Gospel Story Finder

I moved to another village to live with a friend. As I was telling my story to my friend and some of her neighbors, one neighbor said, “Mariama, we don’t have anything to offer you except an invitation to church tomorrow. That’s where we find safety. That’s where we find hope.” I loved God already and needed comfort in my life, so I decided to go.
My first Sunday in that Latter-day Saint branch is a day I will never forget. I learned of hope. You could just see that there was hope in those people, and I was drawn to them. I was given the Book of Mormon and started reading right away. I remember hearing in church about how families could be together again after death and then reading in Alma 11 where Alma teaches about how our bodies will be made perfect again in the Resurrection. I felt the Spirit so strongly as I thought of my family. I knew that the Church was true and that we could be together forever—each of us well and whole.
There were no missionaries in Sierra Leone at that time, so I took the lessons from my branch president and was baptized and confirmed soon after. We were blessed in our town because the Church sent food and humanitarian kits for the members of the Church and others. The food kept us all alive. Everyone was so grateful even to receive a small bag of rice or beans. I received a blanket and a hygiene kit that included a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a comb, and a washcloth.

—A pot-holdered-hand pulled a door down, an oven light went on, and a wonderful, sweet smell filled the room. Another concoction was complete to add to the menu of a tea the young women of the Ashington Branch, Sunderland England Stake, were preparing for senior citizens in their community.
Not only did the young women share food, but they also shared a program of songs, thoughts, and prayers. “We wanted to show them how much they are appreciated for all their hard work,” says Rachel Woodward.

April 14, 1832, was a snowy day in Mendon, Monroe County, New York. In spite of the cold, thirty-year-old Brigham Young went down into the waters of the river near his home and was baptized by Elder Eleazer Miller. Immediately after, at the river’s edge, he was confirmed a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. Brigham Young had given his heart to a great cause, and he never wavered from the promises he made that day.

Let me share with you two examples, not too uncommon, of people who, hour by hour, day by day, and month by month, have taken the time to love one another. I say these examples are not too uncommon because, gratefully, all around on a daily and continuing basis, we see true love in action. I’m thinking first of a mother who, through death, suddenly was left without a husband. With her were three sons ranging in age from early teens to almost missionary age. Through the years by example and hard work she has independently provided finances, encouragement, and unity. The feeding and keeping processes have resulted in the development of three great missionaries, students, husbands, and fathers. One recently remarked, “Mother has always taken the time to show her love.” This mother continues the true processes of love today as her sons pursue higher education and the opportunities of their own families.
Some time ago we were attracted to the skills and attitude of a local building contractor. His desire for perfection and his pride in his work led me to ask questions and get acquainted. As a young man he was left as the sole supporter of several younger brothers and sisters. Formal education was of necessity terminated at the eighth grade. Shortly after his brothers and sisters were able to make their own ways, he married. One year after marriage his wife was afflicted with what was to become a long pattern of serious illness. For twenty-five years as her health steadily worsened, he cared for her and their two sons. Operations were performed and expenses ran high, but he worked, cared, and loved without reservation. After the visit I knew I had met a man. Yes, love does take time. Love is enduring, and here was a “not so ordinary” man whose conduct demonstrated to me that he knows the true processes of love in keeping, feeding, and sharing under all conditions.

For decades, persecution of Church members was severe. Many missionaries landed in prison, including Mikael Jonsson, a native Swede. He was arrested in 1852 and was brought in chains 480 miles (770 km) to Malmö, where he was thrown in the castle prison, exhausted from hunger and privation. He was visited by a priest, who found that Elder Jonsson was an intelligent man with some education. The priest declared that he was willing to help him and even promised him further education—on the condition that he join the Lutheran faith and deny “Mormonism.” Elder Jonsson would not deny his faith, so he was deported.4

I remember my husband sharing an experience he had years ago as he participated in a 20-kilometer running race. Running in a very hot climate, in the middle of the day can be very challenging. The heat is unbearable, your feet, knees and legs ache, you may have injuries and blisters. You may wonder why you engaged in this challenge and wished you could have just stayed home sleeping or doing something fun! You may even want to quit. But why are you here? You came to accomplish a goal, something important to you, to overcome a difficulty and feel the satisfaction, the joy of making it to the finish line. He shared what helped him stay focused and make it to the end. When you have a race like this, you have people posted on the road holding out bottles of water to every participant. Just imagine if you had to run a 20 kilometers without being able to drink along the way? Finishing would be impossible.
But because of this fresh water found all along the way, he was able to reach his goal.

