Gospel Story Finder

Jeremy recently graduated from high school with a 4.0 grade point. His classmates there were always eager to lend a hand, and the school even tried to accommodate his special needs by acquiring a voice-activated computer. “My friends are really supportive,” Jeremy says. “It’s awesome.”

And Jeremy, in his own way, has given something back. At an awards banquet, where the top 100 students were honored, Jeremy received a special award and as it was presented, it was pointed out that Jeremy had provided a great experience for the student body. Not only had he given them an opportunity to extend themselves in service, but he’d provided an incredible example of tenacity, courage, and high spirits.

“The seed of Manasseh,” Melvin repeated to himself just as he had more than forty years before when, as a boy of eleven, he had first heard these words.
It had been at the time the Logan Temple was dedicated and Patriarch Zebedee Coltrin had traveled from his home in southern Utah to stay with Melvin’s family and attend the dedication. What a thrill it was for Melvin to meet a man who had personally known the Prophet Joseph Smith! Every morning Melvin arose early so he could shine the patriarch’s shoes and listen to more stories about the Prophet.
Before leaving for home, Brother Coltrin suggested that he give a special blessing to Melvin and some of his brothers and sisters. In Melvin’s blessing the patriarch declared, “Thou shalt proclaim the gospel unto the seed of Manasseh and shall do many mighty miracles in the midst of the Lord.”
Later Melvin’s father told the family the story of Ephraim and Manasseh. Then he read to them from the Book of Mormon about Lehi and his family, who were descendants of Manasseh. He explained that the Indians were Lamanites and were known as the seed of Manasseh.
During the following years Melvin thought many times about his blessing. The only Lamanites he had ever seen were those who lived in tents outside of the little pioneer town of Logan, and he often wondered how he could proclaim the gospel to them.
Now, more than forty years later, Melvin J. Ballard was aboard a ship sailing for Buenos Aires, where he and his two companions, Elders Rulon G. Wells and Parley P. Pratt, were to open a mission for the South American people. As he walked along the windswept deck of the steamship Voltaire, he thought he finally understood the words of the inspired patriarch many years before, for he felt that the promise of his blessing was about to be fulfilled.
The steamship docked at Buenos Aires early on the morning of December 6, 1925, and that very afternoon the three elders met with twelve adults and four children who were interested in learning more about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
On December 12 Melvin recorded in his diary: “Just as the sun was going down, I baptized six people in the Rio de la Plata, the first in this generation in South America.” The next day the six were confirmed in a meeting, and at that meeting the sacrament was administered for the first time in South America.
Christmas night of that same year Melvin again wrote in his diary: “The sun came up at 4:41. We were up at 5. We arrived at Park 3 de Febrero at a place near the river in a grove of weeping willows at 7 A.M. We sang ‘The Morning Breaks.’ Brother Pratt read several passages from the Book of Mormon on promises of redemption of the Lamanites. Brother Wells read from the Bible. We all knelt under a weeping willow tree, and I offered prayer.”
Here is part of the prayer Elder Ballard offered:
We are grateful to come to this great land of South America to unlock the door for the preaching of the gospel. We thank thee for the few who have received us and for those we have had the joy of taking into the waters of baptism in this land. May they be the first fruits of a glorious harvest.
As Melvin J. Ballard left Buenos Aires, Argentina, on July 4, 1926, he reported to the members of the Church who had gathered to say goodbye that “the work of the Lord will grow slowly for a time. It will not shoot up in a day as does the sunflower that grows quickly and then dies. But thousands will join the Church here.”
This promise has been fulfilled many times over in Argentina and other South American “Book of Mormon countries.” Today the seed of Manasseh comprise a great part of the Church in this land as well as in other parts of the world.

In my senior year I started every game. We went 9-2-1, were nationally ranked, and went to the All-American Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama.
Before the game in Birmingham they have lots of festivities for the players. One of the activities was a Fellowship of Christian Athletes breakfast that was open to the public, and there were several hundred—probably a thousand—people there.
The night before, as I was saying my prayers, I felt that somehow I was going to speak at that breakfast. I didn’t know anything about the program, but I prayed that if I was called on, the Lord would be with me and I would be able to share something that would uplift those in attendance.
We got up early and went to the breakfast, and I was really enjoying it. When Coach Hydrick came up to me with a big smile on his face, I knew exactly what he was going to ask.
“Sam,” he said, “I was wondering if you would give a brief talk about your testimony and your relationship with the Lord.”
I said, “I’d love to.” Then I looked at my buddies at the table and realized that I’d never spoken to an audience of non-Mormons before. I had this extreme paranoia come over me, and I wondered what I was going to say.
As they introduced me and I walked up there before all those people, I felt weak all over. I don’t remember what exactly I said. I know I told them about the Savior and how he’d taken upon himself the sins of all mankind. I was doing pretty well emotionally until I started talking about my teammates. Then I started to cry because I loved them. I closed in the sacred name of the Savior.
Suddenly, I heard people start saying, “Amen,” “Hallelujah,” “Praise the Lord!” I was a little shocked at first. But then I saw people were crying, and I was crying, and it was a wonderful experience. After the breakfast, many people told me what I had said impressed them. I was just grateful that the Lord was able to touch their hearts.

