Gospel Story Finder

Mobile phones are expensive in Chile, but I set a goal in 2016 to earn enough money to buy one. For an entire year, I bought candy and alfajores1 wholesale and sold them to my friends at school. I saved everything I made. I didn’t go out to lunch, and I didn’t go to the movies.
I didn’t want to ask my parents for a phone. I wanted to be able to say I earned it myself. My dad encouraged me. “Carol, keep it up,” he would say.
I learned a lot. Nothing is free. Goals take effort, but we should never give up. When we earn things and realize how much work it takes to get them, we value them more.
I learned that I have to decide what I want to achieve and where I want to go. If I want to get married in the temple, I need to go to church and seminary and later institute and young single adult activities. And I need to date worthy young men. Achieving goals requires sacrifice now for something better later.
Carol, 15, Chile

The example Belle set for her family has made a big impression on her youngest sister, Wong Cho Ho—who goes by the English name of Rambo—and her younger brother, Wong Wah Kan (Simon), both of whom are now teenagers.
“Before I was a member, I’d always notice Belle,” says Simon, who was baptized in 1992. “She wasn’t lazy. Every Sunday she’d get up and go to church. When Belle was a missionary, she was a good example to my family and she helped us.”
Rambo also talked about the gospel with Simon and helped him with his decision to be baptized.
And so the sharing went: Two missionaries talked to Belle. Belle joined the Church and began fellowshipping Rambo. Rambo was baptized and began talking about the gospel with Agnes and Simon. Agnes and Simon were baptized, and they were followed by Mandy, the Wongs’ oldest daughter, and May, Angela, and their parents.
Simon likes to think back to the time when he began seriously investigating the gospel. He remembers praying for the first time. “I didn’t know how to pray or what I should say,” he remembers. “But I always felt good when I prayed.”
Before Simon joined the Church, Sundays were reserved for rest and relaxation. He would generally sleep in, then get up and play soccer with his friends. These days, his friends don’t even bother asking him to play games on the Sabbath. “I’ve already told them I don’t do that, and they understand why I don’t and what I do instead,” he says. Sundays for Simon generally consist of attending church meetings and reading the scriptures. “I love studying in the Book of Mormon—especially about Lehi and the faith he had. My own faith isn’t great, so it’s good for me to read about someone who was so strong.”

Isn’t it nice to have a plan for your life? To have everything figured out? I thought I did, until I was diagnosed with a chronic health condition called polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).
When I was diagnosed, I grew angry and confused at times, and I focused all of my energy on getting rid of this condition.
I later realized that that wasn’t how God wanted me to view this trial. The Spirit helped me break free of these three unhealthy perspectives I struggled with and replace them with better ones:
At first, I thought I had done something wrong to deserve this disease and that if I changed my habits, I could be “fixed.”
I obsessively researched and tried many “solutions” that did little to help.
When I turned to Heavenly Father for answers, the Spirit helped me realize that we aren’t to blame for many struggles we face—some challenges just come with mortality. Elder Anthony D. Perkins of the Seventy said, “Suffering does not mean God is displeased with your life.”1 By letting go of blame and turning to faith, I was able to find hope and peace.
I believed that I could be healed completely if I just had enough faith, and I was constantly disappointed when I wasn’t. Eventually I learned that it’s also important to have faith not to be healed.
My “thorn in the flesh” has also helped me rely on God, thereby turning my weakness into a strength. I’ve learned that overcoming challenges can mean being able to manage them by relying on strength from the Savior, rather than getting rid of them altogether.

Jenni Holt is from Ottawa, Canada’s beautiful capital city built on the wooded banks of the Ottawa River. She and friends from the Ottawa Ontario Stake talked with Church magazines about how prayer affects their lives.

One of the most interesting things the Ottawa teens discussed was how their prayers were answered. First, Susan Brook said, “If you want an answer, you have to listen for it.”
Susan said her answers sometimes come by reading the scriptures. She had a good example: “One day, I was just really tired, and I was being mean to everyone. I didn’t want to talk. I remember reading in the scriptures, I don’t even remember where, and it said, ‘Be humble.’ It hit me. That’s my answer.” (See D&C 112:10.)

