Gospel Story Finder

I spoke earlier of the Kirtland period of Church history. The years of 1836 and 1837 were as difficult as that young Church had ever faced—financially, politically, and internally. In the midst of that stress, Joseph Smith had the remarkable prophetic prompting to send some of his ablest men (ultimately the entire Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) abroad on missions. It was a bold, inspired move, one that would in the end save the Church from the perils of the day, but in the near term it imposed great burdens on the Saints—painful for those who went away and perhaps even more painful for those who stayed at home.
I quote from Elder Robert B. Thompson:
“The day appointed for the departure of the Elders to England having arrived, I [stopped at] the house of Brother [Heber C.] Kimball to ascertain when he would start [on his journey], as I expected to accompany him two or three hundred miles, intending to spend my labors in Canada that season.
“The door being partly open, I entered and felt struck with the sight which presented itself to my view. I would have retired, thinking that I was intruding, but I felt riveted to the spot. The father was pouring out his soul to … [God, pleading] that He who ‘careth for sparrows, and feedeth the young ravens when they cry’ would supply the wants of his wife and little ones in his absence. He then, like the patriarchs, and by virtue of his office, laid his hands upon their heads individually, leaving a father’s blessing upon them, … commending them to the care and protection of God, while he should be engaged preaching the Gospel in a foreign land. While thus engaged [in giving those blessings] his voice was almost lost in the sobs of those around [him], who [were trying in their youthful way to be strong but having a very hard time doing so.] … He proceeded, but his heart was too much affected to do so regularly. … He was obliged to stop at intervals, while … big tears rolled down his cheeks, an index to the feelings which reigned in his bosom. My heart was not stout enough to refrain,” said Brother Thompson. “In spite of myself I wept, and mingled my tears with theirs. At the same time I felt thankful that I had the privilege of contemplating such a scene.”

Marnie Weintz, 17, of the Copper Hills 12th Ward in West Jordan, Utah, decided to build on a 12-year friendship with Sister Rebecca Mackey, an elderly woman her mom befriended in the temple. When it came time for Marnie to pick her Choice and Accountability project for Personal Progress, she thought to reach out to Sister Mackey in a different way by sending her a thoughtful card each week. She says that sending the cards “takes discipline to be dedicated in doing it every week.”
Marnie and her family aren’t able to visit Sister Mackey too often, but they maintain their relationship through phone calls. Marnie thought that by sending cards, she could show Sister Mackey in another way that she cares. Marnie has learned that even the smallest service can make a big impact. “I’m just surprised that it’s meant so much to her. I didn’t even know if she would really want me to send them to her every week or if she would save the cards at all.”
Sister Mackey looks forward to and cherishes those weekly cards, and for Marnie, her Choice and Accountability project turned out to be more lasting than she ever thought.

My mother and I were baptized on 5 October 1997. It was such a great blessing for me. I had always felt something important was missing in my life, and I could not understand what it was. But while studying the Book of Mormon I felt that this book was true and that the Church was true. This feeling grew stronger and stronger. My faith grew too. I read the Book of Mormon every day. When the missionaries came to visit us, they asked my mother and me if we had asked the Lord if the Book of Mormon was true. I told them I did not have any doubts about the Book of Mormon. My feelings about the book were strong from the minute I started to read.
Julia Martynova,Obukhovsky Branch, St. Petersburg Russia South District