From his earliest days of singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” Jared Cassity planned on serving as a full-time missionary. He had read the scriptures and was familiar with all the missionary discussions. Most importantly, he was worthy and desired to go on a mission.

But he couldn’t go. Jared’s mental disabilities and some physical problems meant he could not serve a proselyting mission. “It took courage for me to accept that,” he says.

That was more than three years ago. Now, Elder Jared Cassity—that’s right, Elder—has been serving for three years. Elder Cassity was called on a stake mission. He is an assistant in the North Ogden Utah Stake’s missionary preparation class, helping other young men who are planning to go on missions become more prepared. “It took a lot of praying, but I know this is the right thing for me to be doing,” he says.

Elder Cassity shares his responsibilities in the class with Elder Paul Hansen, who has also been serving for three years. Elder Hansen also has mental and physical disabilities, but he manages to make it to class to set up chairs and distribute hymnbooks long before anyone else gets there. His mom, Janeen, says, “He felt really bad, because he’s always wanted to go on a mission, but it wasn’t right, and this was right.” Alma Harris, who teaches the class, says that as the time approached for Elders Cassity and Hansen to be released from their two-year missions, they wanted to remain in their callings, and he still needed their help.

Elders Hansen and Cassity have various responsibilities each week in the class, including bringing refreshments, setting up chairs, and giving an occasional talk. But their most important duty is preparing their stake’s future missionaries.

“I love the change that comes upon these wonderful boys when they serve missions,” Elder Cassity says, nearly crying. “I love seeing what the Spirit can do. … Sometimes I cry when I hear their wonderful testimonies, because I feel like I was one who helped that person.”

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.

One of the residents, Roy, was 46 when Sophia was age two. Because Roy’s mental age was the same as Sophia’s, they became best friends. Brother Ralph describes how they played together and followed each other around. “Now Sophia is eight, and Roy looks up to her as his big sister. Mentally he’s still a two-year-old.” It’s touching to watch them walk hand in hand down the lane to the lambing fields. When it’s spring, Sophia takes Roy to see the newborn lambs, an outing they both cherish.

Several years ago I worked with a client, Rachel (name has been changed), who had a problem with drinking. It had become a crutch and a means to release the stress of her difficult life. She determined that she was going to overcome her addiction, and with some help and encouragement, she stopped drinking. Before fully overcoming her drinking problem, she didn’t belittle herself for her weakness. She recognized it. Then, with determination and the help of a good bishop, the Lord, and a few key people, Rachel determined that she would stop drinking. Last time I spoke with her, she reported no desire to drink.

I had been in Barcelona, Spain, compiling the data collected by an eighteenth-century ancestor of my nonmember husband. I had obtained almost two hundred names. They came principally from diaries written in Catalan, my native tongue. I knew that, in addition to this information, my husband’s family had available about three hundred parchment scrolls of genealogy, all written in Latin and in fifteenth-century script.
Family circumstances allowed me to stay only a very short time in which to work with this Latin material, but I wasn’t able to decipher the writings. I had no money to make photocopies, and with such limited time, I commented to a friend that I worried for the souls who would have to wait longer for their work to be done.
She suggested that I get a priesthood blessing. I did, after a period of fasting, and through the blessing felt a surge of spiritual strength. But the monumental task still discouraged me, and I set aside the scrolls for a while.
Finally, when I only had one week left in which to translate, I fell to my knees in prayer, pleading for help. If it be the Lord’s will, I asked, please permit me to be an instrument in helping to redeem these people from their prison.
From that time on, my understanding of the writings became clearer. I was even able to translate without a dictionary. Each scroll became easier, and I read more and more quickly. I somehow obtained the privacy I needed and, though I worked nights with only a few hours of sleep, I wasn’t tired. I seemed to sense the presence of those I was working for, and that gave me much-needed spiritual support.
I found that rats had nibbled away at the documents over the centuries, taking away some of the data. However, in nearly every case, I located the missing information elsewhere in the documents. When I had forgotten to write down something, I sensed that I needed to reread the scroll. As I unrolled it, the information I needed fell before my eyes immediately. Whenever the translation became difficult, I prayed sincerely for help, and always received it.
I finished the translation in four days, just before I was to leave. The information I had gleaned went as far back as A.D. 1212. I saw no angels nor visions, but I had experienced a miracle every day—a miracle as natural as the sun rising.
I will always be grateful to my Father in Heaven for helping me. Now, more than ever, I have a testimony that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has the spirit of Elijah, which enables us to redeem the dead out of their prison. I know that through that spirit, “the prisoners shall go free” (D&C 128:22).