Before becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the age of 25, I had stopped attending my former church on Sundays. I had spent my teenage years visiting various churches in the towns where I grew up, where I was invited to play the guitar and sing. I accepted invitations from different churches each week, and I promised myself that when I found the “right” church—where they knew who God is and where I felt at home—I would stay. Depending on how many churches were in a town, I simply repeated the cycle after a few months.
Then one cold winter’s day, two missionaries knocked on my door. By then, I was married with two young children and living in a very small town. I seemed to be their only prospect, and the Elders came around to teach me on a daily basis. On the Friday, they invited me to attend church with them that Sunday. PANIC! In our discussions, they had mentioned the importance of the Sabbath: that members refrained from shopping and time-wasting frivolities and spent the day attending church (THREE hours?!?) and engaging in various activities that would build the family and bring them nearer to God. They had also discussed reverence and showing respect through our clothing choices—the expression ‘Sunday best’ was mentioned. Why the PANIC? I didn’t own a dress or a skirt!
There was only one dress shop in the town and I didn’t rate my chances of finding anything suitable too high. Sadly, I was right. The only option was a cream-coloured pleated skirt that my grandmother would have loved! I shuddered . . . and to add insult to injury, the price was exorbitant! But, I couldn’t walk away from the church that not only knew that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Father and a separate personage, but also showed reverence by dressing and behaving in an appropriate way. So I bought the hideous cream-coloured skirt—thinking I would at least blend in. The reality was that there were only three members in the branch and 12 missionaries—so I stood out anyway!
Decades later, I still remember the feeling that choice inspired: the opportunity to show my love and reverence for my Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, by choosing my ‘best’ clothes and going to learn more of Them. Of course it’s not actually about the clothes—Heavenly Father loves us every day, barefoot and wearing jeans. It’s about honouring Them and showing respect.

I thought other youth would be interested in hearing about the Punta Arenas Branch, southernmost branch of the Church in the world, I believe. When Isaiah said, “… utter it even to the end of the earth,” he must have been referring to Punta Arenas, Chile! We’re on the Straights of Magellan, facing Tierra del Fuego. The wildlife and beauty of the Patagonia is outstanding: sharp green mountains, grazed by guanacos; blue waters filled with trout and salmon; and birdlife ranging from parrots to ostriches, ducks, swans, flamingos, and an occasional penguin.
Our branch is at the tender age of four years and has a membership of two hundred Saints. Jaime, our MIA president, and Carlos, an MIA officer, both youth, have been working all year to save enough money to cover their traveling expenses to the international youth conference to be held in Arica, Chile, at the northern end of the country. It’s been a long, hard job, involving window cleaning, cakes sales, and cleaning houses, but they have finally made it. That’s what it means to be a Latter-day Saint down here.
Elder Gary WeldChile Mission

The reality of the virus hit me even more when my little family came down with flu-like symptoms. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s just the seasonal flu that usually goes around,” but we ended up getting tested as a precautionary measure. Our results came back positive: my husband, my 18-month-old daughter, and I all had COVID-19.
The news of our positive results affected us mentally, especially for my husband and me. It felt like our symptoms grew worse and that our recovery took longer the more we dwelled on the fact that we were infected with coronavirus. Focusing on our sickness built up more fear, which crippled us mentally, emotionally and spiritually—we had no room for faith. After two weeks of being down with the virus, we realized that we weren’t showing faith in Jesus Christ because we let fear in the way by focusing on being sick. So, to counteract that, we started shifting our focus to the Saviour and the power that comes from acting on our faith in Him.
The minute we chose to have faith in Jesus Christ and to act on it, our mentality and attitude began to change, and our actions started to align with our faith. We prayed with real intent and kept expressing in our prayers that we have faith in Jesus Christ and in His ability to heal us physically. We started reading more of the scriptures and quoting scripture around the house and to each other.
We started to be a lot more optimistic, and we continued to build on hope. We didn’t feel any more fear or worry. We were happier around the house and enjoyed each other’s company. When we really started to show our faith in Jesus Christ by doing these things, we noticed that our recovery started to pick up and we were able to fully recover shortly after.

