get the entire baptismal invitation out before he said yes. I couldn’t believe it. I just kept thinking back to what my mom said before I left the MTC, that if I didn’t really give it a real chance, I would never find out for myself. But I plan on doing that now.1
This young man went on to become an outstanding missionary, whose faith became strong as he continued to grow in his understanding of the gospel through diligent study — and who received powerful witnesses of the Spirit while bearing testimony to others.

May I share with you an experience that took place on the island of Okinawa in the Servicemen’s District? As the local Okinawan members were excitedly preparing to go to Tokyo, which is nearly 900 miles away, for the area general conference, the young people of the Servicemen’s Branch found out that an active young Okinawan family was not planning to go with the rest of the branch. When approached and asked why he was not going to conference, this faithful brother hesitantly replied that he just could not afford to take his wife and children at this time; it was out of the question.
The young people of the Servicemen’s Branch immediately met and planned a cookie sale project to raise funds necessary to send this family to conference. The young people baked cookies in their parents’ homes; later when they were busily engaged in selling these cookies, they were pleasantly surprised when they approached the servicemen to purchase their cookies, explaining the purpose of their project. Without hesitation the servicemen all bought cookies and donated money in excess of the purchase price, so that the young people could reach their goal. The happy result was that this young Okinawan family was able to go to Tokyo to conference with the rest of their branch, because of the help they received.
The young people of the Servicemen’s Branch all learned a great lesson in giving and loving; they learned through experience that persons who really care for others and who give some of their time, talents, and belongings for the good of others are the ones who really receive the fullest blessings of life.

Twenty years ago I was called to be Young Women president in my ward. My hair was brown, and my body was … well, let’s just say, a little more limber. Many years later I was called again to the same position, this time in a new ward. I was being recycled, and I found that exciting. It was my chance to renew my covenant to God that I would serve in whatever capacity He needed me. Now, however, my hair was naturally silver (or mostly so), and touching my toes had become a real strain. But I didn’t feel too old to be blessed again by the lives of remarkable young women who were faithful, bright, and full of fun. I would like to think that by then I had a little more wisdom to give them and a deeper testimony of the gospel, but once again I learned as much from them as they did from me. Our sisterhood includes all ages and backgrounds; we are connected by the covenants we have made.

