Gospel Story Finder

I am, admittedly, not very good at this. The “I’ve got this” mentality overtakes me sometimes.
Shortly before general conference last year, when they knew I was extra busy, the sister and brother who minister to our family offered to bring some soup. They sent a kind text to my husband and me. True to form, I quickly responded to say we were good and no soup was needed. My gracious husband, on the other hand, responded with a message that soup would be great, inviting them to minister to us in that way. I should have done better.
In anticipation of Doug’s surgery in St. Louis, I asked for the name of a stake Relief Society president I could call there, just in case I had some extraordinary need for help. That was way out of my comfort zone, but I asked and received the number for Sister Diana Taylor, who is a stake Relief Society president in the area.
I called Sister Taylor and explained why we were coming to St. Louis and assured her I would let her know if and how I needed her help.
The next day, she sent me this text: “Sister Johnson, 10 hours is a long time to be waiting alone while Brother Johnson is in surgery. I would be happy to come to the hospital to be with you if that would help. I could come the whole time or part of the time. We could share the Spirit of Christ as we pray and remember the blessings of a loving Father in Heaven, the blessings of sisterhood, the blessing of families and of service.”
Perhaps you’ve guessed my first reaction: “I’m good. I’ve got this alone. I’ll wallow in my sadness by myself!” And I was just about ready to send a response that declined her invitation—until I remembered what I had preached in the April 2023 general conference and thought that I ought to practice it:
“How does the Savior relieve us of the burdens of living in a fallen world with mortal bodies subject to grief and pain?
“Often, He performs that kind of relief through us! …
“… We are a conduit through which He provides relief.”1
I responded with this text message: “I don’t want to trouble you at all. Perhaps you and I could have lunch together. That would be a nice break from the talks that I am writing.”
The Lord sent Sister Taylor (right) to minister to me while I was waiting for my husband to come out of surgery.
Sister Taylor and I walked to a restaurant. We sat outside because it was a sunny day and enjoyed lunch together. And in the end, I trust that both of us found needed relief.
I was alone in St. Louis. Doug was in a surgery lasting more than 10 hours. How was the Savior going to help me, to relieve me of loneliness and frustration and worry? He sent someone to minister to me, someone who was magnifying her calling and keeping her baptismal covenant by comforting someone who stood in need of comfort (see Mosiah 18:9–10). If I had failed to receive her, I would have failed to receive Him.

Shortly after the flight I had the opportunity to show Sister Sharlene Wells, our Miss America, around the space center. She asked me if it didn’t seem uncomfortable going into space upside down. I explained that in space you always feel right side up and stationary. The earth turns below you. If somebody’s head is pointing toward your feet, he is the one who is upside down. At lift-off, the earth simply rotates to a position above your head, but that is the earth’s problem.
Later at a fireside, Sister Wells made a comment about that situation that I think is very meaningful. In many things we do, the world thinks we are completely upside down. They think our moral values are foolish, our standards are restrictive, and our beliefs are quaint but outdated. The important thing is that we make sure that we keep ourselves right side up, aligned with the Lord, even if it makes the whole world look upside down.

When I was about eleven years old, I gained an understanding of our Heavenly Father’s love. My parents were not then very religious, but they were good people. They loved me and taught me to be good, clean, and honest, and they helped me to develop righteous desires. Although they were always interested in questions of truth, they did not know God, so they could not tell me about Him. I had an undeveloped hope for the reality of God, but never seemed to find anyone who knew Him and could tell me about Him.
I remember seeing a person killed in an accident. Faced for the first time with death, I was so shaken that I couldn’t sleep for a couple of days and became ill. No one could tell me what happens after death. A great fear developed within me that some accident would happen to my father and nobody would be able to explain where he had gone.
Later, during World War II in my home country of Germany, I lived with my mother and four sisters far away from home in southern Germany in two very small, humble rooms. We had fled from our home because of the many air attacks that had destroyed our city and threatened our lives. My father was separated from us because he had been drafted into the army. And I was too young to understand the dramatic events happening around me during that terrible war.
Lying in bed one night in the room I shared with two of my sisters, I remember an intense feeling of loneliness. My mother and two other sisters slept in the next room, but I still felt lost in our temporary home and strange surroundings. The people even spoke a different dialect than I was used to. I had a most frightening thought: What is the purpose of my being here on this earth? I could not answer this question, and it led right into another one that was even more frightening: What is eternity?
I looked into my heart for the answers to these questions. But the more I thought about eternity, the more lost I felt. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to stand on. I had the feeling of falling, falling, falling without stopping. It scared me terribly.
I can still remember the details of that room—the pale light of the moon and the sound of the church clock bell ringing every fifteen minutes. I was awake until early in the morning, and I was so overcome with despair that I began to cry. I wept and wept.
Suddenly something changed. A comforting power enveloped me, and a small voice said to my soul, “You are My child. Have trust in Me.”
Immediately joy and happiness filled my heart. All my fear, loneliness, and despair were changed into feelings of warmth and comfort. That night I learned for the first time that there is some unseen but loving Person who is concerned about me. Especially is this true when I feel despair and need help.