As a young forest technician recently graduated from college, I was working with the project forester in the Porcupine Hills of Alberta, Canada. We were assessing what had happened in the forest over the winter in regard to the mountain pine beetle infestation.
As the two of us prepared for our day’s activities, the forester noticed I had failed to pack water. I justified my decision by explaining to him that since this was early spring, there would be plenty of water from streams and creeks flowing in the hills. By not carrying any water, I’d be saving weight and room in my day pack. He seemed to accept my reasoning just fine, and off we went for an exhilarating day of work in the bush.
After we had worked for a few hours, I was starting to get thirsty. I could hear a creek flowing not too far distant from where we were, so I headed off through the forest to the creek. What I saw intensified my thirst: crystal clear water flowing over white, pristine sheets of ice. It was beautiful to the sight, and I knew I was in for a treat. As I knelt by the creek’s edge and cupped my hands, the forester said, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”
I didn’t pay any mind to him as I had a thirst to quench. The second the water wet my tongue, I knew I’d made a mistake. I immediately spit the water out. The forester had been right, and now he was having a pretty good laugh at my misfortune. What should have been pure heaven to my taste buds left me with the rancid and putrid flavor of cow manure. I might as well have been chewing on a cow patty!

A good friend of mine in Washington D.C. came home months ago as his house was in the process of being burglarized. He made the mistake of struggling with the burglar, who shot him in the spine, severing most of his spinal cord so that he is paralyzed from the waist down for life. He was a very athletic, vigorous, sinewy man whose life was tragically changed and struck down in a moment. As I went to visit him in the hospital shortly after the tragedy, I went, as we often do in the Church, to bring comfort; but I came out comforted. Because of his wrestling with the problem of forgiveness, he was able to tell me, Through his tears, that he had come to forgive his assailent and bore him no malice, nor was there any bitterness. There was only love. Now that can’t happen except in the context of the brotherhood of eternity. When we use those words we ought to specify more often the ways in which we use them and explain their implications, lest the young assume that our jargon means the same thing as the jargon of those outside the kingdom. When we talk about the fatherhood of God, we speak not of a life force that is unreachable, we speak not of a kindly grandfather who would indulge mankind in whatever they wish to do, who cares not and judges not. Ours is a loving Father who will, if necessary, let come to each of us some harsh life experiences, that we might learn that his love for us is so great and so profound that he will let us suffer, as he did his Only Begotten Son in the flesh, that his and our triumph and learning might be complete and full. It is vitally important for the young to understand what that kind of loving fatherhood means as compared with the ideas of those about them.

Many years ago, I observed a heartbreak—which became a tragedy. A young couple was nearing the delivery of their first child. Their lives were filled with the anticipation and excitement of this monumental experience. During the delivery, complications arose and the baby died. Heartbreak turned to grief, grief turned to anger, anger turned to blame, and blame turned to revenge toward the doctor, whom they held fully responsible. Parents and other family members became heavily involved, together seeking to ruin the reputation and the career of the physician. As weeks and then months of acrimony consumed the family, their bitterness was extended to the Lord. “How could He allow this horrible thing to occur?” They rejected the repeated efforts of Church leaders and members to spiritually and emotionally comfort them and, in time, disassociated themselves from the Church. Four generations of the family have now been affected. Where once there were faith and devotion to the Lord and His Church, there has been no spiritual activity by any family member for decades.
In the most difficult circumstances of life, there is often only one source of peace. The Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ, extends His grace with the invitation “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). He further promises, “My peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you” (John 14:27).
My paternal grandparents had two children, a son (my father) and a daughter. After serving a mission and military service in Hawaii, my father returned to the islands in 1946 to establish himself professionally and raise his family. His parents lived in Salt Lake City, as did his sister. She married in 1946 and four years later was expecting a child. There is something very special for parents to anticipate a daughter (in this instance an only daughter) giving birth for the first time. No one knew that she was carrying twins. Sadly, she and the twins all died during childbirth.
My grandparents were heartbroken. Their grief, however, immediately turned them to the Lord and His Atonement. Without dwelling on why this could happen and who might be to blame, they focused on living a righteous life. My grandparents never had wealth; they were never among the socially elite; they never held high position in the Church—they were simply devoted Latter-day Saints.
After retiring professionally in 1956, they moved to Hawaii to be with their only posterity. The ensuing decades found them loving their family and serving in the Church, and mostly they just enjoyed being together. They never liked being apart and even spoke of whoever died first finding a way to help them reunite soon. Nearing their 90th birthdays and after 65 years of marriage, they passed away within hours of each other by natural causes. As their bishop, I conducted their double funeral.
The faithfulness of Grandpa Art and Grandma Lou, especially when faced with difficulty, has now influenced four generations that have followed. Directly and profoundly, it affected their son (my father) and my mother when my parents’ own daughter, their youngest child, died due to complications caused by giving birth. At 34 years of age, she passed away 10 days after childbirth, leaving 4 children, 10 days to 8 years old. With the example that they had seen in the previous generation, my parents—without hesitation—turned to the Lord for solace.