I was working the night shift at the hospital when I first heard about the gospel. Some of the workers began discussing religion one night, and of course each one thought his church was true, although each believed in different doctrines. I knew they couldn’t all be right, but I said I didn’t think it mattered which church you belonged to, as long as you believed in God and Christ.
I had been active in a protestant faith for fifteen years and tried to live all the teachings of the Bible as I understood them. One day our minister said that God did not reveal himself through prophets anymore, but only through scripture. When he said that, the Spirit spoke to me so loudly that it almost seemed as if others could hear it too and said, “That’s not true.” I didn’t know what that meant, so I didn’t mention it to anyone.
Then, in our hospital conversation, one brave nurse dared to say that the Mormon Church was true because it had a prophet at the head to guide it. “A prophet in this day and age?” I thought disdainfully, and I let her know I didn’t believe it.
“I can prove it,” she said. And she brought me a book to read—the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at what I read, and as I continued I felt a burning in my bosom just as I had when I read the Bible. When I read Moroni’s exhortation to ask God the Eternal Father if the book was true, I decided I would do just that. I never really thought that the Lord cared enough about me to let me know. I just asked because I believed in God and Jesus.
That night in a dream the Bible and the golden plates were brought before my face. The plates were shining so bright they were like the sun. I began to understand in my dream that both were true, but that the plates were more true and more pure. When I awoke it was with a testimony. Then the nurse gave me the Doctrine and Covenants to read, and when I had finished it, I knew I wanted to be a member of the church that had received so many truths in this dispensation.
I attended a Latter-day Saint service, not knowing how I would be received as a black woman in a church that was, for all I knew, all white. I went only because I knew it was true. But everyone was very friendly, warm, and loving.
I took the six missionary discussions from two lovely lady missionaries, but then my husband wouldn’t let me be baptized because he couldn’t understand the changes in my life. Now I was torn inside, knowing where Christ’s true church was, and not being able to join it. About eight months later I decided I would not attend my former church anymore. I would fast and pray and contribute to the Latter-day Saint church, even if I was never baptized.
After about a year, on a fast Sunday, my husband told me he would approve my baptism. That day and the day of my baptism were two of the happiest days of my life. I’ll always be grateful for the nurse who gave me a Book of Mormon. She started me on the path to eternal life, and I know that if I am faithful and endure to the end, I will have a place in His kingdom.

Sometimes Joby forgot things—like the time he forgot not to laugh when his brother fell down the stairs. Another time he forgot to walk straight home after school so he wouldn’t miss his four o’clock dentist appointment. But he’d had more important things on his mind that day—like stopping to catch catfish at the canal with Toby Baxter.

But what Joby didn’t forget was something he did every night before he went to bed. Something besides saying his prayers and giving Agatha, his hamster, a good-night kiss. It was something he had heard the prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball, talk about many times during general conferences. That something was keeping a daily journal.

One particular family home evening, Joby shared some of his recorded thoughts and feelings with his family. I was so touched by what we heard (even though it was the second time for me) that I asked Joby if he would share some of his thoughts and feelings with children all over the world.

Joby’s eyes grew as round as July melons. “Wow!” he exclaimed.