One sister with a large family set a goal to make better use of her husband’s salary through using her imagination and talents. One way she saved money was by sewing her small children’s clothing from remnants which she obtained without charge from fabric stores. Harvest time meant lots of free produce for her family, as they obtained permission to gather fruit that fell from the trees at local orchards and processed it for their home storage.

Another valuable lesson I learned as a new member was the value of the promise in D&C 82:10. “I the Lord am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.”
I was studying by correspondence at the time and my wonderful, diligent missionaries taught me this principle and promised me that if I didn’t study on Sundays, I would be entitled to call upon the Lord for His help with my exams with confidence that He would help me. I thought that was a more than fair deal.
As I sat in the exam hall for a 4-hour accounting paper, I started reading the exam paper with horror! I had to answer five of the six questions. The first question was incomplete with essential information missing, so I no longer had a choice, I had to answer the other 5. All went well until I realised the last question was on an aspect not covered in my notes. I prayed and started writing an answer.
When I got home afterwards and re-looked at the paper, I realised that the first question was not missing information; it was simplified and had I read it properly, I would definitely have received an A for the exam. At the same time, the answer to the question for which I hadn’t studied had flowed so easily—but I had no way of checking to see if my thinking had been correct.
The result? I received an A+ for the paper, which meant the misunderstood question and my answer had to have been correct. But the REAL result? A strengthened testimony that is unwavering. I learned that the Lord truly keeps His promise if we do our part.

Also, my wife shared one incident that helped her testimony. She had to write a government entrance test on a Sunday. She said that she went to the exam center along with her colleagues. They insisted on visiting one temple before attending exam. She accompanied them. She saw people coming to the temple elegantly dressed with things needed for worship their God. Everybody was following a queue to worship. But the security as well as the priests there were not giving time, not even a minute, to stand and pray. When she was watching all these things, each and every second she was reminded of God’s plan for each of His children and how Jesus is crucial in the plan. She mentioned that every second she was seeing this she was feeling the living nature of our Lord Jesus Christ. These people reminded her of what the Lord uttered in His mortal ministry as written in Matthew 9:37:
“Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few.”
Even though she was away from church that Sunday, she heartily felt the Holy Spirit witnessing her that Jesus is risen. He is the living Christ for all mankind. This testimony made the foundation of our faith even stronger.

One cold winter morning he arose at 5:00 A.M. so that he could get in some early morning practice at the gym. Hearing him move about the house, I too arose.
While he showered, I cooked his breakfast. I put more slices of bacon in the frying pan than would have been allowed had his mother been there to supervise. Three eggs soon sizzled in the pan. Toast was in the toaster. I then blended some milk, ice cream, and protein powder (I had heard that such powder contained “rebounds”). He seemed most pleased when I placed such delicious food before him. As he ate, I sat and looked on.
Washing down the last piece of toast with the protein milkshake he said, “Got to go, pops.”
As we both stood, I said, “Could we just take a minute to kneel down and pray together?”
Without responding with words, he quickly knelt. Kneeling very near him, I spoke for the two of us. I thanked the Lord for such a son and expressed my gratitude for the love that bound the two of us together.
After many heartfelt words, we arose from our knees. Feeling so close to him, I embraced him. Then before he knew what was happening, I pulled his head down and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
He stepped back and grinned and said, “Gee, pops, I wonder how many other Provo High players got a kiss from their father this morning.”
I struck him on the arm and said, “Get out of here or there will be at least one Provo High player who will get a kick in the pants this morning.”
I stood at the window and watched him until he had disappeared across the snow-covered landscape.