“You’ve gotta crack a half a cuppa nuts!” is a very familiar phrase heard in my family. It is not unusual for our mother or dad to say it, and we’re all quite used to the strange and puzzled looks we get from those visitors who have no idea what it means.
It all started a couple of years ago when my dad was out of ideas to keep us under control. Being the father of ten active and quite rambunctious children, he needed a way to discipline our behavior. Consequently, he tried several methods of punishment that didn’t work particularly well.
One of the most boring discipline remedies that I can remember was “sitting on the chair.” When we were being punished for misbehavior, we had to sit on a hard chair in a corner of our dining room for a certain time which Mom would set on the oven buzzer. What made this punishment particularly unpleasant was that the chair was right by the piano. It never failed that a big sister would plop down on the piano bench and, seeing she had a captive audience, sing and play to her heart’s content. Talk about a fate worse than death!
That form of punishment failed because Mom and Dad had to worry about us sneaking off the chair and reducing the time on the buzzer, or simply disappearing. It proved a discipline dead end.
Another time Mom tried the “write an essay” form of punishment in which we had to write about what we did and how we would never do it again. None of us had much problem coming up with a lot to write about, but for some of us the punishment disintegrated into page-long poems that began with “Roses are red,” while others developed a unique writing style in which they could snugly fit about 17 huge words on a page. Another dead end.
Unfortunately for us, Dad came up with an idea that he thought was absolutely brilliant. Dreadful was a better word for it. We have a walnut tree in our backyard. Dad had been noticing how many walnuts go uncracked every year. He decided to mix that chore with our punishment. Every time we would break a family rule we would have to crack one half cup of nuts. Half a cup of nuts became the standard unit of punishment.
Cracking nuts may sound silly, but, believe me, it’s hard work. Picture a bunch of kids sitting on a hot sidewalk cracking each walnut one by one with a brick, then picking out the meat. Filling up one-half cup takes about 45 minutes, 35 if you’re a pro.
We children weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea, but we always had an abundance of cracked walnuts around to add to breads or cookies.
It takes forever to clean the slate when you get behind in your nut cracking. Once our family was planning a vacation. Dad decided that we weren’t going until everyone had his nuts cracked. Those who didn’t have nuts to crack were encouraged to help the others. We started out being grumpy, but by the end, we were all working together and actually enjoying it! Spending that time together, just talking while we were at our nut cracking, made us closer.
As for the days when the trees are bare and walnuts are scarce, we can work off our obligation by helping a parent or doing extra chores around the farm or house at the rate of one half cup of nuts per 15 minutes. As I have grown older, I have noticed one nice side effect. Working one-on-one with a parent gives us time to talk and learn how to work.
We’ve all grown and become better people because of our Dad’s nutty idea. Over the years even Mom and Dad have had to crack a few nuts themselves. It has proven an equitable way to discipline our family. Having nuts to crack was an unpleasant task but never a punishment that would damage our self-esteem.
I have just one word of warning to any kids out there who happen to have walnut trees in their backyards—obey your parents, don’t fight, and don’t call your little brother a “stupid nerd.” Or your parents might end up a little nutty over discipline.