Here are a few entries from Joby’s daily journal:
March 8 I ran around the block with my dad. He got tired. Old people do that.
March 14 I like a girl named Jessica.
March 18 I sang in sacrament meeting on a Primary program.
March 23 My girl friend said I could chase her around.
March 27 I was sick today.
April 2 We watched a television show about Jesus, and I saw my dad crying when they hung Jesus on the cross.
April 11 I got angry feelings when my girl friend said she liked some other boy better than me. Then I gave her one of my best marbles, and she let me sit by by her. I gave her another of my best marbles, and she said she likes me best. My dad said, “That’s using your marbles.”
April 17 I did the family home evening lesson. Mom and Dad helped me.
April 18 I made a new friend. His name is Chad. He has lots of trucks and cool stuff like that.
April 26 Mom’s real busy with her new Church job. I saw her praying about it.
April 27 It isn’t the same when the baby-sitter tucks me in.
May 16 I can’t remember any stuff that happened today.
May 17 My dad pulled me around the block in the wagon. It was tied to his old bike. I love my dad.
May 22 I got hit in the head with a rock and had to have four stitches. A girl at school did it. Not my girl friend. If it had been her, I would have taken my marbles back.
May 23 Today was hot and windy.
May 24 I passed kindergarten. I guess I’m sort of getting grown-up. But I still like marbles and stuff.
June 1 I played and played and played.
June 2 I played cowboys and got shot lots of times.
June 10 Today we went to church. Sometimes I think I don’t want to go, but I know that is where Heavenly Father wants me to be. I just know.
June 12 We went to a cabin in the mountains. We fed the birds and squirrels and ran around a lot. It got dark, and we heard strange sounds, but that was OK because Mom said Heavenly Father was close-by.
June 14 The new grass in the backyard is starting to come out of the ground and be green.
June 16 I don’t know about today.
June 18 I’m glad school doesn’t mess up summer.
June 19 I played and then I got tired, so night came.
June 20 We went to the canal. The water was going by. The big spider was still there, and I almost caught a water bug.
June 21 Dad paid me a penny for each grasshopper I took out of the garden because he doesn’t want to hurt them. He says all of God’s creatures have feelings.
June 22 I rode on Nathan’s Big Wheel because I still can’t ride my bike. I just fall off better than I stay on.
June 23 My dad says I’m getting big too fast. I can’t help it. Mom makes me eat all my asparagus and stuff.
June 24 Church day. And so that was what it was.
June 26 We went to Uncle David’s and played on the trampoline, and then we came home because you can’t jump on it very well in the dark.
June 27 I let my grasshoppers go. I think they were homesick.
June 30 I watched my red ants making tunnels. Heavenly Father must have good eyes to make such tiny things. I can’t even see how their legs go on.
July 1 I’m still watching my ants.
July 5 Great-Grandma’s birthday. She’s real old today.
July 6 I learned how to ride my bike. Hurray!
July 8 Church day. So that is where we were.
July 12 Went to the mountains with Dad. We got rocks and slept up there. It got real dark and cold.
July 24 We went to a big parade. It was about the Mormon pioneers. A clown painted my nose red. I guess maybe he needed a friend.
July 27 My hamster’s leg broke.
July 31 I rode my bike. I like the way the wind feels on me.
Aug. 13 We put some pretty flowers on Grandpa’s grave. I miss him.
Aug. 14 I like the woods at Grandma’s. There are shadows and quiet places. Today I saw a squirrel there and thought about Grandpa.
Aug. 18 I lost my hamster. She’s in our house someplace.
Aug. 20 I prayed I would get my hamster back, and I did.
Aug. 26 Dad gave me a father’s blessing because I went into first grade today. It made me feel good.
Aug. 29 I kind of like school—kind of.
Aug. 30 I guess I like to play best.
Aug. 31 I got home early today. It feels good at home.
Sept. 10 I caught a spider. It likes dead flies best, so that is what it got.
Sept. 14 Some things I don’t like are cauliflower and asparagus and naps and kids who push me around. All of them happened today, so I’m glad today is over. Oh! I almost forgot to kiss Agatha goodnight.
Sept. 24 My dad told us a story about a robot named Mister Green and a kid who made him and some fun stuff they did. Then he talked about some things the prophet does. Dad said he is one of the most special people and that we should read his words because he talks for Jesus. I would like to meet him someday and shake his hand and always do the things he says.
Joby is ready to start a second journal. “One day,” he said, “I’m going to have a lot of neat stuff to show my children, and maybe someday even Heavenly Father might like to read it. I know He’s real busy, but if He has time, He can just come over, because I’ll be living close to where He is.”

For instance, consider my friend Bob and his watchcare over an elder who smoked. Nearly every morning, Bob would see a fellow member of his quorum and pray with him to help him overcome smoking and then give him a pack of Lifesavers or package of gum to help him during the day. Later, Bob would see him and his wife with hands linked across the temple altar, sealed for eternity. What was it that changed and helped to bring this all about? The gospel and “the heart and a willing mind.”