One March night, the phone jangled into my dreams until Dad yanked me out of a deep sleep.
“Beth,” he hissed into my dark room as a sharp shard of hallway light spilled onto my pillow.
“Mmmmph,” I growled into my down comforter.
“Beth, Annemarie is on the phone for you. It sounds like something is wrong.” Immediately I leaped out of bed, glaring at the glowing green digital clock—4:13 A.M. Something was certainly wrong. I had only gone to bed three hours earlier after returning from junior prom. I thought Annemarie and her date left around the same time.
“Hello. What’s wrong?” I said as I picked up the receiver.
There was a sniffle on the other end of the line. “Nothing,” she said finally. “I’m okay. I’m stranded though. Can you come pick me up?”
At 4:30 A.M., I pulled into the empty parking lot of Sanders Market, a small grocery store at the edge of town. Annemarie stepped out from beside the pay phone and hobbled in her dainty high heels over to my car.
“What happened?” I demanded. Annemarie wiped the mascara streaks from her cheeks.
“We went to a party after the prom. It was all right for a while, but now everyone is drunk. I won’t tell you what Kevin tried, but it definitely wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been drinking.” Annemarie sniffled again. “Beth, I used to like parties, but you and I have so much fun without them. I wish you weren’t practically the only person in our high school who understands that you don’t need beer to have fun.”
“Congratulations,” I said quietly. “It probably wasn’t easy to walk away.”
She shrugged, her voice gathering strength as she spoke. “Not really. I knew I could count on you.”

President Heber J. Grant (1856–1945) had a tender heart. He loved to give money and gifts to the people who needed it most.
President Grant hired a typist to work in his office, even though she only had the use of one hand.
She and her husband were poor, and she really needed the job.
With Christmas fast approaching, President Grant wanted to do something more for his typist and her family.
He went home and gathered his children.
“Christmas is coming soon, and I want to bless others the way the Lord has blessed us.”
“Remember how I gave you each money for Christmas last year?”
“Tell me how much money you want for Christmas this year, and I’ll give the same amount of money to my typist!”
On Christmas morning, President Grant went over to the home of his typist.
He gave her family a turkey for Christmas dinner, and gave them several hundred dollars to help pay for their house.
It was a joyful day for the struggling family, and President Grant and his children shared their happiness.
“The true key to happiness in life is to labor for the happiness of others.”
Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Heber J. Grant (2011), 143.

May I illustrate this truth with a personal experience. Many years ago, while serving as a bishop, I felt impressed to call upon Augusta Schneider, a widow from the Alsace-Lorraine area of Europe who spoke very little English, although she was fluent in French and German. For years after that first impression I would visit with her at Christmastime. On one occasion Augusta said, “Bishop, I have something of great value to me which I would like to present to you.” She then went to a special place in her modest apartment and retrieved the gift. It was a beautiful piece of felt, perhaps six by eight inches in size, to which she had pinned the medals her husband had been presented for his service as a member of the French forces in World War I. She said, “I would like you to have this personal treasure which is so close to my heart.” I protested politely and suggested there must be some member of her extended family to whom the gift should be given. “No,” she replied firmly, “the gift is yours, for you have the soul of a Frenchman.”

Shortly after presenting this special gift to me, Augusta departed mortality and went home to that God who gave her life. Occasionally I would wonder concerning her declaration that I had “the soul of a Frenchman.” I didn’t have the slightest idea what that meant. I still don’t.

Many years later I had the privilege to accompany President Ezra Taft Benson to the dedication of the Frankfurt Germany Temple, which temple would serve German-, French-, and Dutch-speaking members. In packing for the trip, I felt impressed to take along the gift of medals, without any thought concerning what I would do with them. I’d had them a number of years.

In a French-speaking dedication session, the temple was filled. The singing and messages presented were beautiful. Gratitude for God’s blessings penetrated each heart. I saw from my conducting notes that the session included members from the Alsace-Lorraine area.

During my remarks I observed that the organist had the name of Schneider. I therefore related the account of my association with Augusta Schneider, then stepped to the organ and presented the organist with the medals, along with the charge that since his name was Schneider, he had a responsibility to pursue the Schneider name in his genealogical activities. The Spirit of the Lord confirmed in our hearts that this was a special session. Brother Schneider had a difficult time preparing to play the closing number of the dedicatory service, so moved was he by the Spirit which we felt there in the temple.

I knew that the treasured gift—even the widow’s mite, for it was all Augusta Schneider had—was placed in the hand of one who would ensure that many with the souls of Frenchmen would now receive the blessings the holy temples provide, both to the living and for those who have passed beyond mortality.