Two shovels full of sand were poised in front of the slowly churning cement mixer, and two sets of eyes watched carefully the gray sludge sloshing rhythmically inside. Although one set of eyes belonged to a dark-haired 16-year-old from El Salvador and the other to a fair-haired 22-year-old from the United States, both held that clear, steady gaze of common understanding. Both knew that that gray sludge was worth its weight in gold. It was helping to build sturdy cement block houses that signaled hope for families in need. And it was helping to cement ties between Latter-day Saint youth from two different nations, and between these youth and the grief-stricken people of yet a third nation.
The youth—more than 30 young men from El Salvador and upper Guatemala and nine students from Brigham Young University—were working in Guatemala with a host of adult leaders from local branches and stakes, in addition to health and full-time missionaries from around the world. The group included about 55 people in all. Their task—to rebuild homes destroyed by the February 4 earthquake.
Their task was not easy. The terrible terremoto, or earthquake, destroyed about 20 percent of the country’s residential buildings, claimed more than 2,000 lives, and left an estimated one million people homeless. Church members were included in this number. President Guillermo Enrique Rittscher of the Guatemala City Stake, for example, reported 142 homeless families.
Statistics, however, do not paint as clearly the picture of human drama as the scene that greeted the volunteers when they arrived two months after the quake. Guatemala City had become a tent city. Large families were bravely trying to work out of small tents amid a cold, steady rain. They had begun to build portable plywood homes, but one room was inadequate for some of the large families. And in addition to all this, the water lines had been broken and much of the water was feared to be contaminated. It had to be boiled before use—not a simple task in a tent.
It was in these circumstances that mission president Robert B. Arnold and Harold B. Brown, Regional Representative of the Twelve for Mexico and Central America, organized the project and obtained the clearance for calling work missionaries from El Salvador and upper Guatemala to help build earthquake-resistant houses.
The young men who volunteered ranged in age from 15 to 18. They postponed their own work, their studies, and other activities to help.
“We really appreciate these young workers. We truly feel that the Church is going to be in fabulous hands as these boys grow and mature and take their positions of leadership in their various wards here in Guatemala and El Salvador,” said Carol Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “They truly love the gospel and all of its facets, and they really want to serve our Heavenly Father. This is their main purpose in being here—so that they can help their brothers in building these homes. But likewise, they can be prepared and go forth as proselyting missionaries in the months to come.”
The program had already begun when the BYU volunteers, most of them building construction majors, offered to share their expertise for eight weeks with the young workers. With the direction of Lon Wallace, their adviser and an instructor in BYU’s building construction and technology program, and the sponsorship of the BYU Benson Agriculture and Food Institute, nine volunteers loaded a van with hard hats, donated tools, and sleeping bags and headed for Guatemala and life in tent city.
The workers were located in two areas—Guatemala City and nearby Patzicia. They lived in tents alongside the members.
“You don’t understand what living in a tent is until you can experience a downpour of an inch or two and feel the dampness and the wetness of trying to build a fire to boil your water and wash your dishes,” said Boyd Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “The wind blows every day. Heavy fog rolls in every day and stays until 9:00 A.M. the next day. You can cut it with a knife.”
Complaints of any kind were scarce, however, although the days were long and hard, beginning at 5:30 in the morning. After a spiritual meeting with scripture reading and prayer, breakfast was served. Then the truck was loaded with needed supplies, and the volunteers were ready to start work at 7:00 A.M. Sometimes they took lunch with them, so they didn’t return to camp until 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening. After dinner there were English classes to teach or to attend and tracting with the full-time missionaries to do. Finally, many weary young men eased their bodies, aching from hard work, into damp sleeping bags.
The work was made hard, in part, by a shortage of materials. The workers had only one two-ton truck to transport all of the sand, gravel, and sometimes water for their day’s work. While one crew mixed the cement, another would go back to load up with sand and gravel for more. Because the water lines had been broken, many of the work sites had no water. So workers searched in the constant drizzle and filled 55-gallon drums from rivers, wells, and anywhere there was some water so that the cement mixing could go on.
“We ended up working hard. In fact, as I thought about it, I know that nobody could pay me enough money to do that kind of work. I’d do it for free for these people, but nobody could ever pay me enough to do work like that,” one volunteer said thoughtfully.
As the time neared for the BYU volunteers to leave, the young Central American workers showed their appreciation in ways that broke down all language barriers. One young man organized a party with decorations, poems, talks, and a special meal with Guatemalan goodies prepared by one of the local Relief Society groups. At the end of the celebration, he threw his arms around one of the tall BYU students and broke into tears at the thought of their leaving. And so the BYU group left to resume their lives with a new perspective. But their tools, their expertise in building, and, most important, their testimonies stayed.
“Words are inadequate for expressing our gratitude,” one Guatemalan woman told Brother Wallace. “Only the Lord can thank you, and he will in time.”
Following disaster, the Guatemalan Saints begin life anew, with a stronger faith in God and in their fellowmen. Within concrete walls, their gratitude reverberates and grows with the warmth that can only be inspired by love in action.

Getting up early on a Saturday morning to shingle roofs, paint houses, and mow lawns after being soaked in a mountain downpour the day before might deter some people, but not youth from the Alpine Utah Stake.
Nearly 400 youth and 100 leaders and adults joined forces on June 10, 2006, to work on a huge fix-up project as part of their stake’s three-day youth conference. The stake’s “Extreme Neighborhood Makeover” literally transformed a small neighborhood in Provo, Utah: 5 houses were reroofed, 15 were painted, and a few new lawns were put in. In all, 25 houses in the neighborhood had at least one type of repair performed.
“It’s a party,” “This is fabulous,” “It’s amazing,” and “I can’t believe how early they were here,” were some of the comments by residents as they watched the youth descend on their neighborhood with scrapers, paint, and ladders.
“It’s just been amazing to watch how hard these kids have worked,” said Joseph Nilson, stake president of the Alpine Utah Stake. “To me, you don’t have to go too far to find service opportunities, and it’s wonderful for them to get out and see their religion in action.”

A few years ago, as a birthday gift, I went to the FamilySearch® system and retrieved my wife’s entire recorded family pedigree. That was a serious mistake. The computer revealed that my wife is a descendant of European royalty. It has been hard to live with her ever since. Maybe now, through this knowledge of her family history, I am more inclined to treat her as our family queen. But the biggest problem, of course, is that my children share in this royal ancestry, which, sadly, makes me the only “commoner” in my family.

After five years at the school, Skaidr?te went to work in a clothing factory. She was a good seamstress, skilled but not fast. Others laughed at her and said she was avoiding work. Because she was slow, she wasn’t paid much. She became discouraged. She even contemplated suicide.
Then a new factory opened and Skaidr?te moved there. This factory emphasized quality rather than speed, and because her skill was apparent, Skaidr?te was selected to oversee the other seamstresses. It was a perfect situation.