Pat met Jeffrey Holland between her junior and senior year at high school. With a twinkle in her eye, she expressed much more of that sweet relationship than was spoken. “And that continues to be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said enthusiastically. “He continually amazes me, and it’s a wonderful privilege and blessing to be his wife.” Feeling the joy and happiness that she was expressing made it difficult to realize that she had ever had youthful feelings of discouragement or fear.
Speaking of their early friendship, she recalled that when he left for his mission, they so wanted to have a “forever kind of love.” Together they decided that they would do three things that would unite them even in his absence: (1) Read the scriptures every day. (2) Fast once a week. (3) Pray really often. “These have become habits that we have continued to this day,” she said humbly and gratefully, thinking of the far-reaching rewards of that early decision that kept them close while they were far away.

A scripture that really helped me when I was young is Joshua 1:6–9. It says, in part: “Be strong and of a good courage. … Observe to do according to all the law. … Turn not from it to the right hand or to the left, that thou mayest prosper.”
As a young man, I thought, “Once I receive an assignment from the Lord, I will not turn to the right or to the left.” I had some good experiences as a result. For instance, one day while I was in business training, I had to go to a Church meeting, but I had a work responsibility related to the mail. Normally this responsibility would take me and the other trainees as much as an extra hour after our regular work hours. But I had to go to Hamburg on the 5:30 p.m. train to get to my Church meeting. I told the others of my dilemma, and they said to me, “Good luck. It is not going to happen.”
I said, “Sure it will, because this is an important meeting.” They shrugged their shoulders and said sarcastically, “Yeah sure—you and your faith. You think just because you are religious that everything is going to work out. That means that we would have to finish the mail by 10 minutes to 5:00. It has never happened.” I said, “Well, whatever happens will happen. But I need to be in Hamburg on time tonight.”
Now, believe it or not, for the first and only time in three years, everything was finished that day at 10 minutes to 5:00, and I made it to the train on time. This impressed my fellow trainees and opened the door for me to have some gospel conversations with them.

Brother Call, my senior class seminary teacher, never knew it, but he was literally responsible for saving the lives of five young G.I.s in the steaming jungles of Vietnam. I’m sure that when he taught that heartfelt lesson on Joseph Smith in the Liberty Jail, he had no idea just how far it would reach.
By the first anniversary of my graduation from high school, I had already been in the military five months. It was 1967, and the war in southeast Asia was raging.
One terrifying day, I found myself and the four others in my patrol creeping across an opening about 300-yards wide. The only cover we had was a darkened sky and some low grass and weeds. The grass was so short, in fact, that we couldn’t even raise ourselves up on our elbows. For more than five hours we had to inch our way across that wet, muddy rice paddy. The only thing I could see for those five wet hours were the soles of Buddy’s worn jungle combat boots.
It was maddening. The enemy knew we were there. Every few minutes, without warning, they would spray the area with machine gun and automatic weapon fire. The bullets were so close I could almost see them whizzing by and hear them in stereo. To us, the real definition of relief was when the next round of ammunition actually sounded farther away than the previous round.
I couldn’t help but remember a World War II movie I’d seen in high school, where the enemy set a similar field on fire, burning the American G.I.s in the process. Though I was absolutely terrified, I was also grateful for the mud, the water, the green grass, and the ever present drizzle that kept us fireproof.
Our greatest objective during that little mission was no more than to just keep moving—no matter how slow it might be—and to stay totally quiet, so as not to give away our position.
But suddenly, two hours into the mission, Buddy was attacked by severe claustrophobia. This “abnormal dread of being in close quarters” gave him a seemingly uncontrollable urge to jump up and run, screaming, toward the other side of the clearing. He never would have made it and surely would have given away our position, making us easy targets for the enemy. It was up to me to keep him calm and quiet. I instantly offered up a prayer for help. I had nowhere else to turn, and I had to keep him calm. All our lives depended on it.
That’s when Brother Call’s lesson began to have its effect. It was the only thing that came to mind. I saw him standing in front of the class, with fervor and conviction, teaching us about the Prophet Joseph Smith and his friends spending those horrible six months in the Liberty Jail. It was a 14-foot square room with no sanitary facilities, no showers, and very little fresh air or light. And the Lord told Joseph that he should not despair, for “all these things shall … be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).
Then, quietly, in a whisper calmed by the Holy Ghost, I talked Buddy through the most awful day of his life. I told him about another day, long ago in my hometown, when I sat almost uninterested on the back row as Brother Call relived the Liberty Jail story with me and 32 other seminary students. In his beautiful high tenor voice, Brother Call sang, “… if Christ should come tomorrow, what would I do? What would I say?” And on and on.
As I retold it, I realized that that Church history class was saving my life, and the lives of four others as well. We found ourselves at that moment no worse off than brother Joseph and his friends in their cell. I had never before, or ever after, whisper-sung a song like the one Brother Call sang. But in that watersnake-infested paddy I had to do it that day.
And Buddy whisper-cried. And so did Sam behind me—only able to see the soles of my boots, but feeling the soul of my being.
Lives were changed after that terror-filled day. Complaining ceased. A true camaraderie developed. Christianity became a major factor in everything we did. Buddy and Sam never joined the Church, but I feel they owe their lives to it. They learned a great deal about Joseph Smith that day, and they learned how much the Lord loves us. And the Holy Ghost bore witness to their spirits that what they heard was true.
All of those hours of seminary, which I estimate to be at least 600, paid off that day in the jungles of Vietnam. As a high school student, I never would have believed how important they would one day be.