I have been persuaded to tell a story that involves my experience. Perhaps the lesson I learned from it might be of some help to you.
In the fateful war year of 1942, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps with the rank of private. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, shivering, and at the same time trying to stay awake, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions.
I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support a wife on a private’s pay. I felt I needed to become an officer. In a day or two, following my all-night vigil, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, on the appointed day, I was summoned, along with some others, before the Board of Inquiry looking into my qualifications and aptitude. My qualifications were sparse, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America. I was 22 years of age and in good physical health.
Possessing only these few qualifications, I was grateful to be able to put on my application that I had been a missionary for the Church.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ Board of Inquiry took a very surprising turn. Practically all of the questions centered upon my missionary service and my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these last questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he had prayed very often. I pondered, Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? Should I give a noncontroversial answer and simply say that prayer is a personal matter? I wanted to be an officer very much so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and KP, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided not to equivocate and responded that I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I added that officers at appropriate times should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came from my examiners. “In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed?” one high-ranking officer asked. “Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
Here was a chance to equivocate, to make some points and be really broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I tried to live by, had been taught, and myself had taught. I thought to myself, Here go my chances to become an officer. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could still be faithful to my beliefs and respond by saying that I had my own beliefs on the subject of morality but did not wish to impose my views on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. I knew perfectly well what the scriptures say about fornication and adultery.
I could not delay my answer any longer and responded to the question simply by saying, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
There were a few more questions testing, I think, whether or not I was trying to live and behave as we of our faith represent to the world. I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers who had asked these questions concerning our beliefs would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my complete astonishment the score opposite my name read “95 percent.” I was amazed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School and had to be promoted to corporal to get into the school. I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we “lived happily ever after.”

Said President Marion G. Romney, “It is an easy thing to believe in the dead prophets, but it is a greater thing to believe in the living prophets.” And then he gives this illustration:
“One day when President Grant was living, I sat in my office across the street following a general conference. A man came over to see me, an elderly man. He was very upset about what had been said in this conference by some of the Brethren, including myself. I could tell from his speech that he came from a foreign land. After I had quieted him enough so he would listen, I said, ‘Why did you come to America?’ ‘I am here because a prophet of God told me to come.’ ‘Who was the prophet?’ I continued. ‘Wilford Woodruff.’ ‘Do you believe Wilford Woodruff was a prophet of God?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
“Then came the sixty-four dollar question, ‘Do you believe that Heber J. Grant is a prophet of God?’ His answer, ‘I think he ought to keep his mouth shut about old-age assistance.’
“Now I tell you that a man in his position is on the way to apostasy. He is forfeiting his chances for eternal life. So is everyone who cannot follow the living prophet of God.” (Conference Report, April 1953, p. 125.)

At age nine, Elizabeth had immigrated to the United States with an uncle. Her parents and their six other children planned to join them in America, but never could. She never saw them again.
Elizabeth grew up, married, and one day welcomed two Latter-day Saint missionaries into her home. A few months later, Elizabeth joined the Church. But her life was difficult. Her husband lost a leg in an accident. He also suffered from tuberculosis and glaucoma and was blind during the last fifteen years of his life.
His death left Elizabeth alone to run a farm and raise nine children. She added to the family’s limited income by working as a midwife.
Three times the family lost their home—to a flood, a fire, and a tornado. But despite her trials, Elizabeth maintained a positive attitude and shared the joy of the gospel message wherever she went.

Ten cents is for capital. Put it somewhere where you cannot access it or use it. This could be for 10, 15, or more years. When I think of these ten cents, I am reminded of my mother. She would sift through very good ground nuts and maize and put some aside for seeds. She would fumigate them—or so we were made to believe, so that we would not be tempted to roast that maize and eat those groundnuts when we were hungry. Mother never used the seeds, even in dire situations. She would rather have us go without than to eat those seeds. They were to be planted in the following rainy season and have them multiply. She would do the same in each harvest. She was never dependent on government handouts.7

It was with awe that our children first heard the story about a family who gave away their entire Christmas—tree, food, and gifts. It all began when their neighbor’s home burned early on the morning of Christmas Eve. When the children heard of their friends’ situation, a family meeting was called and they all agreed, without exception, that they would share their Christmas.
The day’s activities soon centered around switching name tags on gifts and boxing up Christmas goodies, turkey and all. And at the last minute, they even took the tree! When they gathered back home after delivering their project in secret, they had feelings of excitement and love. (See Leon R. Hartshorn, Memorable Christmas Stories, p. 41.)

After several months of improvement, the moment you’ve been striving for arrives. The mission assistants pull up to your fale one morning and say, “Pack your box, Elder, you’re transferred.” You are now in a new area, and your new companion has been in the mission field for three days. That means you’re in the driver’s seat, the senior companion, charged with directing the work of the Lord in your area.