“Why not just a little?” That was the question David asked after his early-morning seminary teacher had finished an entire lesson about protecting yourself from sin. “I’m not talking about doing anything big,” David continued. “I just want to know why I can’t have a sip of beer—just to taste it and know what it is like. Why not just one cigarette or one night with a girl so my friends will stop bugging me?”
Before the teacher could even start giving him the usual answers, David outguessed him and blurted, “And don’t tell me that alcohol kills your brain cells and that cigarettes cause cancer. Don’t tell me about AIDS.” He didn’t want to hear the typical “scare” stories. David continued, “I know men who used to drink and smoke, and they’re bishops now.”
It was true. David knew many people who had repented and been forgiven of their sins. “So,” he looked directly at his teacher and repeated his original question, “why not just a little?”
By now nearly every young person in the room was nodding and saying, “Yeah, why not?” The seminary teacher knew he had to say something—quickly. He swallowed hard, said a silent prayer, and offered, “Try looking at it like this: Isn’t the Holy Ghost a member of the Godhead?”
“Yes,” answered David, “but what does that have to do with anything?”
The teacher explained, “Well, ‘no unclean thing can dwell with God’ (1 Ne. 10:21; Mosiah 2:36–38). Maybe that’s why we must be baptized—completely cleaned—before we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 68:25; D&C 84:64).
The room was quiet. Despite the fact they had already sat through one lesson that day, David and his friends were listening to their teacher. “In scriptures we are told that the Spirit won’t always strive with men (see Gen. 6:3; Ether 15:19; D&C 1:33).
“The immediate consequence of any sin is withdrawal of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. So one cigarette may not be enough to give you cancer, but it is enough to alienate you from the Spirit. One can of beer may not make you an alcoholic and leave you homeless, but it is enough to leave you without the Spirit. The same thing for a premarital sexual experience.”
Most of the class was agreeing with their teacher now, but David still wasn’t completely convinced. He said, “So the Spirit leaves. So what?”
Class time was over. The students needed to go to school. “Let’s pick this discussion up tomorrow,” said the teacher, and they did. Over the next few days the class studied the fruits of the Spirit. What David had not considered was that when we lose the Spirit we automatically lose some other things as well.
The seminary class was glad David had asked, “Why not just a little?” In the course of their discussions and study, David and his friends had come to some important conclusions. One student summed it up like this: “Why not just a little sin? Well, why not just a little touch on the burner of a hot stove? Sure, you may heal in the long run, but not without going through a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering.”

Dad got us a job mowing the lawn of our meetinghouse. We used an old push lawn mower. At that time, the Church was just beginning to buy power lawn mowers. But my father, who had a calling in the stake, said, “We don’t need a power mower. My boys will take care of it.” Some parts of the lawn were very thick and hard to mow, so we attached a rope to the front of the mower. One brother pulled on the rope while the other pushed the mower. People laughed as they went by and saw us doing this, but it worked!

Cindy nodded slowly. She thought of Mrs. Clark, her friend Linda’s grandmother. Cindy’d seen Mrs. Clark once. She was hunched over in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. She didn’t answer Linda’s questions but just sat there, constantly rubbing the chair arms with her hands. Linda had said that her grandmother seemed happiest when she sat in the rocker. It bothered Cindy; she never visited Mrs. Clark again.