Squeezing the last box into the back of my station wagon, I slammed the door shut and checked my watch. I was on schedule. My last batch of exams was graded, and the car was packed. If I left immediately, I would have to drive only the final hour or so of my trip to Louisville, Kentucky, in the dark.
The last two weeks had been long and unbearably dull in South Bend, Indiana. My husband, Mark, a law student, had already started his summer internship in Louisville. But as a high school teacher in South Bend, I had spent two more weeks finishing the school year before I could join him.
Relieved to be on the road, I drove fast, but about an hour into my five-hour trip, I began to think about Sara and her daughter, Betsy. We had first met in Relief Society nine months earlier. Standing in the back with a baby in her arms, she had introduced herself saying, “Hi, I’m Sara. I’m from Utah. And this is Betsy. She’s from heaven.” I laughed, liking her immediately. Just like me she was the wife of a law student, and I was pleased when she was called to be my visiting teacher.
About a month before my departure, Betsy had suffered a seizure. Tests revealed a large brain tumor that appeared almost inoperable, but doctors insisted that without an operation Betsy had no chance of survival.
My heart ached for Sara. Along with the rest of our ward and stake, we had fasted and prayed for a miracle. Betsy underwent brain surgery and amazed the doctors, who had not expected her to survive the operation. Still, only part of the tumor had been removed, and Betsy progressed slowly. Her parents, meanwhile, faced impossible decisions on how to treat the remaining tumor without destroying her infant body.
The operation had taken place in Indianapolis, the halfway point in my journey to Louisville. Sara was still there with Betsy, while her husband had returned to South Bend to take the final exams he had missed.
I checked my watch. I could think of plenty of reasons to drive through without stopping, but none of them did anything to silence the voice inside telling me I needed to stop. So I pulled off the freeway and called the hospital from a pay phone. My call was directed to Betsy’s room, and Sara answered. I could hear in her voice that she was happy I had called. She would be thrilled to have me stop by. I felt the peace and relief of having followed the Spirit’s prompting.
As I drove toward the hospital I realized I had my violin wedged between a suitcase and a box of books in the backseat. With a measure of guilt I remembered that I had not touched it in weeks, even though I had studied violin from the age of three. Music had always been a source of happiness in my life.
The thought came that I should take my violin with me and play for Betsy. Normally I would never have considered the idea. It seemed a little arrogant to arrive unannounced with my violin and subject all those within listening range to an impromptu recital. But I quickly recognized the feeling that accompanied this thought as the same Spirit that had prompted me to make the visit.
When I arrived, Sara was weary but happy to see me. Betsy had a large tube in her head and another in her throat. As I looked at her tiny body and then into her eyes, I wondered how much pain she had suffered and how much more she would have to endure.
Sara was thrilled that I had brought my violin. For more than an hour I played hymns, Primary songs, classical music, and anything she requested that I could play by ear. As I played, Betsy stared at me, wide-eyed. Sara insisted it was the most alert Betsy had been since her surgery and was eager for me to keep playing. Several patients—children and their parents—stopped by the room and listened for a while.
Time passed quickly without my noticing. And as I stood at the foot of the bed playing “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301), I was overwhelmed with the intensity of Heavenly Father’s love for this sick little girl. I knew as I played that He loved Betsy dearly and wanted her to find relief from her pain through the music.
As I left the hospital in the dark that night to complete my trip to Louisville, I remembered the words from my patriarchal blessing that I had not thought about for some time. I had been blessed with musical talent and was expected to develop it so I could bring joy to others.
Through Betsy I was reminded of the Lord’s purpose in giving us gifts. “All these gifts come from God, for the benefit of the children of God” (D&C 46:26). By listening to the Spirit I was given the opportunity to share my talent as the Lord intended and to feel the tremendous compassion He has for His children.

Then one day in the spring, we found Bimbo stretched out in the backyard as though he were dead. Does he have scarlet fever? I wondered. On the way to see the veterinarian, I remember praying as hard as I could that Bimbo wouldn’t die. The veterinarian told us our dog had been poisoned and would have to stay in the hospital for several days. Later when we took Bimbo home, we gave him love and attention and continued to pray for him. Our prayers were answered.

I was not happy at all as a boy, but things changed when two American men knocked on our door.
As a 14-year-old, I was curious about these two Americans who spoke Japanese and introduced themselves as missionaries. After they left, my father handed me a book they had just given him called the Book of Mormon. I started reading it and felt something special, but I didn’t know what it was. A month later, I finished it and placed it on my bookshelf.
Three years later, I met two missionaries at a railway station in Tokyo. They invited me to listen to their message. I brought my Book of Mormon to our next meeting.
They began the conversation by saying, “We would like to share an important book with you.”
I took the Book of Mormon from my bag and asked, “Is it this book? I’ve already read it.”
They were stunned. Eventually, I was taught the gospel, and the missionaries encouraged me to ask God with a sincere heart if the Book of Mormon is true (see Moroni 10:4–5).
One night I thought about God, the Church, the Book of Mormon, and how I could be happy and felt something warm inside. Then I decided to be baptized.
After joining the Church, I continued reading the Book of Mormon. One day while reading, I received a distinct thought about my father’s medication for high blood pressure. I learned more about it and found out that a side effect could cause severe depression. At my suggestion, my father asked his doctor to change his medicine. His depression has been gone ever since.
The more I read, the more I believed that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I became happier and wanted to share the truth with others.
My parents opposed my going on a mission and eventually kicked me out of their house, but I was determined. I served in Tennessee, USA. As a Latter-day Saint missionary from a Buddhist country serving in the Bible Belt of the United States, I was often asked how I could believe in the Book of Mormon. I testified that I had prayed about its truthfulness and received an answer that it is true.
After my mission, I finished school and joined a large company in Japan that transferred me to several places around the world, including Myanmar, England, and Ireland. Everywhere I went, I shared my testimony of the Book of Mormon with as many people as possible, from a taxi driver to a state minister.
The Book of Mormon has been—and always will be—the anchor of my life and my faith in Jesus Christ. Whenever I am overwhelmed by adversity, I read the Book of Mormon and overcome my difficulties with spiritual support from Heavenly Father and our Savior. The Book of Mormon blesses me every day of my life.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