On October 6, in the year 1536, a pitiful figure was led from a dungeon in Vilvorde Castle near Brussels, Belgium. For nearly a year and a half, the man had suffered isolation in a dark, damp cell. Now outside the castle wall, the prisoner was fastened to a post. He had time to utter aloud his final prayer, “Lord! open the king of England’s eyes,” and then he was strangled. Immediately, his body was burned at the stake. Who was this man, and what was the offense for which both political and ecclesiastical authorities had condemned him? His name was William Tyndale, and his crime was to have translated and published the Bible in English.
Tyndale, born in England about the time Columbus sailed to the New World, was educated at Oxford and Cambridge and then became a member of the Catholic clergy. He was fluent in eight languages, including Greek, Hebrew, and Latin. Tyndale was a devoted student of the Bible, and the pervasive ignorance of the scriptures that he observed in both priests and lay people troubled him deeply. In a heated exchange with a cleric who argued against putting scripture in the hands of the common man, Tyndale vowed, “If God spare my life ere many years, I will cause a boy that driveth the plough, shall know more of the Scripture than thou dost!”
He sought the approval of church authorities to prepare a translation of the Bible in English so that all could read and apply the word of God. It was denied—the prevailing view being that direct access to the scriptures by any but the clergy threatened the authority of the church and was tantamount to casting “pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6).
Tyndale nevertheless undertook the challenging work of translation. In 1524 he traveled to Germany, under an assumed name, where he lived much of the time in hiding, under constant threat of arrest. With the help of committed friends, Tyndale was able to publish English translations of the New Testament and later the Old Testament. The Bibles were smuggled into England, where they were in great demand and much prized by those who could get them. They were shared widely but in secret. The authorities burned all the copies they could find. Nevertheless, within three years of Tyndale’s death, God did indeed open King Henry VIII’s eyes, and with publication of what was called the “Great Bible,” the scriptures in English began to be publicly available. Tyndale’s work became the foundation for almost all future English translations of the Bible, most notably the King James Version.

For Vishakha it all started in India. That was where Vishakha Ram was invited to go to something called “institute” with a friend. She hesitated because she didn’t really think religion was her thing, but she finally agreed. On her first visit, she found a small class studying about preparing for an eternal marriage. Vishakha was amazed. “They were actually talking about these things. I grew up as a Hindu, and we don’t have the concept of eternal marriage. But in this class it was interesting to me because everything was so pure and clear. It was just like looking at pearls. It was really beautiful.”
Vishakha didn’t have the opportunity to join the Church in India because she went to Berlin, Germany, on a student exchange program. But she remembered the Church and the institute class she had found so interesting. When she arrived in Berlin, she called the missionaries, and they also took her to institute. She arrived just in time to see a great change take place at the Berlin institute. The Church had finished building a new institute addition adjoining the stake center. This shared building provides room for sports such as volleyball and basketball, a kitchen, a lounge, a library, and plenty of classrooms. The center would now support a new emphasis called institute outreach.
Just a year and a half since her baptism, Vishakha, 26, from the Lankwitz Ward, was called as student council president at the institute. Now there are activities or classes nearly every night of the week at the Berlin outreach center. She is attending the Church history class with 25 other students. For their institute, Vishakha says, “the class is mighty big.” She is excited to get some more activities going, more chances to go out to museums and concerts, more fun activities like playing games, maybe an evening to watch movies, and more testimony meetings. “So far,” says Vishakha, “there hasn’t been a dance course. We want to do that.”