“I’m sure Mrs. Nealy wouldn’t mind your seeing him,” said Mrs. Tyler. “I have their number. You can call from here.”
“That’s OK. I think I shouldn’t bother them.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Tyler busied herself with some packages.
She sees all right, Cindy thought. She sees what a chicken I am. I don’t care—I can’t bear to see Mr. Nealy be like Linda’s grandmother.
As she watched Mrs. Tyler place stamps on the packages, Cindy thought about the first time she saw Mr. Nealy. She’d been too shy to talk to him, and the time had really dragged while she waited for her mother. But after Mr. Nealy made friends with her, that hour flew by. Later she realized that Mr. Nealy enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. Between three and four o’clock was a slow period when there were few travelers. She helped him sweep the floor, wash the windows, check for burned out light bulbs. He talked about trains, and she talked about school.
He was fond of black licorice and often asked her to go to the nearby store and buy him a package of it. She remembered how he always said, “Black licorice, Cindy. Not red. And not the shoestring kind, either.” And he always gave her extra money to buy candy for herself.
As the memories flooded her mind, Cindy saw him standing very tall, with beautiful silver hair and a thick mustache. He was strong, picking up cargo as if the crates were empty. That Christmas she gave him a conch shell that she’d found in Florida while on vacation, and he gave her a pin in the shape of a caboose. She still had the pin.
Thinking of that shell made Cindy smile. Mr. Nealy kept it at his office, where it lay among the forms and tickets and stamps. It looked out of place, but he never moved it, except to put it to his ear sometimes and listen to the sound of the sea. “That’s where I should be right now,” he’d say, “lying on a beach, loafing my life away.” Then they would laugh.
To see him like Linda’s grandmother—Cindy shuddered at the thought. Turning now to go, she said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
“You, too, dear.” Mrs. Tyler gave Cindy a good-bye hug. “Come back to visit.”
“I will.”
As Cindy passed the train station once more, she tried to not think of Mr. Nealy. But the thoughts kept coming.
The store had not changed. Cindy quickly found the black licorice at the candy counter. Maybe he won’t be as sick as Linda’s grandmother, she thought. Maybe he just started getting that way. And I don’t have to stay long. She fumbled with the licorice, trying to make up her mind. Should I go? She saw a pay phone on the wall. Should I call?
Fifteen minutes later she pushed the doorbell of the Nealy house. Patting the package of licorice in her jacket pocket, she felt good about her decision.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Cindy,” Mrs. Nealy greeted her. “Henry will love seeing you again.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Of course not. As I told you when you phoned, we love to have company. Come in.”
Cindy felt a little strange. She’d never pictured Mr. Nealy having a regular house. The station had seemed like his home—he’d cared for it and cleaned it as if he lived there day and night.
“Mr. Nealy doesn’t get many visitors anymore. At first he might look strange to you, but it will pass after a little while. He’s in the living room.”
Cindy followed Mrs. Nealy toward the sound of a TV. She could see the back of Mr. Nealy’s head as they entered the room. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of the television.
Mrs. Nealy bent over the chair. “Henry, look who’s come to see you. It’s Cindy.”
Cindy watched the chair swivel toward her. Mr. Nealy was hunched over, his eyes showing no recognition. He pushed the chair around and around, and each time he passed her, his eyes remained blank.
“Sit here, Cindy.” Mrs. Nealy pointed to the sofa. She asked Cindy questions about her new hometown, her school, and her new friends. After most of Cindy’s answers, Mrs. Nealy said, “Isn’t that nice, Henry?” or “Did you hear that, Henry?”
As she watched the retired stationmaster circle that green chair round and round, Cindy thought that it was hopeless to even pretend that he knew what they were saying. Seeing him was worse than seeing Linda’s grandmother, because Cindy could not forget how he used to be. As she talked to Mrs. Nealy, memories of his deep laughter, his wide smile, his stories and silly jokes swirled within her until she could no longer bear the sight and sound of his chair. “I have to go, Mrs. Nealy. It’s getting late.”
She pulled the licorice from her jacket. “Would you give these to Mr. Nealy. He used to like black licorice.”
“He still does. He’ll be pleased.”
“Mrs. Nealy, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“In his way, he knows. Please—you give him the candy.” She got up, and Cindy followed her to the swivel chair. “Henry, Cindy has a present for you.” She stopped the chair.
“Mr. Nealy, these are for you.” Cindy waved the candy in front of him, trying to catch his attention.
When he saw the licorice, he grabbed at it. Close to him now, Cindy saw that he wasn’t so different, after all. He still had the lovely silver hair and thick mustache, his eyes were still deep blue, and he still wore his railroad ring.
“Cin, Cin,” he uttered, staring at her.
“Yes, Mr. Nealy. It’s me, Cindy.”
He raised a hand, and Cindy stooped to let him touch her face. He smiled, then pointed to a table. Cindy could not understand his words, but she recognized the conch shell.
“You still have this?”
Cindy picked it up and took it to him. But when she tried to place it in his hands, he pushed the shell back to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy. It will remind me of you.”
He smiled, and Cindy decided that somehow he understood. Then he ripped open the licorice and started his chair whirling again, and she knew that he was back in his own world. She turned to Mrs. Nealy. “It hurts to see him this way—is he in pain?”
“No, Cindy. He isn’t in pain.”
“He isn’t, but we are.” Cindy put the shell to her ear and listened to the sound of the sea. She looked up again at Mrs. Nealy and managed a brave smile. “I’m glad that at least we have some happy memories.”