During the second match of his senior season, middle blocker Mark Fletcher of Desert Vista High School in Phoenix, Arizona, leaped high into the air, just as he had in so many volleyball games before. But this time when he landed, something went horribly wrong.
“You could hear the bone snap,” he recalls. “There was no question my leg was broken.” He had suffered a near compound fracture of the tibia and shattered the fibula in his leg. The next two weeks were filled with heartache, both in the hospital and then recovering at home. “I kept thinking about the years of practice and training, the hopes for a winning season,” he says. “It was tough.”
His father read two scriptures to him, Doctrine & Covenants 121:7 and 122:7, and told him that this would give him experience and be for his good. Mark also remembered reading in 2 Nephi 2:11 that there must be opposition in all things. “I figured something good could come out of this, so I might as well figure out what it was.” The answer was to focus on helping others rather than wondering why he had been hurt himself.
Coach Ryan Tolman, who is also a Latter-day Saint, kept Mark practicing with the team daily and assigned him to work with younger players, who could benefit from his experience. Call it service of a different kind. Team members adjusted by playing in different positions; Mark adjusted by offering encouragement. Even though the season didn’t turn out as great as everyone had hoped, Desert Vista still qualified for the playoffs.
As the last home match approached, Coach Tolman asked Mark to serve the first serve. With a pin in his leg but strong enough to participate, Mark practiced over and over. “I didn’t want to just hit it into the net,” he explains. “I was praying the whole time.”
When the game began, he limped to the line and then hit the ball so precisely the other team couldn’t return it. The coach left him in. Mark couldn’t move around the court, so his teammates had to cover balls that came his way. With the score 9-0, Mark finally lost service and left to a standing ovation. He limped to the bench and continued to cheer for his team.
Three weeks later, Desert Vista High School won the state championship, the lowest-seeded team ever to do so. In the official photo, teammates asked Mark to hold the trophy. Then at the annual awards ceremony, the coach announced a new award to be given each year in Mark’s honor: the Teammate Award, presented to the player who exemplifies courage, dedication, and team spirit.
Today, Mark is serving full-time in the Brazil Manaus Mission. “What I learned in volleyball was that the scriptures are true,” he concludes. “Without misery, you don’t know happiness. So if life hands you something bitter, look for a way to make it sweet.”
Mark Fletcher and his brother, Matt, were featured in the article “Brothers” in the May 2007 New Era.

In addition to this Church work, Joseph Fielding Smith diligently assumed the responsibilities of husband and father. In April 1898, when he was twenty-two years old, he married Louie Emyla Shurtliff. After being married for only a year, he was ordained a seventy by his father on 12 May 1899, and left the next day for the mission field. Surely, making such a personal sacrifice was no easier for Elder Smith to do then than it would be for us to do now. He accepted his call, labored in the Nottingham Conference for two years, and returned home in June 1901.