This is your big opportunity to do things your way. A wave of fear sweeps over you as you realize that you really are in charge, and your new companion looks at you like, “Well, what do we do now?” You fight off your fear, “gird up your loins,” and go out to preach repentance to the people.

A month passes, maybe two. You’re putting in the hours, working the area, giving discussions, making out the reports. All the physical essentials of proselyting are there, but something is missing. People are polite. They let you into their homes and let you give a lesson if you wish. But they seldom ask you back, and you can tell that they aren’t really interested. Their custom prescribes that they receive you cordially, and they honor their custom.

You begin to do some real soul-searching and pray earnestly to understand how to get through to the people. And then the words of counsel that your father gave you before you left focus sharply in your memory: “Son, unless you really love those people, nothing else you do matters.” The words ring true. You ask yourself: “Do I? Do I really love these people?” And your own conscience gives you the answer.

The next time you go out to proselyte, your methods are changed. Instead of just preaching, you begin to listen—not only to what people are saying, but you fine-tune your spirit to the feelings behind the words. It’s a revelation to you as you begin to understand that these people have real problems, joys, hopes, and fears just like everyone else.

One Sunday one of the sisters in the branch approaches you and asks you and your companion to bless her baby who is critically ill. Your faith wavers, but hers doesn’t. The blessing is given, and a life is saved by a mother’s faith. You are left with a deep respect for the faith of a people who, when one of theirs is sick, go to the elders even before they seek medical help.

You visit a nonmember family. As is often the case, they prepare a meal for you before you leave. This is common, and you had not taken much note of it before. This time you pay particular attention. The little red rooster that had been crowing when you arrived is now boiling in the pot. The last bunch of bananas is plucked. Enough money is found to buy a can of corned beef. You look around. The house is small, the roof needs patching, there are many children in the family, and they have little clothing. Yet they give you the best they have, and the only reward they hope for from you is your blessing, as a servant of the Lord, upon their family. As you leave there is a lump in your throat and mist in your eyes. You are humbled with the realization that you are charged with teaching the perfect gospel to a people who know and live the principles of true Christianity. You find there is much to be learned from them as you teach them the restored gospel.

A change in your sources of motivation now begins to take place. Language and language study become tools to better communicate the feelings of the Spirit, not just to impress your fellow missionaries or to send tapes home in a foreign language to impress Mom and Dad. Your fasting and prayers change from an emphasis upon your own needs to those of your contacts. Gospel study changes from a mere accumulation of theological facts to a sincere application of those truths in your own life. A whole new realm opens up to you now. Experiences that seem natural in themselves become revelations of truth.

You find that the Spirit of the Lord can be as powerfully present in a grass hut as in the nicest chapel; that the greatest gift with which a missionary can be blessed is to teach effectively and with the Spirit, to be sensitive and perceptive of the feelings of others, to discern their needs and wants; that the most productive and rewarding hours of your proselyting day are the “overtime” or “extra-mile” hours given in service when the body says, “I’m tired; let’s go home,” but the greater desire within you says, “One more house—maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a receptive spirit”; that the true fruits of your labors consist not in how many but in what kind of baptisms result—be it one or one hundred—and the feeling of grateful joy you receive when the Lord permits you to be a partner in the miracle of conversion.

The end of your mission nears. You are now an old timer among your fellow missionaries. On one of those last days, 9:00 A.M. finds you and your companion, as usual, walking to your first appointment of the day. Buried in your own thoughts you think of how the sun made a golden highway across a glassy sea as it rose that morning; how the storm of the day before made the rivers and waterfalls swell and the green foliage seem so much deeper and brighter after the clouds receded a little and the sun broke through; how the sunset over the tops of the mountains was reflected from one cloud to another until the whole sky was filled with shades of purple, yellow, pink, and blue; of the night breeze that cleared away the clouds and caused the palm leaves to clatter and the roar of the breakers to be carried clearly across the beach and village green long seconds after appearing as silver crests of reflected moonlight, tumbling one on the other against the coral reef hundreds of yards from the shore, to become mere lappings upon reaching the sand. All of this is but a fitting stage on which some of God’s choicest children have been placed.

As you continue up the trail, the now familiar lump again rises in your throat and the mist comes to your eyes, accompanied by a prayer in your heart that in some way you have given as much as you have received.

So, future missionary, be it the South Pacific, the Orient, South or Central America, Europe, Scandinavia, or the USA, the conditions and challenges may differ, but the key to success is love, the love you feel for your Father in heaven and the love you have for his children.

The young women and the young men in the Charlottetown Branch on Prince Edward Island literally have a service project in their backyard. The land next to their chapel is home to a grove of some of the oldest oak trees on the island. Oaks from this grove were once used in shipbuilding by the early settlers. Now these mighty trees have been preserved by the Island National Trust and are left untouched.
The young women and young men regularly get together to clean up the public paths through the grove. They are amazed by the number of garbage bags they fill and by the strange things people discard, but they like seeing the trees and grounds looking neat and clean. They want the area around their chapel and in this historical place on their island to reflect the joy they feel in the gospel.

I was born of goodly parents. My father and mother held to the values of honesty and integrity that the Church teaches, but they were not active in the Church. Still, my friends went to Primary, so I did too. I felt happy there and never wanted to miss it.
The Primary became my Church family. I went to sacrament meeting each week and sat with my Primary friends. I did not fully understand the meaning of the sacrament, but I knew that I felt something special when I partook of it. I understood the feeling of a covenant before I ever learned that word.
When I turned 12, my Aaronic Priesthood quorum became my second Church family. I felt a great love and reverence for the priesthood. As a deacons quorum president, I conducted quorum meetings, and when a new deacon was ordained, I welcomed him with a little speech. I remember saying, “This is the priesthood of God. You need to honor it.”
After high school I joined the army reserve. My commanding officer gave me the opportunity of becoming a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. He was very gracious but also very large and imposing. People didn’t turn him down. I asked if I could go home and think it over.
I prayed that night, and into my mind came the baptism prayer found in Doctrine and Covenants 20:73: “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
I went back the next morning and told my commanding officer that I had decided to accept a commission—but that I would be commissioned by Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I explained that I was going to serve a mission for my church.
The feeling of having that prayer answered was wonderful, and I have felt it again and again as I have prayed about important decisions. I seem to have always known that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know me and love me. My conversion must have begun when I first attended Primary and felt the Spirit there. It continued in my Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in the mission field. It still continues today.
We are all sons and daughters of Heavenly Father. He never forgets this, but we sometimes do. So He has given us the principle of faith to help us remember. To help us develop faith in Him, Heavenly Father gives us the gift of experience. As I look back over my life, I’m grateful for the experiences that have helped increase my faith.
Enjoy the experiences that Heavenly Father will give you. Learn from them the things that He wants you to learn. Heavenly Father gives each of us experiences that will help increase our faith in Him and in His Son.
If some of your experiences are sad, please remember that you are a son or daughter of your Father in Heaven and that He loves you. This is a sure anchor that will never be removed. Ever! It is eternal and rooted in the plan of salvation. You must hold fast to it no matter what.

My grandparents have had a great influence on my life. Even though they have been dead for many years, I still feel their confirming love. One grandfather, James Akerley Faust, died before I was born. I knew him only through the stories my grandmother and my parents told about him. However, I feel a strong kinship with him because I am in part what he was. Among other things, he was a cowboy, a rancher, and a postmaster in a small town in central Utah. On one occasion, Grandfather took a trip in the winter to Idaho, where he met an acquaintance who had fallen on hard times. It was cold, and Grandfather’s friend had no coat. Grandfather took off his coat and gave it to him.

I smiled again today as I thought about an afternoon just a little while ago at the National Boy Scout Jamboree when, sloshing through the rain, soaked myself, I saw a youngster sliding down a mud bank into a mud puddle. He was as wet and muddy as anyone could get. I said to him, “Son, you don’t look too unhappy with the rain.”
He said. “No, sir.”
I said, “You don’t wish you were home, then?”
“No, sir, they would never let me do this at home!”

I never used to find time to read the scriptures daily, especially with waking up early to go to school and long hours of homework. The only times I read were at Sunday School, in Young Women class, and a couple of times a week for family scripture study. Despite all the promised blessings of daily scripture reading, I always put off my personal study. That is, until my cousin came to visit.
My cousin, a student at Brigham Young University–Idaho, was my roommate at our home while she worked at a Church ranch in Florida. Every night she would pray and read her scriptures and, since the light was on anyway, I would join her. Gradually, I developed the habit also, and when she went back to Idaho, I continued personal scripture study on my own.
I know there is a lot more I need to read and understand, but daily reading has truly blessed me. The scriptures have come to life for me, especially in Nephi, Mosiah, and Alma. Whenever I begin to murmur and complain, I can look back to what I have learned in the scriptures and make changes in my life.
It is fun to find the stories I learned when I was in Primary and read the complete versions from the sacred records of God’s prophets. I am so thankful for the example my cousin set by studying the scriptures daily. I know scripture study has helped and will continue to help me throughout my life.

The day of the yearly dogsled race had arrived! Jody was up early and put on her warmest clothes. She smelled hot cereal as she walked into the kitchen. “Oatmeal again?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“You’ll need it on this cold day,” said her mother.
Jody filled a blue ceramic bowl with the hot oatmeal, put milk and brown sugar on it, and began to gulp it down.
“You don’t have to eat so fast,” Mom said. “The race isn’t for an hour yet.”
Jody tried to calm down, but her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. “I sure want to win those ice skates,” she said. She pictured herself gliding over the ice, then twirling into a spin like the professionals. But first she needed some skates.
After breakfast Jody put on another sweater, a hat, scarf, gloves, and her green parka. She tied a cotton bandanna loosely around her neck. If a cold wind blew off the lake, she could pull it up over her nose and mouth for warmth.
“Bye, Mom,” Jody said, kissing her mother.
Mom hugged Jody and wished her good luck. Jody bounded out the door and into the garage, where she pulled her small sled from a corner. The sled was old and scarred, but it would serve. Besides, it was the dog that counted, and Jody had managed to get the best. Ellie Manning had said that she could use her beautiful collie, Tasha. The dog had pulled lots of sleds, and Ellie would be there to encourage Tasha from the sidelines.
When Jody knocked on the Manning door, Ellie’s mother answered. “Hello, Jody,” she said quietly.
“Is Ellie ready?”
Mrs. Manning shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jody. Ellie has a sore throat and can’t go out in this cold.”
Jody’s smile faded, and she struggled not to cry. Then Ellie came into the foyer. “I’m sorry, Jody,” she said. “Mom doesn’t want me to get really sick like I did last winter.”
“That’s OK,” Jody said. Her stomach had a hollow ache in it.
“You can still use Tasha, if you like,” Ellie offered.
Jody’s heart leaped to her throat. “I can? Oh, thank you, Ellie! I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
Ellie whistled, and the collie ran to her. Jody laughed when Tasha crouched excitedly like a puppy, her back end sticking up.
“Good luck,” Ellie called as Jody and Tasha went out the door, where Jody fastened the sled harness onto Tasha.
When Jody arrived at the racecourse that circled the lake, only ten other contestants were there. The bitter cold and biting wind had probably kept others from competing.
Jody pulled her bandanna up over her mouth and nose. Carefully she lined Tasha up with the other dogs, then gave the collie a biscuit and waited for the race to begin.
The whistle blew, and they were off. Tasha ran bravely and boldly. “Good girl,” Jody called, coaxing the dog to go faster.
Jody looked back to see how the other racers were doing. A few dogs, shivering in the cold, hadn’t budged. One large black dog was going in the opposite direction! Only three were making any progress at all.
They passed the quarter- and half-mile marks, where small groups of hardy rooters cheered them on. At the three-quarter-mile mark, Jody felt Tasha slow down. She glanced at the snow and saw traces of blood. “Oh, Tasha! What’s wrong, girl?” She stopped the sled and knelt to look at the collie’s paws. One was bleeding quite a bit. She must have stepped on a sharp piece of ice or something! Jody thought. Looking back, she saw that none of the other sleds were even close to her! She could easily win the race since there was only a quarter mile to go! Then she looked again at the injured paw. Remembering her promise to Ellie, Jodi prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me make the right choice. I want to help Tasha, but I’m so close to winning the skates …”
When Jody stood, she knew what she had to do. She took off her bandanna and tied it around Tasha’s paw. Then she put the collie onto the sled and pulled her to the Mannings’ house.
“Thank you for bringing her home,” said Mrs. Manning after Jody explained what had happened. “If you hadn’t stopped, Tasha might have been permanently injured. We’ll call the veterinarian right away.”
Jody’s tears wet her face on the way home. She knew that she had made the right choice, but it still hurt to have come that close to winning the race and then have to drop out. When she got home, she changed out of her damp, cold clothing.
Later, while she was making some hot chocolate, her mother came into the kitchen with a big box in her hands. “This is for you,” she said.
Jody’s heart leaped when she opened the box and saw a pair of ice skates with sparkling blades. “Did you buy them, Mom?”
Her mother shook her head. “Mrs. Manning called the judges and told them what happened. Then they called me. They decided to award you the skates because none of the other contestants got as far as you and Tasha did.”