Teddy and I checked the victory garden every day, weeding and harvesting what was left of the summer crop. Then we watered the tiny vegetable trays mother kept on the windowsills. We tried to grow food in every possible way, so I suppose it was a blessing when Father came home one afternoon with a box of peeps under his arm.
I remember the air raid siren had sounded the all clear signal. Mother, Teddy, and I climbed the stairs and continued preparing our meal. Teddy, who always ran to the window looking for damage, shouted, “Father’s coming!”
Sure enough, his cap bobbed along above the hedges, and in a minute he turned in at our gate. That day he wore a broad smile and carried a box. He kissed all of us, gave Mother a hug, and pointed to the small wooden container.
“Come see what I’ve brought!” he invited.
We all gathered around, and as he lifted the lid, fluffy yellow and brown balls of feathers began peeping and begging for food. He reached into his pocket and sprinkled some tiny seeds and the chicks pecked, making the seeds disappear.
“Oh, Arthur,” Mother gasped. “What on earth?”
“Now, Lucile,” he smiled. “No need to be alarmed. We’ll raise the chicks and have poultry to eat.”
“Raise them!” she exclaimed with peaked eyebrows. “Where?”
“If they were a little bigger and winter weren’t coming, I’d build them a coop outside. But, as it is, I thought they might be all right up in the attic.”
“In the attic!” Mother exclaimed, glancing around in a panic.
“There, there,” Father soothed. “It’s not that bad. You’ll see. I’ll build a cage. Then all we’ll have to do is clean the cage and feed and water them. They’ll do fine.”
Mother relented, the cage was built, and the chickens grew in our attic. Then Teddy, with his big mouth, began telling everyone what nice pets we had in the attic. I could have died of embarrassment. Still, it wasn’t fair to blame him—after all, he was barely six! It was too good an opportunity for the kids to pass up though, and even my best friend Natalie Thomas began making fun of us.
Teddy and I walked to school that autumn, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but holding our heads proudly as Mother had said we should.
“Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” came Natalie’s singsong chant as we neared the school yard.
I clutched Teddy’s hand tighter, lifted my chin higher, and my knuckles turned white against the dark edges of my books. It isn’t true! I wanted to shout, but I wouldn’t give my friend the satisfaction of knowing how much her remark hurt. No, I thought determinedly. It’s better to ignore ignorance.
Still, it was always a great relief when I heard the dismissal bell. Again, I would clutch Teddy’s hand and drag him home. Once inside our house, I blew my nose while Teddy wiped his eyes. Then we went about our chores, trying, as everyone else did, to act as though nothing were wrong.
But there was a lot wrong. That year, the Germans blockaded the English Channel and bombing raids came almost daily. Many of the houses were left burning, and people everywhere were suffering. Lunch was little more than dried biscuits, and there was no longer any jam. During class you could hear a constant grumbling of stomachs, and my head often ached from hunger. Even Natalie, who I no longer spoke to, had made new holes in her belt, for her clothes bagged even more than before.
Then we had our first snow. It fell in huge fluffy flakes and covered everything with a soft white blanket, and our shoes made gentle squeaks as we walked. I wondered how many people would be able to keep warm through the winter.
As Teddy and I crossed our threshold that first snowy day, we smelled a most delicious aroma. My mouth watered as I lifted the lid of a simmering pot. Inside was a colorful mixture of noodles and carrots floating in a golden broth. Teddy’s eyes got round and happy as I lifted him up to see.
“It smells so good, Katie!” Then he grinned. “Do you think we could have a taste?”
“I don’t see the harm,” I replied as I blew on a spoonful of hot broth.
The rich, warm liquid trickled through our lips, then Teddy’s face twisted into a smear of lines. “It’s chicken!” he sobbed.
“Of course it’s chicken,” I agreed. “What did you think it was?”
He held his mouth and ran from the room. Then, and only then, did I think of our peeps. Slowly, I replaced the spoon and climbed the stairs to the attic. I counted four chickens where there had been five. My stomach rolled over and I sat down to gather my senses. One chicken is gone.
At the bottom of the stairs, I heard Mother call, “Katie, Teddy, are you home?”
I descended the stairs slowly and Mother must have read my face. She asked quietly, “Katie? Are you feeling all right?”
“We tasted the soup, Mother,” I replied, staring at the floor. “It’s … it’s chicken soup.”
Mother sat down on a chair and unbuttoned her coat. “Yes, dear, it’s chicken. Are you terribly upset?”
“I don’t think I can eat it,” I said quietly. “I thought of them as pets.”
“We all did, dear,” she replied. “But your father explained—”
“Oh, Mother!” I sobbed, suddenly losing complete control. “How could you?”
Mother grasped my shoulders and hugged me close. “I’m sorry, Katie, I really am. But in times like these, we do what we must.”
“We have vegetables,” I sobbed.
“Yes, Katie, we do, but unfortunately there are those who don’t.”
I sniffled and looked up into her face. “What do you mean?”
“Natalie’s mother has been giving her children most of their food and going without herself. I went there today and she looks so thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. It’s hard for her with her husband fighting in the war. Would you deny a neighbor food?”
I thought of Natalie’s hurting chant, “Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” And for a brief moment I almost said, “Yes!” Then I thought of her sagging clothes and looked down at my own. We were all thinner, paler. The world was at war, and these were hard times shared by all. “So you made the chicken soup for them?” I wondered aloud.
“I made it for all of us, Katie.”
I nodded and stared at the table.
“They’ll be along soon, dear. Would you please set the table?” Mother asked as she stood to hang her coat on a peg.
“Is Natalie coming too?”
“Of course,” Mother nodded.
With a smile, I reached for the bowls and began setting them around the table. As I did so, I reasoned with myself, Maybe Heavenly Father sent the peeps to us because He knew we could take the jeers without becoming revengeful. Maybe He even knew that when the time came, we would share what we had. It made sense to me, and I liked to think that it was so. I determined to explain it to Teddy that way. Maybe then he, too, might understand about the peeps in our attic.

In the Japanese translation of the hymn “Called to Serve” (Hymns, no. 249), the English words onward and forward are translated as susume. That word has significant meaning for me because of something that happened a few years ago when I was a stake president in Fukuoka, Japan.
The President of the Church, Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), was visiting, and I was asked to accompany him. During one meeting, 300 full-time missionaries gathered to listen to the prophet. The Holy Spirit filled the chapel, and many of us shed tears of joy. We sang “Called to Serve” in Japanese, repeating over and over again susume, susume. President Hinckley asked the mission president, seated next to him, “What does susumemean?”
“It means ‘go forward,’” the mission president replied.
The meeting was wonderful. President Hinckley encouraged and motivated the missionaries. Afterward, he waved to them in farewell and left the building. As he got into my car to go back to the hotel, he said one word to me, in Japanese: “Susume!”
That word became a motto for me: “Go forward! Be positive! Face the future with faith!” It is the same message given to the youth of the Church in the concluding section of For the Strength of Youth. After reviewing the blessings that come from obedience to the Lord’s standards, in a section titled “Go Forward with Faith,” it says: “As you do these things, the Lord will make much more out of your life than you can by yourself. He will increase your opportunities, expand your vision, and strengthen you. He will give you the help you need to meet your trials and challenges. You will gain a stronger testimony and find true joy as you come to know your Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ, and feel Their love for you” ([2011], 43).

Guy de Maupassant, the French writer, tells the story of a peasant named Hauchecorne. While walking through the public square, he caught sight of a piece of string lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Later in the day the loss of a purse was reported. Hauchecorne was arrested and taken before the mayor. He protested his innocence, showing that it was only a piece of string that he had picked up. But he was not believed and was laughed at.
The next day the purse was found, and Hauchecorne was absolved [cleared] of any wrongdoing. But, resentful of the false accusation, he became embittered and would not let the matter die. Unwilling to forgive and forget, he thought and talked of little else. Everyone he met had to be told of the injustice. Obsessed with his grievance, he became ill and died. In his death struggles, he repeatedly murmured, “A piece of string, a piece of string.” (See “The Piece of String,” in The Works of Guy de Maupassant [n.d.], 34–38.)

I learned about the power of such a vision when I joined my 12- and 13-year-old sons for a 50/20 competition. A 50/20 consists of walking 50 miles (80 km) in less than 20 hours. We started at 9:00 p.m. and walked all that night and most of the next day. It was an excruciating 19 hours, but we succeeded.
Upon returning home, we literally crawled into the house, where a wonderful wife and mother had prepared a lovely dinner, which we didn’t touch. My younger son collapsed, totally exhausted, on the couch, while my older son crawled downstairs to his bedroom.
After some painful rest of my own, I went to my younger son to make sure he was still alive.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Dad, that was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I never want to do it again.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I would never do it again either. Instead, I told him how proud I was that he had accomplished such a hard thing. I knew it would prepare him for other hard things he would face in his future. With that thought, I said, “Son, let me make you this promise. When you go on your mission, you will never have to walk 50 miles in one day.”
“Good, Dad! Then I’m going.”
Those simple words filled my soul with gratitude and joy.
I then went downstairs to my oldest son. I lay by him—then touched him. “Son, are you all right?”
“Dad, that was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, and I will never, ever do it again.” His eyes closed—then opened—and he said, “Unless my son wants me to.”
Tears came as I expressed how grateful I was for him. I told him I knew he was going to be a much better father than I was. My heart was full because at his young and tender age he already recognized that one of his most sacred priesthood duties was to be a father. He had no fear of that role and title—the very title that God Himself wants us to use when we speak to Him. I knew I had the responsibility to nurture the embers of fatherhood that were burning within my son.
These words of the Savior took on a much deeper meaning to me as a father:
“The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the Father do: for [whatsoever things He] doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise” (John 5:19).
“I do nothing of myself; but as my Father hath taught me” (John 8:28).
I love being a husband and father—married to a chosen daughter of heavenly parents. I love her. It is one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. My hope that night was that my five sons and their sister would always see in me the joy that comes from eternal marriage, fatherhood, and family.

The highlight of Joseph’s beekeeping adventure was when his hives yielded 60 kilograms of beautiful wild honey. He gave away dozens of jars and received rave reviews. “Even my friend who runs a honey business said that my honey tastes better than what they produce,” Joseph beams. He couldn’t wait to see how his hives would perform in the next harvesting season.
Then one morning, he found an entire hive was empty. The bee colony had left!
Joseph searched the neighbourhood, with no luck. “Sometimes the queen [bee] just decides to leave and take her colony with her,” he explains. “Sometimes you can find them, and sometimes you can’t.”
He knew once a colony has left its hive, it’s unlikely that it will ever return. Also, bees never take over another colony’s hive. For these reasons, beekeepers tend to keep many hives—but Joseph only had two.
Tragically, a couple of months later, his second beehive was also abandoned.
Joseph was heartbroken: “I was so sad. I really felt like I had lost something.”
He hung up his beekeeper suit and went to tell his wife, Atelaite, the bad news. “Our bees are gone,” Joseph said to her. She encouraged him to pray.
From that morning, the couple prayed fervently, every day, for their bees. They would thank Heavenly Father for the privilege of having raised bees, and for the joy the experience had brought them, and then they’d prayed for a miracle—that the bees might somehow return.
After almost two weeks, however, Joseph began to lose faith. He told Atelaite he was ready to take down his empty hives and just purchase new bees in the next season. “These things happen,” he said to her. “Let’s just let nature take its course.”
But Atelaite wasn’t ready to give up. She had the words of Amulek in her heart: “Yea, humble yourselves, and continue in prayer unto him. . . .
“Cry unto him over the crops of your fields, that ye may prosper in them.
“Cry over the flocks of your fields, that they may increase (Alma 34:19, 24–25).
She did not stop praying.
One Saturday morning, Joseph noticed bees hovering above the flowerbeds in his garden. With the eyes of a trained beekeeper, he saw that many were carrying pollen, and that their flight path headed towards his hives.
Joseph hurried to put on his beekeeping suit and went to investigate. Bees swarmed especially around one of his hives, and when he opened it, it was filled with thousands of busy bees.
Joseph shed tears and said a quiet prayer of gratitude. He looked for the queen bee and thanked her for bringing her colony to this hive. Then he ran into the house to tell Atelaite.
“I said, ‘Honey, guess what? The bees have come back!’” He hugged and kissed his wife, and then told her, “Your faith is greater than mine.”
To this day, Joseph doesn’t know if the bees in his hive now are the same bees that left it, or if a new colony took over the hive. As neither situation is likely, he only knows that a miracle happened, and it was preceded by faith.
“I almost doubted and just, let nature take its course,” Joseph says, “but my wife never did. I have learned to never give up on our prayers and to trust in Heavenly Father. A miracle won’t always happen, but when it does, it brings great joy.”

A true story from the USA.
“Can we go draw with chalk?” Quinn asked Mom.
“Sure!” Mom said. “Let’s go.”
Quinn and his little brother and sister ran outside.
“I want blue!” yelled Quinn.
Kade and Chloe grabbed chalk too. They sat down and started drawing on the sidewalk. Mom picked up some red chalk and started writing.
“What are you doing?” asked Quinn.
“I’m writing happy words for the school kids when they walk home today,” Mom said.
Quinn could see the school from his front window. He liked waving to the kids as they walked by.
“What messages can we write to make them smile?” asked Mom.
Quinn read over Mom’s shoulder. “You’re …”
“Awesome!” Mom finished.
Quinn smiled and kept reading. “You rock. You can do it!”
Then Quinn got an idea. He started drawing a long line at one of Mom’s messages. He drew a line to the next one. Then he looped over to another.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“I’m making a line for the kids to walk on,” Quinn said. He started running on the line. “See? I’m showing them where to find all the happy words.”
“I think that’s a great way to make everyone smile,” Mom said. And that made Quinn smile even bigger.
Illustrations by Asya Aizenstein

It took one year to build concrete steps down a volcanic cliffside to the swimming hole and the beautiful waterfall below. Four boys worked on this project. They had two picks, two crowbars, and one sledgehammer, and they worked every night after school and every Saturday for six months. Little by little they chipped the rock away until they had a pathway wide enough to support some concrete clear to the bottom of the waterfall. It took them another six months of backbreaking labor to make the steps. They hauled sand from the beach in an old pickup truck. They added cement and took gravel from the river and mixed the concrete by hand in a shallow pocket hollowed out of a large stone. Then they shoveled the wet concrete into buckets and lowered them down the cliff with ropes attached to a long bamboo pole. One step at a time they worked until the trail was completed.

“My father ran a grain elevator, and as a young boy, I used to have to shovel wheat. Dad taught us to work for our own money. He paid us three cents a sack to stack and load wheat, and I thought that that was pretty generous of him. We could load a thousand bushels into a boxcar in about three or four hours. My two brothers and I could make as high as nine dollars a day loading wheat. And that was back in the days when earning two dollars a day was good wages. My father encouraged us to be frugal and to put the money away for our education.
“Mother was a great lady. I remember sitting by her and having her read to me from a little white Bible. She loved the scriptures. She also loved poetry and prose and history; she was a deep reader and a deep thinker. She helped instill in her children an appreciation for good books.
“When I was about thirteen years old, my mother had prepared a delicious Thanksgiving dinner. Before she could get the table set, an emergency call came, and my mother and father had to go to be with my brother, who was very ill. After my parents left, I went to a friend who didn’t have a mother and whose father wasn’t well. I knew that he wouldn’t have a Thanksgiving dinner, so I invited him to our home for dinner. I got out Mother’s best linen, crystal, and silverware, and I set a table that was fit for a king. After our dinner together, I sent some food home for my friend’s father. I was trying to follow my parents’ example to serve others.
“I have a great respect for nature, and I have always loved animals and birds and have tried to protect them. Once when we were youngsters, a friend of mine and I were riding double on a horse along the railroad track. Suddenly I spied an owl that had a broken wing and couldn’t do anything but run along the ground. I slid off the horse, caught the owl, and got back on the horse behind my friend. I remember that it was a beautiful white horse with a long mane. We started galloping along the railroad track, and the owl started to wiggle. It stuck its claws into that horse, causing it to jump straight into the air and make a big kick. I rolled off backward, but somehow I kept my hold on the owl, and it never got away. We took the owl home, put splints on its broken wing, and turned it loose.
“My wife and I have had a wonderful experience in the Pacific Islands. One day we went to a little Tahitian island on a boat, and as the boat pulled up to the dock, twenty-seven children were standing on it, singing, ‘I Am A Child of God.’ I thought, What a beautiful, beautiful thing to know that children all over the world are singing the hymns of the Church and beautiful Primary songs.
“Heavenly Father loves all children. Jesus loves them, too—children of all countries, colors, and creeds.
“Live the principles of the gospel so that you can live again with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Listen to the counsel of the prophets. Stay pure and clean after your baptism. Your parents and Primary teachers will teach you the things that you should do. Listen to them and do what they tell you.”

Another friend, a girl in his ward stopped by after school to read to him. Although they had not been particularly close before his accident, now she was willing to give her time to help him. He often felt ashamed because he knew that if their roles had been reversed, he would not have been there with her.
What if she had been burned and was in the hospital? This horrible thought kept rushing through my mind. Would I be found at her bedside? I don’t think I was a bad young man. I had a job to earn money for my car and my clothes. What made me cry inside was that I knew 1 wouldn’t have been there with her. And yet such great personal service she was giving to me! I could never tell her what I felt inside, so I made this one great commitment: Along with being the most enthusiastic patient in that hospital, I would try to pay her back. When I got out of the hospital, when I could walk, when I could see, when I could do things, I would try to pay her back through service to other people.
When I got out of the hospital and tried to find people who had problems and tried to help them, I got away from my own problems and stopped dwelling on myself and wallowing in self-pity. I started learning that great lesson—what is on the inside really is most important. Beauty comes from within.