Clarence stared out the car window as the harbor came into view. Boats floated in the water in front of colorful houses and shops. Copenhagen, Denmark, was a beautiful city filled with palaces, mansions, and parks. It was not at all like Clarence’s hometown in Utah, USA. Clarence could picture the dusty streets where he ran races as a boy. Now he was a member of the United States track team, and tomorrow he would be facing a famous Danish runner in an important race.
The car stopped at a small chapel where a Church meeting had already started.
As Clarence slipped into the back of the meeting, one of the missionaries sitting on the stand recognized him from a news article about tomorrow’s race. The branch president asked Clarence to come up and speak.
After Clarence told why he was visiting, a boy stood up and raised his hand. “Do you think you can beat the Danish champion?” he asked.
Clarence wasn’t sure what to say. The Danish runner did have a better time in the mile that season.
“Of course he can,” said one of the missionaries before Clarence could answer. “Because he lives the Word of Wisdom.” He opened his scriptures to Doctrine and Covenants 89. He read the promise that those who keep the Word of Wisdom “shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint” (verse 20).
What could Clarence say? He knew the Word of Wisdom was true. And as a child he had promised to always keep it. But that alone didn’t mean he could win this race. Winning also required practice and skill. As Clarence left the meeting, he thought, “Well, no one from church will be at the race tomorrow anyway.”
The next evening as Clarence was warming up for his race, he looked up and saw the two missionaries with a group of about 17 boys. They had come!
As they got closer, one of the missionaries whispered to Clarence, “If you’ve ever run in your life, you’d better run tonight.” Many of the boys weren’t members of the Church but had come with their friends to see if the Word of Wisdom was really true.
Clarence was worried. In this race, his best might not be good enough. But he was running for a principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He had to win. He had never prayed to win before, but he found an empty room to say a prayer.
He prayed, “Father in Heaven, I know the Word of Wisdom is true, and I have never broken it. Please bless me with victory in this race.” As he walked out to the starting line, he knew Heavenly Father had heard his prayer. He trusted Heavenly Father’s will.
The evening was rainy and muddy. As Clarence began the race, it seemed just like many other mile races he had run. The pace was fast, and the Danish champion was ahead. But as Clarence finished the third lap, suddenly he was not tired anymore. He started running faster, and it didn’t hurt. Going even a little faster still didn’t hurt. He passed the Danish champion and still went faster.
As Clarence came around the turn, his coach yelled, “Slow down! You’ll never make the finish line!” But Clarence knew he could keep running. And when he finished the race, he was more than 50 yards (46 m) ahead of the Danish runner! He knew he had won because Heavenly Father had answered his prayer and because the Word of Wisdom is true.

Alex asked his friend Jake to play at his house on Saturday. They were having fun with race cars when Jake noticed a picture hanging on the wall.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the picture of Thomas S. Monson.
“That’s President Monson,” Alex said.
Jake didn’t say anything.
“You know, the prophet of our Church,” Alex said.
Jake looked embarrassed. “We don’t go to church anymore,” he said.
“Why did you stop going?” Alex asked.
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to come with me on Sunday?” Alex asked. “We could go to Primary together. My teacher is really great.”
Jake’s eyes brightened. “I’ll have to ask my mom, but I think she’ll let me go,” Jake said.
At lunchtime, Alex asked his mom, “Can Jake go to Primary with me tomorrow?”
“We have to check with Jake’s mother,” Mom said. “If she says yes, then of course he can go.”
Later that day, Jake’s mom came to pick him up.
“Can Jake go to Primary with me tomorrow?” Alex asked.
“Can I, Mom?” Jake said. “Alex says Primary is really great. They have stories, sing songs, and learn about people in the scriptures.”
“I don’t know,” Jake’s mom said, looking uncertain. “We haven’t been to church for a long time.”
“Please, Mom,” Jake said. “I want to go.”
“Jake is welcome to come with us,” Alex’s mom said.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Jake’s mom asked.
“I’m sure!” Jake said.
“Then I guess it’s OK,” Jake’s mom said.
Jake gave his mom a quick hug. “Thanks,” he said.
On Sunday morning, Alex’s family picked up Jake. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes. After sacrament meeting the boys went to Primary. When they got to class, their teacher said, “We’re so glad to have you here, Jake.”
After church, Alex’s family took Jake home.
“Thanks for taking me to church with you,” Jake said.
Alex’s mom smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Jake. We hope you’ll come with us again,” she said.
That evening at dinner, Alex asked, “Can I invite Jake to go to church with us next Sunday?”
Mom nodded. “I’m going to follow your example and invite his mother to go with us too,” she said.
“You’re a good missionary, Alex,” Dad said.
Alex was surprised. “I was just being a friend,” he said.
“That’s what a missionary is,” Mom said, “a friend.”

I used to have nightmares about volcanoes. The nightmares were really awful.
They started after I watched a television special with pictures of different volcanoes erupting and spitting lava all over the place. I thought it was really neat—until the middle of the night! That’s when I had this horrible dream that a volcano was shooting off in my bedroom. I let out a yell, and Mom rushed in and turned on the light. Even though she was very tired, she patiently listened to me tell about my dream, then assured me that there aren’t any volcanoes in upstate New York.
After that I had nightmares every few nights. I’m much too old to wake up in the middle of the night screaming, but by the time I was awake enough to remember that, Mom would be in my room, telling me that everything was OK.
I haven’t had those nightmares for a while now. I’ll tell you why they stopped, but it’s sort of complicated. It started with the Barretts down the street. They have a bunch of kids, and the whole family’s really nice. One day they called Mom and asked if we’d like to go with them to a big show their church puts on every year, called the Hill Cumorah Pageant. Mom had read in the newspaper that it was supposed to be really spectacular, so she said we’d love to go.
The play is held outside, on a hill. Randi Barrett, who is my age, tried to fill me in on what was going to happen, but mostly all I remembered was that there were good guys and bad guys. When we got there, some of the actors were walking around in their costumes and we got to meet them, which was fun. There were even kids in it. I asked one kid if he was in movies, too, but he said no, he just lived in New Jersey the rest of the year.
When it began to get dark, the show started. I liked this guy called Nephi and how he built a ship. I also liked how he had these things called visions, where he saw Jesus Christ even before He was born. I got a little confused after that, but it was still fun to watch.
When they started telling about when Jesus died, we heard rumbling, like thunder, and my mom started to open her umbrella. Suddenly there was all this noise. It was so loud that it felt like the ground was shaking. And then, right in front of us, a volcano appeared out of the darkness and started to erupt. That was it! I yelped and put my jacket over my head so that I wouldn’t have to see it.
Randi told me that it was just part of the show, and Mr. Barrett tried to explain how they made it look like a real volcano. Mom told Mrs. Barrett about my nightmares, and Mrs. Barrett began apologizing for not warning me. Then everything stopped. It just stopped—all the noise, the lightning flashes, even the talking around me. It was suddenly very dark and very quiet.
I thought that maybe the world had ended, and I took my jacket off my head just to check. Then I looked up and saw a light, and in the light was a man. I thought for a minute that maybe I was having a vision, but all the people on the stage could see him, too, and they were looking up and waiting for him.
He came down out of the sky until he was right down among the people. He told them that He was Jesus Christ and that He had been killed but that it was all right now—more than all right, because He was alive again, and they would also live again after they died. He taught them lots more things, and then He blessed all the little children before He went back up into heaven.
I was really quiet all the way home, and Mom was worried because she was sure I would have nightmares that night. But I didn’t. I thought about Jesus coming and blessing all the little kids, and I figured that He would bless me too. I went a whole week without any nightmares. When I did have another one, I asked Mom to tell me about Jesus coming down from Heaven. She told me what she could remember, and I went right back to sleep.
Mom hadn’t remembered the story very well, so the next day I asked Randi about it. She said that the pageant was based on a book called the Book of Mormon, and she offered to let me borrow her copy, if I would return it by Sunday. She helped me find the right part, and I read it every night. The story was more complicated in the book, but there was also lots of good stuff that they’d left out—like when Jesus promised the people that if they’d listen to Him, He’d gather them the way a hen gathers her chickens under her wing.* I liked that, and from then on, when I went to bed, I imagined that I was a little chick snuggled under Jesus’ wing, and I stopped having nightmares.
When I took Randi’s book back, Mrs. Barrett asked if I wanted a copy for myself. She arranged for two people called missionaries to bring it to the house. They wanted to start by telling about somebody named Joseph Smith, but I told them I wanted the part about Jesus coming out of heaven. My mother gave me one of those “be polite” looks, but the missionaries said that it was their favorite part, too, so they didn’t mind talking about it first.
They left a Book of Mormon, and I started reading a little bit every night. Mom got in the habit of coming in my room after I fell asleep and borrowing it so that she could read it. Elder Sutherland, one of the missionaries, gave us another copy, so now I keep mine under my pillow. If I do have a bad dream, I know I have it right there.
But I don’t have nightmares anymore—after all, we don’t have volcanoes in upstate New York, except in the pageant. Besides, I have other stuff to think about. I just found out that the people in the pageant aren’t movie stars at all. They’re just ordinary people. I’m already planning that after Mom and I are baptized, I’ll be in next year’s pageant. Then, when Jesus comes down out of heaven, I’ll be waiting there to meet Him.

Primary lessons can sure change things! Last week Sister Pierson said that since we were all getting baptized this year, we should try to do what Jesus would want us to do and follow his example. “Melissa,” she asked me, “why did Jesus do things for other people?”
I said, “Because he loved them.”
So we talked about serving people out of love, not for thanks. Then Sister Pierson’s eyes started to sparkle, and Josey groaned because she knew that meant Sister Pierson had an assignment for us. “I would like each of you to do something for someone without their knowing every single day this week,” she challenged us. “Small acts of service can make a big difference in peoples’ lives.”
Boy, would that be hard in my family. Mom and Dad notice everything we do, especially since they usually have to ask many times before it gets done. They’d be really suspicious if things just started happening.
Monday after school, Mom said she had to take Jeanette, my big sister, to the doctor. As soon as she left, I peeked outside to see my brother, Billy, playing basketball. I knew he wouldn’t be coming into the house for a while. I did the dishes and put everything away exactly right. It was really Billy’s turn to do the dishes, but he waits until Mom is practically yelling before he does it. This time Mom wouldn’t yell, and Billy would think Mom had done the dishes for him. No one would guess that I had washed them.
It felt strange that evening—sort of peaceful. Billy did his homework without being told to, and Jeanette and Mom cheerfully cleared up after dinner. No one said anything about the dishes having been done.
On Tuesday we made cookies. After we were finished, I took six out of the cookie jar, wrapped them in a napkin, and put them into a small paper bag. Mrs. Henderson next door is a widow and lives by herself. I know that she loves Mom’s cookies, so I put them on her doorstep, rang the bell, and ran behind some bushes to watch. She was really pleased when she found the cookies.
On Wednesday after school, I noticed Jeanette hadn’t made her bed, so I made it for her. It was hard because I had to get the bedspread tucked under the pillow just right so that there was still enough to pull over the top. I finally did it, but when I took one last look, there was a whole bunch of extra sheet hanging down on one side. I almost cried. I tucked it under the mattress, because I didn’t want to start all over again, and I just hoped she wouldn’t guess that it was me who had made the bed. When she came home that night, Jeanette didn’t say anything about it.
I got up the next morning wondering if it was even worth doing anything, since nobody seemed to care. I mean, nobody had noticed anything enough to even ask who had done it! But I wanted to tell Sister Pierson that I had done what she asked the entire week, so I kept going.
Dad still had mud caked on his boots from last weekend, and I knew he would need them again this Saturday, so when I got home from school, I found the old knife he uses as a scraper and spent a whole hour getting them clean again. Most of that time I was hoping he would appreciate it.
Friday morning my lunch was all fixed and ready to go when I got downstairs. I guess Mom did it—I even got cheese crackers! So I gave her an extra-big hug and felt good again. In the afternoon I quietly put all the clean clothes away while she was peeling carrots and potatoes for dinner, and I felt even better.
Saturday morning Billy and I got up early to watch television. We get to do that until everybody is up and it’s time to do chores. Dad came in with his boots on and gave Mom a kiss. “Thanks for cleaning these off, Honey,” he said. “I’ve been putting it off all week.” Morn looked surprised. “But I didn’t. I—”
But Dad had gone out the door already. I just kept my eyes on the television and smiled inside, where Mom couldn’t see.
Mom let us watch TV an extra half hour before she turned it off and said, “Get dressed—time for chores.” Her voice was happy, so we knew that it would be a fun workday.
I got all the way across my room to the dresser before I realized that someone had already made my bed—corners tucked up, sheets and blankets perfectly even, and my pillow all smoothed out. Downstairs, Mom was whistling. I smiled, inside and out. Little things do make a big difference. I’d have a lot to tell Sister Pierson on Sunday.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win. Mom and I are both so proud of you for trying,” Dad said. He sat down next to Raina. “Do you remember when I was out of work a couple of years ago?”
Raina nodded.
“I applied for lots of jobs and wasn’t hired for any of them,” Dad said. “I was feeling pretty discouraged.”
Raina lifted her head. “Really?”
Dad nodded. “But I didn’t give up. After a long time, I found a job that was perfect. But it wouldn’t have happened if I had stopped trying.”