Luana was 11 years old when I visited her family in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Because of a traumatic event in her childhood, Luana could not speak. She had not spoken for years. She sat silently as we all conversed. I kept hoping for even a whisper from her. She looked at me intently as if uttering words were not necessary for me to know her heart. After a prayer, we stood up to leave, and Luana handed me a drawing. She had drawn Jesus Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. I then recognized her witness loud and clear. Luana had made a covenant at baptism to stand as a witness of God “at all times and in all things, and in all places.” She understood the Atonement of Jesus Christ, as witnessed through her drawing. Had she come to know that, through the strengthening and enabling power of the Atonement, she could be healed and speak again? Since that day three years ago, Luana has progressed in her effort to speak. She is now participating in Young Women with her friends. Faithful to the covenant she made at baptism, she continues to share her witness of the Savior.

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board, There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling, beautiful girl who was close to crying.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and left. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your words mixed again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that talk about life after death is not true. You go on a mission and what happens. You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. 3,200 kilometers away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Be strong, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t confused his words at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his death, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college now became hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the difference in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “l’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find that I become depressed or unhappy. I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head. “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

Mental health experts recommend talking about the person who died from suicide like you would talk about a person who died from any other cause. Remember the good times together, remember how much you loved the person, and express how much they will be missed.

“I loved hearing good memories about my brother,” Jess says. Some people even wrote down those memories and gave them to her family. “Anytime someone brought him up, I felt relief.”

It was 8:30 A.M. when my serene world of comfort was interrupted by the gentle, but annoyingly persistent, hand of my mother poking me.
“Brett, before you go out to play today, could you mow the lawn please? When you’re finished, bring me your dirty clothes. I’ll need to do another load of laundry.”
My pillows no longer felt as soft. My blanket no longer gave its usual feeling of security. My eyes couldn’t seem to get in a comfortable position under my now forced-shut eyelids. I was awake.
“Noooooo,” I half-groaned, half-moaned, through a mouthful of pillow as my arms involuntarily felt the need to stretch.
After the denial came protest. “But, but …” I stuttered, trying to formulate a reason to stay in bed this early on a Saturday.
Many minutes later, gazing painfully through my brilliantly illuminated window, I was sure temperatures were approaching 200 degrees, and in my weakened condition, I wasn’t sure I could lug our lawn mower up every mountainside of my backyard with what I would call an amiable attitude.
“Why do I have to mow the lawn?” I mumbled in frustration. “If she cares so much about it, why doesn’t she mow it,” I dared to verbalize at a mere whisper.
“Breeettt,” came the singsong voice of my mother from the kitchen, reminding me I was to actually get out of bed.
After 20 minutes I was able to pull myself out of my room and into the kitchen, eyes closed and neck straining to hold my head up.
“Mom, please,” I pleaded, putting on my most pitiful face in an attempt to garner some sympathy. Mom’s predictable response was, “Brett, just go mow the lawn.”
I walked to the garage. The world was out to get me.
While freeing the lawn mower, I stubbed my toe. “Grrrrraaaarrr,” I growled like an animal, feeling a tantrum coming on.
Half an hour later, sitting on the garage floor glaring at the lawn mower, I was no closer to completing the lawn. Grumbling, I pushed the old lawn mower into the heat of day.
Finally, I started the mower and began to push it back and forth, creating long lines of cut grass. Guiltily I began to realize I’d spent more time sitting on the ground of the garage floor than I had spent mowing most of the lawn.
I realized that whether or not I mowed the lawn, it still had to be mowed. And my mom really would mow the lawn herself, but she was too busy doing other chores like my laundry. My mom was like that.
I recalled the time when we had caught her weeding the flowerbeds at a gas station while we were on a family vacation. And the time she was outside in a rainstorm with an umbrella and a hose, guiding the flow of water to make sure all the dirt on the porch was washed away. Our house was always immaculate because of her.
A sudden epiphany hit me: I was so focused on the work I had to do, I never considered the work others had to do. My mother had never asked me to work while she was lazing about. I guiltily considered the countless times I had been idly reading a book in a comfortable chair as my mom asked me to lift my feet so she could vacuum under them. I considered the amount of service I had received and the almost laughable amount of service I had rendered. Oh, sure, I had done service projects and eventually all the chores my parents asked of me, but usually unwillingly.
A light went on in my head. To truly give service I would have to do so willingly.
To read more about serving willingly, see “Getting the Point” by Taylor Woodruff (New Era, Oct. 2003) in the Gospel Library at www.lds.org.
See also Mosiah 24:15; D&C 58:26–27; D&C 64:34.

When I was a child, our golden retriever Rocky was the perfect dog! He was gentle, loyal and obedient … except during thunderstorms. Fear would completely change him leading to destructive behaviours, including one incident that caused nearly £20,000 in damage! Yet, we never stopped loving him. We forgave him instantly, knowing his actions came from fear, not malice. From then on we did everything possible to help him through storms—checking weather reports daily, staying home when possible, comforting him and making sure he felt safe.