“I’m sorry, but no one is allowed in the garden area.” The tall Franciscan monk spoke with a firm voice in answer to my request to photograph inside the Garden of Gethsemane. Determined to return another day and try again, I walked down the gradual slope of the Mount of Olives and crossed the top end of Kidron Valley on the way to the old city of Jerusalem.
A paved highway runs down this upper end of the valley; it rises and winds around the base of the Mount of Olives on its way to Jericho. Gethsemane sits to one side of the road, next to the hustle of buses and taxis and donkeys braying with heavy loads of goods on the way to markets of the Old City.
Mount of Olives hillside
Gethsemane is just a simple grove of trees in a garden on the side of a rocky hill. It is a quiet place, except for the occasional tourist groups and hawking peddlers, and the nearby traffic.
Yet, in this grove of ancient trees one of the most important events in the history of mankind took place. In this little garden the Savior agonized as he suffered for the sins of all the world. He made it possible for us to return to the presence of God. That means that if we repent and live in sweet obedience to the Father’s will, we will not be required to pay the awful debt for the sins we have committed; Jesus did that in Gethsemane.
An olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane
Leaving Gethsemane, you can easily see old Jerusalem above terraced hillsides. Next to the wall of the city, Arab shepherd boys often bring their sheep and goats to graze in the grass around the Moslem gravestones. Seeing the sheep silhouetted against the sky, it is easy to imagine what it was like here during the Savior’s lifetime.
Jerusalem seen from the Mount of Olives
Further up the hill, the road branches to one side, going up to Saint Stephen’s Gate and the base of the ancient temple mount. Here you can look back at Gethsemane from above. On this particular afternoon, the garden lay half in shadow with the sun glistening in several light-filled corners. A few Arab buses careened noisily around the serpentine curves of the highway below, but the air seemed somehow quiet. There in the stillness of my thoughts, I wondered about the little procession of disciples meandering across the valley toward Gethsemane, the Savior leading them in calm dignity as he approached the terrors of that incredible night.
Darkness falls swiftly in Jerusalem, and soon the blackness of the night was all around me. There was a slight chill in the evening air as I hurried home.
St. Stephen’s Gate in the wall of Jerusalem
Several days later I arrived after closing time, and the great iron doors to the garden were shut and locked. After much persistent bell ringing, a monk came to the gate and kindly allowed me to enter the empty courtyard. We talked for a minute, and then he surprised me with, “Would you like to go into the garden area?” Taking a handforged key from his belt, he opened the small iron gate that led into the garden.
I wandered along the flower-lined gravel paths, next to the great patriarch olive trees. The color of the red flowers reminded me of the blood that came from every pore of the Savior’s body as he suffered here. The old gnarled and pitted trunks of the olive trees spoke of the struggle and pain of spirit that Jesus felt in this garden. Pondering these things, I didn’t notice the darkness gathering around the garden.
A path in the Garden of Gethsemane
Reverently and privately knelt for a moment, there in Gethsemane, to thank God for the blessing of his Son. The trees were dark and gray as I left them. But looking up toward the city I could see one of its radiant sunsets. Jerusalem, the “City of Gold,” the hope of ages past, present, and future because of the atonement that took place here.

In my home I learned to work hard. My family used a system we called the “diligence list.” At the beginning of the month, we received a list of various chores, such as doing the dishes, caring for the horses, and so on. We checked off the chores as we completed them, and then at the end of the month, we were given an amount of money for our diligent work based on how many check marks we had on the chart. From this I have learned to work diligently and to be careful with money.

Sam pedaled his bike as fast as he could up the hill. He leaned forward. The air whipped through his hair. His friend Liam pedaled next to him.
“Getting tired?” Liam said.
“No way!” Sam said.
Their friend Eric was already at the park at the top of the hill.
“Komm schon! Come on!” he yelled.
Sam and Liam reached the top of the hill. The boys parked their bikes and sat under a tree.
Liam picked up a rock and threw it. “I’m bored.” There weren’t many places to go in their small village in Switzerland.
“Me too,” Eric said. He scratched the dirt with a stick.
“We could keep biking,” Sam said.
Liam scrunched up his face. “That’s all we ever do.”
“Let’s do something funny!” Eric said. He hopped up and walked over to the bike rack, where lots of bikes were parked. Sam and Liam followed him.
Sam’s stomach felt tight. Sometimes what Eric and Liam thought was funny wasn’t funny to him. Eric and Liam liked to tease other kids and say rude things in class. But maybe this time would be different.
Besides, there weren’t many boys in Sam’s class. If he wasn’t friends with Eric and Liam, who would he be friends with?
“Let’s take the valve caps off all the tires,” Eric whispered. “We can hide them by the tree.” He knelt down by a shiny red bike and twisted a little plastic cap off one of the tires.
Liam laughed. “Yes! That will be so funny.”
Sam sighed. Nope. This time wasn’t different. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we should just go.”
Eric shoved Sam’s arm. “Aw, come on!” he said. “No one is even looking.”
“They’re just little parts,” Liam said. “No one will even notice they’re gone.”
Sam tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. Taking the valve caps wouldn’t ruin the bikes. He shrugged and nodded.
The three boys quickly took all the valve caps off the bike tires and ran back to the tree. They hid all the caps under a rock and sat down to watch the bikes. Liam and Eric were giggling.
Soon a man walked up, unlocked his bike, and rode off.
“See? He didn’t even notice,” Liam said.
But I did, Sam thought.
The rest of the day, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about the valve caps. He wished he could give them back, but he had no way to find the bikes’ owners. He knelt down and told Heavenly Father about it.
“I feel awful,” Sam said. “I wish I had never done it. Please forgive me, Heavenly Father.”
The next day, Sam and his friends rode their bikes to the park again.
Once again, Eric said, “Let’s take the valve caps!”
Once again, Liam agreed.
Sam remembered his prayer. And this time, he felt a little braver.
“I don’t think we should,” he said.
“Why not?” Liam said, frowning. “No one even noticed yesterday.”
“I wouldn’t want someone messing with my bike,” Sam said. Before either boy could answer, he hopped on his bike. “Race you to the bakery!” he yelled. Then he started pedaling as fast as he could.
Eric and Liam grabbed their bikes too.
“No fair! You got a head start,” Liam called.
Sam grinned as his friends raced after him. He whispered a thank you to Heavenly Father. He felt much better.
This story took place in Switzerland.