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One day, just after it had rained in beautiful Nauvoo, Margarette McIntire and her older brother Wallace were walking to school.
Hurry up, Wallace, or we’ll be late.
I’m coming.
My boots are stuck, Margarette!
Mine are too. There’s too much mud.
The children found they couldn’t get out, so they started to cry, thinking they would have to stay there.
What’s this?
Brother Joseph!
We’re stuck.
Joseph pulled the two children out of the mud.
He cleaned the mud off their boots.
You look very pretty today, Margarette. Don’t worry about the mud—it will come off.
He dried their tears.
Cheer up, young man. You’re a very good older brother. Keep taking good care of your sister.
Margarette later recalled the experience: “Was it any wonder that I loved that great, good, and noble man of God?”
Off to school, now.
Thank you, Brother Joseph.
Good-bye!

Moira hummed softly as she and Mamá walked out of the chapel. Church had just ended.
”Hi, Moira,” said President Scott. Richard G. Scott was the mission president in Argentina, where Moira lived. “Would you be willing to give a talk in district conference next month?”
Moira swallowed. She was just 12 years old, and she had never given a talk before! “I could try,” she said.
President Scott smiled. “Thank you! You will do great.”
On the way home from church, Moira’s heart was beating fast. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she said.
“Heavenly Father will help you,” said Mamá. “He has helped you do hard things before, hasn’t He?”
Moira would have to be brave to speak at district conference. But she knew she could do it with Heavenly Father’s help. For the next few weeks, Moira worked hard on her talk. She wrote down what she would say. Then she practiced saying it out loud.
Finally the day came for her talk. Moira sat in the front and looked out at all the people in the chapel. There were so many!
Then Moira spotted someone waving at her. It was Carmen! Moira waved back. Seeing her friend in the crowd made her feel a little better.
When it was her turn, Moira stepped up to the microphone. She took a deep breath. Then she gave her talk. Her voice was shaky at first. But she could feel the Holy Ghost helping her. At the end, she shared her testimony. “I know that Jesus lives and loves us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After the meeting, everyone went outside for a picnic lunch. Carmen found Moira and gave her a hug. “You did great!” she said.
“Thanks! I was scared, but Heavenly Father really helped me.” Moira smiled. She had done something she had never done before, and that made her a pioneer.

In choosing how we spend time as a family, we should be careful not to exhaust our available time on things that are merely good and leave little time for that which is better or best. A friend took his young family on a series of summer vacation trips, including visits to memorable historic sites. At the end of the summer he asked his teenage son which of these good summer activities he enjoyed most. The father learned from the reply, and so did those he told of it. “The thing I liked best this summer,” the boy replied, “was the night you and I laid on the lawn and looked at the stars and talked.” Super family activities may be good for children, but they are not always better than one-on-one time with a loving parent.

Sometimes people won’t understand your actions, but if you follow the Holy Ghost, you will always know that you are doing the right thing. When I received my mission call, I had finished two years of schooling at Stanford University. I announced that I was dropping out of school for two years to serve a mission, and soon afterward, my advisor asked to meet with me. When I walked into his office, the first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” He told me that I was making a mistake and that the university might never let me back in. He encouraged me to finish my schooling and then serve a mission.
Many years later, I received a call from the prophet asking me to retire and serve as a General Authority. At the time, I had a responsible position in the United States government. I accepted the call, just as I had accepted the mission call when I was nineteen years old, and I announced my retirement. Soon afterward, a senior official walked into my office. The first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” I said, “I think I’ve heard this before.”
I wasn’t crazy when I served a mission, and I wasn’t crazy when I retired to serve as a General Authority. No matter what else is going on in your life, when the call to serve comes, that is the moment to do it.