After many promptings during his young adult years, Elder Larry S. Kacher began to recognize a greater power guiding him in his life. At age 19, sensitivity to the Spirit led him to the gospel of Jesus Christ—a change that has made all the difference.
After high school he went to Europe to ski, and after more than six months there he felt he needed to return home. Once home, he felt like he needed to go somewhere else but didn’t know where. A childhood friend planned to move to Utah, and Elder Kacher decided to move with him. While in Utah, Elder Kacher enrolled at Brigham Young University, learned about the Church, and was baptized.
“As the missionaries taught us, I felt it was true,” he says. “As I prayed, I felt that the Church was true.”

The militia took many Latter-day Saint prisoners to Independence, then to a jail in Richmond. Later, Joseph and a few other men were moved to a jail in Liberty.
The guards treated the prisoners badly. One night the guards at the Richmond jail told each other about the terrible deeds they had done to the Latter-day Saints. Joseph stood up and rebuked them.
Silence! In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you and command you to be still.
I will not live another minute and hear such language.
The guards apologized. They were quiet for the rest of the night.

Birds were singing in the forest, and the dew-covered flowers sparkled as the early morning sun shone through the leaves of trees. Alena was excited as she and her mother headed into the forest near their home in Ukraine. This was a very special day—she was going to help Mom pick mushrooms. Sometimes Dad would come too, but today he was busy at work.
Alena was only six years old, but her mother had carefully taught her about mushrooms and how to find the ones that were safe and good to eat. Alena had already found several mushrooms and put them in her basket.
There should be mushrooms under that big white birch! she thought as she ran to the tree. At first she didn’t see anything, but when she lifted a small branch and brushed away the old leaves, she saw the little grey-brown caps. “Mom, come here,” she yelled. “I found more mushrooms!” Alena’s mother knelt down beside her.
There were lots of mushrooms—big and small. Some were no bigger than a penny. Alena took a small, sharp knife and cut them as her mother had taught her—being careful not to damage the roots so the mushrooms would grow again the next year. “If we leave the tiny ones to grow, someone else can pick them later,” Mom suggested.
With her basket almost full, Alena stood up. She turned and saw a squirrel watching her. His brown striped back was hard to see against the tree trunk he was sitting on, but he seemed very interested in what they were doing. Alena laughed at his large cheeks bulging with food. Looking around, he took something out of his mouth and held it with his front paws. As he started to chew, nutshells fell at the foot of the tree. Then he cautiously turned his head and slipped into a small hollow in the tree trunk.
“His home is probably in that hollow,” Alena said.
“Yes,” Mom nodded. “And he is storing food for winter.”
They walked on through the forest—wondering at the beauties of nature. Suddenly Alena stopped. In the clearing right in front of her was a huge, brown mushroom! She had never seen such a big and bright mushroom before. Alena carefully moved closer, but while she was still several steps away, she stopped in surprise. It wasn’t a mushroom at all! It had brown fur with little white spots. Alena moved back quickly.
Her mother put her finger to her lips. “Be quiet,” she whispered. Alena was frightened, but when she saw that Mom was smiling, she understood that the animal was not dangerous.
Alena looked again at the “mushroom.” “What is it?” she asked quietly.
“It’s a fawn—a baby deer,” Mom whispered in her ear.
How tiny! thought Alena.
They tried to be quiet, but the fawn had heard them move. He jumped to his feet, and Alena saw how thin his legs were. His eyes were big and beautiful. He was moving his ears and looking around.
“Mommy, he is so small and so lonely here,” whispered Alena. “Let’s take him home with us. Please!”
Mom shook her head no.
“Why, Mommy?” Alena couldn’t understand. Why would her kind mother—who had brought an abandoned kitten and a dove with a broken wing to their home—not want to help a poor fawn?
Alena and her mother moved away from the clearing and back into the bushes.
“I don’t think it would be good for him at our house,” Mom said quietly as she got down on her knees.
Alena looked at the fawn. He lay down on the grass again. Once more, he looked like a big, brown mushroom.
“See, we don’t need to hurry. We have time to think,” Mom said.
“And to pray?” guessed Alena.
Alena’s parents had recently been baptized, and Alena liked having family prayer every morning and evening. Also, her father had taught Alena to pray when she didn’t know what to do. He had told her, “Ask Heavenly Father, and you will receive an answer.”
At first, Alena didn’t understand what that meant. She thought that after she prayed, someone would come and tell her what to do. But now she remembered how to know when Heavenly Father was answering her prayers. She thought about the calm, peaceful feeling she had received when she had prayed about a hard decision once before.
Alena got on her knees and closed her eyes. She was sure Heavenly Father would tell her to take the poor fawn home. She was sure that it was a good thing to do.
Alena quietly told Heavenly Father the whole story and asked what she should do. She finished her prayer and opened her eyes.
There was a beautiful doe standing by the fawn. The fawn nudged its mother’s tummy. He was probably hungry. But as the doe looked around, her ears trembled nervously. Then she jumped into the forest and looked at the fawn from there. He ran after her and, with small jumps, followed her into the trees.
For some time, Alena and her mother stood looking in the direction they had gone.
“Imagine what we could have done!” exclaimed Alena. “I thought he was alone.”
“People sometimes don’t understand,” Mom said. “They don’t know that help can be near. But you made a good choice on how to find the answer.”
Alena nodded. “We prayed, and Heavenly Father helped us when we asked.”

Computers have always held a fascination for Frank, who learned the PAF system quickly. He’s also an old hand at family history. “My dad is a genealogist and for the last four summers I’ve worked for my grandparents and other people doing family history.”

“It’s interesting,” he says. One year while looking through land records, Frank came across deeds that belonged to George Washington. Another year he found a name his father had searched 15 years for. “I traced that line way back to about 1160,” says Frank.

After finding names and submitting them for ordinance work, there is often the opportunity to perform vicarious baptisms for the dead. “I got to go to the temple for baptisms, and it felt really great,” says Hap.

Knowing that you can help someone progress eternally is a great blessing. It is the kind of reward many young people are finding through doing their family history. And whether the research involves using a personal computer, working out of the Family History Library, or working at home, the rewards are the same.

In the mid-1980s, my husband and I were newly married and getting ready to move away to law school. We were worried about having enough money to make the move. We had always been self-reliant and did not want to ask our families for help, and the amount we needed was large. We had been praying about what to do. Out of the blue, I was commissioned to do a large art project for the college we attended. It would pay exactly what we needed. This experience was a direct blessing of paying tithing. But it was also something more. The Lord blessed me with the opportunity to work for that money. He gave me a way to earn it myself, and He honored my agency. I could have turned down the offer. I had a full-time job and a major Church calling, but I made the time and completed the project. We paid our own way to move.

Little brothers can be such a bother, Erin thought as she knelt to pick up her scattered postcard collection. She knew how much her little brother, Evan, loved to look at all the beautiful postcards. She didn’t mind showing them to him, but she didn’t like it one bit when he went into her room and helped himself.

“What do I need a little brother for, anyway?” she said aloud as she gathered the postcards. If only she could lock him out of her room forever!

Her scowl softened as she caught sight of her most treasured postcard. She picked it up and looked at the picture of the Seattle Temple, remembering the day she got to go inside.

As she finished gathering her postcards, she suddenly realized that she didn’t feel angry anymore. Just then her mother called her into the kitchen. “I need you to do me a big favor,” her mother said. “I made these hot muffins, and I thought that it would be nice to take some to Sister Taber. She’s home from the hospital after having knee surgery, and I know that she’d enjoy them. Would you like to take Evan for a walk over to her house?”

“Sure!” Sister Taber had been her favorite Primary teacher. She wished she could go alone, because her little brother always slowed her down, but she knew how much he loved to go for walks.

“Please try to hurry, dear,” Mom said. “Dad will be home soon, and dinner is almost ready. Do you want me to draw a map for you?”

“No thanks,” Erin replied with confidence. “I’m sure I can find it just fine.” She took the basket of warm muffins in one hand and her brother’s hand in the other. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, Evan wanted to stop and look at some leaves, but Erin gently tugged on his arm to urge him forward. “This is going to take forever with him along,” she mumbled to herself.

They reached the first corner and carefully crossed the street. Then Evan saw some bright yellow dandelions growing in the corner of a yard. “Look at the pretty yellow flowers!” he said, heading toward them.

“I’m sorry,” Erin said, “but we don’t have time to stop and pick dandelions. Mom told us to hurry, remember?” She grabbed Evan’s hand again, and kept walking. When they reached the next corner, they turned right. Erin was sure she’d recognize Sister Taber’s house when she saw it.

As they passed the next house, Erin felt Evan stop. He jumped up and down, yelling, “That’s just like ours!”

Erin looked where he was pointing and saw a red, white, and blue basketball backboard identical to the one Dad had put on their own garage. She and Mom loved to watch Evan and Dad play basketball. Evan always made everyone laugh.

But this wasn’t the time to be distracted. “Come on now, Evan,” Erin said impatiently, taking his hand and starting back down the sidewalk.

They crossed the street and headed for the cul-de-sac where Sister Taber lived. They were almost there when Evan began tugging at Erin’s arm and shouting, “Quack, quack, quack, quack!”

She turned around and saw him standing next to a mailbox with a painted duck on it. “Evan Michael, please come with me!” Erin scolded. “We can’t stop and look at everything!” I wish I hadn’t had to bring him along, she thought.

As they entered the cul-de-sac, Erin felt a little unsure about which house belonged to Sister Taber. She looked at each one carefully, then recognized the flower bed in front of one of the houses. This is it, she thought. This is where we had our last Primary achievement activity. She and Evan went up to the door and she let him ring the doorbell.

Sister Taber’s daughter answered the door. She thanked Erin and Evan for the muffins and told her that her mother would really appreciate them.

Erin felt good inside. Then, as she and Evan headed home, she realized that she wasn’t sure how to get there. They stood at the corner leading out of the cul-de-sac while Erin looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. She began to feel a little panicky until she remembered something her mother had told her many times: “If you ever feel lonely or afraid, tell Heavenly Father your troubles. He always hears your prayers and will help you.”

Erin quickly and quietly asked Heavenly Father to help them find their way home again. Once more she looked up and down the street. Suddenly she spotted the duck mailbox that Evan had stopped to see. Holding her brother’s hand tightly, she left the cul-de-sac. After they crossed the street, she saw the red, white, and blue basketball backboard. We turn left at the next corner, she said to herself.

When they turned the corner, Erin saw the dandelions that Evan had wanted to pick. She realized that rather than feeling angry with him, she was grateful that he had noticed all the things that were helping them find their way back.

When they reached home, she took him inside and told her mother what had happened. Then she bent down, gave her little brother a big hug, and whispered in his ear, “Would you like to come and look at my postcard collection?”

Scott was not the best athlete in his high school. He had not carried the ball or tackled anyone in football, won any races in track and field, or scored any points in basketball. Yet that year his school’s athletes, coaches, and parents gathered to present him with their most prestigious award, the award for best athlete of the year. In the past, young men and women who received the award were on championship teams or won individual honors. Several had gone on to college with scholarships attesting to their abilities. Why they now gave the highest award to someone who had not been a member of any team is a story of sensitivity and gratitude for a boy honored for a different type of achievement.
I know this story because I am Scott’s priesthood adviser. I knew that Scott was given the award because he had, as manager of the football team, contributed his enthusiasm, warmth, and work to the team members. After one ugly incident when Scott was abused by a member of the team, the coach and other team members became very protective of him. Because of their love they voted to give him the award.