Church basketball just wasn’t for me. After all, the Church was five miles away, I had no car, and besides, there was a chance to play on the local commercial league team with some fellows who were stars in high school. They always had some neat social activities, and besides, that’s where the action was. A party after every game!
Stan was captain of the ward team and always seemed friendly when I saw him at priesthood meeting a couple of times a month. Stan had an old model “A” Ford and lots of persistence. During those days of indecision, I’d find him parked in front of our house as I arrived home from school. He seemed willing to wait as long as necessary for me to eat, change, and then go off with him to the church for practice or a game. Stan’s mind was made up—I was going to play on the Church team that season, and play I did. The real victory was not in the regional championship, but rather in the lifelong friendship of those who were my teammates and the wholesome life-style that they provided for me. This has never changed since. Their influence was a significant factor in my preparation for a mission, a temple marriage, and the most precious thing in my life, the Church as a total involvement rather than just the occasional meeting as convenience lent itself. Thanks, Stan!

My mom gave a family home evening lesson on loving our enemies. She taught me and my brothers and sisters what it means to love those who “despitefully use you, and persecute you” (Matt. 5:44).
I remembered that lesson the next day at school when I noticed that a bigger boy who was always trying to bully or tease me didn’t have a lunch. My sister had helped me pack a huge lunch the night before, and I had two sandwiches. So I took my extra sandwich and some other things in my lunch and offered them to the boy. I was happy that he took the extra food, and he seemed glad that I had offered it to him. He is not mean to me anymore, and I am much happier at school.
I am glad that I listened to the family home evening lesson. My mom and dad are, too. They said that they are proud of me for listening to the Spirit and doing a kind and brave thing even though it seemed a little scary.

When President Russell M. Nelson worked as a surgeon, many young people asked him how long it takes to become a medical doctor. He told them that after four years of undergraduate work, they needed four more years of medical school and then another five years to become a specialist.
“That’s too long for me!” some responded.
Then President Nelson would tell them: “Preparation for your career is not too long if you know what you want to do with your life. How old will you be thirteen years from now if you don’t pursue your education? Just as old, whether or not you become what you want to be!”5

Matt scowled into the mirror. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks looked bigger than ever. In fact, his whole face seemed to be one big freckle. “Mom,” he asked, “why do I have so many freckles? You and Dad don’t have any.”
“I did when I was your age. So did my father. And his father before him.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen pictures of them. Your great-grandfather had so many freckles that people called him ‘Red’ when he was your age. His name was Matthew too.”
“Oh, great,” Matt muttered.
“He was a great man,” Mother chided. “My father used to tell me wonderful stories about him.”
But Matt didn’t want to hear that. He just wanted to get rid of about fifty thousand freckles.
“Your great-great-aunt Emily is coming tomorrow. She could tell you a lot more about him. He was her brother.”
“Can she tell me how to get rid of freckles?”
Mom ruffled his hair. “Your freckles won’t last forever.”
Matt grumbled his way through breakfast. When he learned he’d have to give up ball practice to come home to meet his aunt, he grumbled even louder.
“Your aunt wants to see you,” his mother said in the tone she used when she wasn’t happy with him. “Besides, she has something special for you.”
Matt mumbled an apology and slid from his chair. He wanted to rub lemon juice over his face. He’d read in a magazine that lemon juice faded freckles.
Thirty minutes later, he looked in the mirror in disgust. His freckles were still there. If anything, they were more noticeable than ever.
His mood didn’t improve any when he got to school.
“Hey, Matt, you look like you were swallowed by a freckle,” his friend Josh teased.
“Yeah,” Sam added. “A big freckle!”
“Lay off,” Matt said.
By the time school was over, Matt was tired of being teased. He didn’t really feel like meeting Aunt Emily or anyone else, either. But she was there waiting when he walked into the kitchen.
“You look just like my brother Matthew did when he was eleven,” Aunt Emily said.
In spite of himself, Matt was curious. “I do?”
Aunt Emily’s lined face crinkled into a smile. “He had the same stubborn chin, the same blue eyes, and the same freckles.”
Matt scowled. “Did he hate them too?”
Her smile deepened. “He sure did—at first.”
Intrigued, Matt sat down at the kitchen table. He said “thanks” when his mother placed four peanut butter cookies in front of him, but he was more interested in what Aunt Emily had to say. “He didn’t always hate them?”
She shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they helped him get the lead in the school play. He tried out for the part of Tom Sawyer and got it because of his freckles.”
“But I don’t want to be Tom Sawyer,” Matt said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a professional ball player or president of a company or something.”
Aunt Emily shoved a package toward him. “Here.”
Eagerly Matt unwrapped the brown paper, then stared in disappointment at an old leather-bound book. “What’s this?”
“It’s your great-grandfather’s journal. He started keeping it when he was just about your age.”
Matt opened it. Pasted inside the front cover was an old-fashioned photograph of a young boy. Even the faded tones of the picture couldn’t hide the freckles scattered across his face. “This is my great-grandfather?” Matt asked.
Aunt Emily nodded. “Does he look familiar?”
Matt didn’t answer. His own face stared back at him.
That evening, he excused himself after dinner and went upstairs to his room. He started flipping through the journal. He stopped at an entry dated June 15, 1911: “Worked in the fields today. It was hot! Earned $1.50.”
Matt kept reading. His eyes drooped, but he couldn’t put the book down.
“Aunt Emily, do you have any more of my great-grandfather’s journals?” he asked the next morning.
“I sure do. I had a feeling that you might be interested in them.” She motioned to him to follow her to the bedroom, where she opened her suitcase. Inside were eight journals—seven brown and one black. She picked up the black one and handed it to Matt. “This one is very special,” she said.
Matt looked inside. The pages were blank. “It’s empty.”
She smiled. “I know. You get to fill them.”
He wanted to look through the other journals right away, but he had to hurry off to school. After gulping his juice, he folded a piece of toast and jammed it into a napkin and ran to catch the bus.
His fifth grade teacher assigned a report due the next day. “Choose someone you admire and tell us about him.”
The other kids started talking about whom they would choose. Josh chose Abraham Lincoln. Sam picked Thomas Edison. Mary chose Babe Didrikson Zaharias. Matt frowned. All the good names seemed to be taken. But by that evening, Matt knew whom he was going to give his report on.
As he stood before the class the following day, he rubbed his wet palms against his jeans and took a deep breath. “My great-grandfather was never president. He never invented anything. He never even finished school. But he was a great man. When he was twelve, his father died. So he dropped out of school to help support his family. He hoed beets for only a dollar-fifty a day. When he was nineteen, he went on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
By the end of his report, Matt was flushed. “I’m proud that I look like my great-grandfather. I hope I can be the kind of man he was.”
The class applauded.
After school, Matt hurried to spend more time talking with Aunt Emily about his great-grandfather Matthew. He also wanted to write in his own journal about his class report. Before going to bed, he looked in the mirror. His customary scowl had been replaced by a smile as he studied his freckles. He decided he didn’t mind them so much, after all.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake