Gospel Story Finder

Poao and Atalina Ahhow met while they were both single teachers at Sauniatu. After they were married, they decided to go to BYU—Hawaii Campus and get additional schooling. Atalina said she learned about being a good mother and teaching a family from watching the young people work on the various projects.
“I also learned that you need to check after a project is done. If it isn’t right, do it over,” she said.
Her husband, Poao, said that he learned leadership skills, and once he caught the vision of doing the impossible, he felt he could go away for additional schooling so he could become a better teacher. “I learned that sometimes when the work is very hard, if you make a joke and smile, it seems easier.”
Poao and Atalina struggled at BYU—Hawaii because they didn’t have much money. “We had learned to sacrifice while at Sauniatu, and the Lord blessed us for it. When we needed money to do our washing, we would visit a pool near the temple. Every time we needed a quarter for the washing machine, it was waiting for us in the pool. Sometimes more was there, but we only took enough to do our washing. When we didn’t need money, we never saw money in the pool. This is one way the Lord helped us,” Poao said.

Kate walked into the kitchen and saw Mom rolling out dough.
“I’m making Easter rolls,” Mom said. “Want to help?”
“Yes!” said Kate. She wondered what Easter rolls would look like. Would they be shaped like bunnies? Or colored eggs? Kate ran to the counter and looked at the bowl of marshmallows Mom had set by the dough. Were they going to decorate the rolls with marshmallows?
Mom showed Kate how to wrap a square of dough around a marshmallow and dip the roll in butter and cinnamon sugar.
Kate picked up her own piece of dough and a marshmallow. It would probably taste delicious, but what did it have to do with Easter?
“Today is the Friday before Easter,” Mom said as she dipped a wrapped-up marshmallow in the melted butter. “Many people call it Good Friday.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
“Because it’s the day Jesus Christ showed how much He loves us. He suffered and died for our sins. Because of what He did, we can repent and be forgiven.”
Mom handed Kate a marshmallow to eat. “That’s why we can live with Heavenly Father again someday. So today really is a ‘good Friday,’ don’t you think?”
Kate nodded as she dipped her last roll in cinnamon sugar. “Done!”
“Now we have to let these rise,” Mom said. She put plastic wrap over the stuffed rolls and slid them into the fridge. “After Jesus died, His body was put in the tomb, and His spirit went to heaven. Do you know what happened then?”
“He visited people in the spirit world?” Kate asked.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Then, on Sunday morning after He died …”
“He came alive again!” said Kate.
“Yes!” said Mom. “It’s called the Resurrection. Women visited Jesus’s tomb and found it empty. Angels told them, ‘He is not here: for He is risen.’ Because of that, all of us will live again after we die.”
Kate helped Mom wipe sugar and flour from the counter. “Each of the rolls we made is like a little tomb,” Mom said. “And on Easter Sunday, we’ll bake them.”
Kate wondered how they would turn out. She could hardly wait to eat one!
On Sunday morning Kate woke up to the smell of cinnamon baking. She hurried to the kitchen just in time to see Mom pull a tray of rolls out of the oven.
“Remember how we filled these?” Mom asked as she handed Kate a warm roll. “Break it open and take a look!”
Kate broke open her roll and looked inside. “It’s empty!”
“Just like the tomb on Easter morning,” Mom said. “Always remember that Jesus lives. And He loves you.”
Kate took a big bite out of her roll. She was grateful for Mom and this tasty treat, grateful for Jesus, and grateful for Easter morning!

My mind goes back to Germany some 64 years ago when from the land of Zion came two fine young missionaries, Brother Wayne Kartchner and Brother Otto Andre. My wife and I were just newlyweds at that time, and they taught us the gospel. They came very often to our home. We were good prospects to them, and they liked us very well. And they liked my wife’s good cooking too.
So we soon were led to the waters of baptism, and on a cold night in 1923 we were baptized in a big river near the city.
I came to America thereafter, and I can truly say I love this great land of opportunity. Wonderful opportunities lie in store for all of you. Just keep the laws of God. Be on his side, and he will bless you.

An early-morning seminary student, Cameron K. was used to starting his day in a spiritual way. “Seminary gives me that spiritual boost for the day. I wanted to get that boost,” Cameron says. And summer vacation was no exception. When the temple baptistry opened each summer morning at 6:30 a.m., Cameron was there.
Every morning, Tuesday through Saturday, Cameron left his home before 6:00 a.m., his bike lights flashing in the dark as he pedaled the five-mile route to the temple. “The streets were quiet. It felt peaceful,” Cameron says. Since he was riding a single-speed bike, enduring the initial uphill climb was his biggest challenge. “Whenever I would crest the top of the hill, I would start looking to see where the temple was. I was able to see a glimpse of the angel Moroni,” he says. “It helped me focus on the temple.”
While doing baptisms for the dead, Cameron tried to focus on the people. “Sometimes I’d think about a person as I was doing an ordinance for him, trying to feel better connected with him. There were a few times when a certain name would be read for the baptism and I kind of knew that person was happy his work was being done.”
“One time when I was leaving the temple,” says Cameron, “the temple president was at the front door. He reached out to me and said, ‘Thank you for coming.’ It made me really want to come back. It made me realize that it really is a huge work that we do in the temple. It made me want to be even more a part of it.”
By summer’s end, Cameron had made over 40 round trips to the temple, biking over 400 miles.

It was late August. There were no clouds, only a white-hot sun in a colorless sky. Elder Rowan and his companion walked out of the sun into the shade of a maple tree. The leaves on the tree were curled in from the heat and wilted. It was hot in the shade. He ran his hand along his moist neck. They were close to the coast, and the air was humid. The heat seemed to press down on him. He opened a black folder and read:
247 Lincoln St.
Mrs. Demart
placed one Book of Mormon
Aug. 23rd.
He looked at the numbers on the house, 247 Lincoln Street.
“This is it.”
Elder Anderson nodded. “It’s your door.”
He rang the bell and waited. Elder Anderson straightened his tie. A tall, dark haired woman answered and Elder Rowan smiled.
“Good afternoon.”
The woman smiled politely. “Yes?”
“I’m Elder Rowan and this is Elder Anderson,” he said. “We talked to you about a week ago.”
“Oh yes. I remember. You loaned me a book.”
She turned and disappeared into the room and returned carrying a Book of Mormon.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to read in it.”
She handed the book to Elder Rowan.
Elder Rowan felt his throat tighten and cleared it. He ran his thumb along the edge of the book. How many times had this happened in the last six months? How can I get her, get any of the people in this town, to understand? he thought.
“This book tells of a visit the Savior made to the people of ancient America,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t read it. I’m just not interested. I have my own religion.” She smiled and closed the door.
At least she’s honest about it, he thought. Many people take the book without ever intending to read it and either throw it away or leave it untouched in some bookcase.
“Well, that’s the last referral.” He looked at Elder Anderson and then at his watch. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”
Elder Anderson looked down at his watch. “We can still get in an hour of door contacting.”
“It’s too hot now,” Elder Rowan answered. “Maybe when it cools off.”
Elder Anderson was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” he said.
The apartment was hot, cooler than being outside but still hot. Elder Rowan sank back into a chair. Elder Anderson took a pitcher of cold water from the refrigerator and stirred in some frozen lemonade. He poured the lemonade into two glasses and handed Elder Rowan one.
“We’ve got to keep trying,” he said.
Elder Rowan nodded. “Maybe, when it gets cooler.”
It seemed hopeless. For the last six months they had knocked on nearly every door in the town with no success, nothing, not even a good discussion. Elder Rowan loosened his tie. He felt empty. He had always dreamed of going on a mission, and now he was on it and nothing was happening.
Elder Anderson set his glass down. “I’ll go check the mail,” he said.
He disappeared into the hall and returned holding a white envelope. “It’s for you.”
Elder Rowan looked at it. It had the mission home letterhead stamped on it. He opened it. It was a transfer notice effective the next day.
“It’s a transfer notice,” he said and smiled.
“Where to?” Elder Anderson asked.
“North Lubeck.”
“That’s a good area. They do a lot of baptizing down there.”
Elder Rowan smiled again. “Yeah, I know.”
“You’ll want to say some good-byes tonight, I guess?”
Elder Rowan nodded.
“I’ll fix some sandwiches, and we can get started.”
Elder Anderson cracked eggs into a frying pan and spread mayonnaise on slices of bread. Elder Rowan sank back in the chair, putting his feet up, watching. The transfer was what he had wanted, but he still felt empty. The past six months, half a year of his life and one quarter of his mission, seemed to have been wasted. It wasn’t that he hadn’t worked hard, because he had. It was just that they had had no success.
“It’s ready,” Elder Anderson said, dropping a pickle on a plate with an egg sandwich.
The combination of the scrambled egg sandwich and sweet pickle and sour lemonade tasted good. Elder Rowan hadn’t realized how hungry he had been. He was eating the second half of his sandwich when someone knocked on the door. Elder Anderson opened it. A short, sun-browned man stood in the doorway holding a hat in both hands. His hands were large and bent and cracked with deep black lines. They were strong hands. The man smiled broadly, revealing an uneven row of teeth. His eyes sparkled.
“Do Elder Thompson and Elder Rowan live here?” he asked.
Elder Rowan stood.
“I’m Elder Rowan, and this is Elder Anderson,” he said. “Elder Thompson left several months ago. What can we do for you?”
The man smiled. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn book and held it up.
“I’m in charge of the city dump,” he said. “I found this here book on the edge of one of the piles. I don’t know why, but I started reading it.” The man hesitated and rubbed his mouth with his hand. “There’s something about it I can’t explain. I just got to find out more about it and about this Joseph Smith. I was wondering if maybe you could come and tell me and my family about it sometime or if maybe we could come down to your church or something?”
“When would you like us to come?” Elder Anderson asked.
“How about tomorrow night?”
Elder Anderson smiled. “That would be great.”
The man reached out and shook both of their hands.
“I’ve got to get home now,” he said. “I live at 290 Washington Street. What time will you come?”
“Is eight o’clock okay?”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Elder Rowan and Elder Anderson stood staring at the door.
“Can you believe that?” Elder Anderson turned and looked at Elder Rowan.
“I kind of hate to leave,” Elder Rowan said. “But I think I understand now. When the pioneers crossed the plains they planted wheat along the trail that would be harvested the following year by other pioneers. Some of what we’ve planted here won’t be harvested for months or even years. I guess the important thing is just to do the work.”
He reached down and picked up a Book of Mormon.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I think we have time to knock on a few doors before it gets dark.”

As I read “The Beer Facts” in the March 1993 New Era, I couldn’t help but think back to a day when I was a caring and loving teenager. That was a time when I was president of my teachers quorum, a time I would buy gifts for my mother just because I loved her. I’m now 35 years old and a recovering alcoholic. As my wife and I strive to put our lives in order, I wonder whatever became of the young man I once was. What happened to my dreams of becoming a pilot? What happened to the spiritual growth in my life? That all ended the day I started “drinking for fun.” Through the wonderful law of repentance, I have a chance to gain forgiveness for my past mistakes. As my experiences show, following the Lord is the only way to true happiness.
Name WithheldUtah

How well I remember the challenges confronting the youth in the ward over which I once presided.
One evening a lovely teenage girl came to the office with her boyfriend to talk things over with me. The two of them were very much in love, and temptation was beginning to make its inroad.
As we counseled together, my young friends each made a pledge to the other to resist temptation and keep uppermost in their minds the goal of a temple marriage. I suggested a course of action to follow and then felt impressed to say: “If you ever find yourselves in a position of compromise and need additional strength, you call me regardless of the hour.”
Early one morning at one o’clock, the telephone rang and a voice said: “Bishop, this is Nancy. Remember how you asked me to call if I found myself being tempted? Well, Bishop, I’m in that situation.” I asked where she was, and she described one of the more popular moon-watching spots in the Salt Lake Valley. She and her fiancé had walked to a nearby phone booth to make the call. The setting wasn’t ideal for providing counsel, but the need was great and the young couple was receptive.
Months later, when the mailman delivered her wedding announcement to our home and Sister Monson read, “Mr. and Mrs. __________ request the pleasure of your company at the wedding reception of their daughter, Nancy,” she sighed, “Thank heaven! No more 1:00 A.M. telephone calls.” When I noticed the small print at the bottom which read, “Married in the Salt Lake Temple,” I said silently, “Thank heaven for the strength of Latter-day Saint youth!”
Choose your friends with caution.

I would like to share two experiences while presiding in the Ogden Utah Temple. One day while watching individuals enter into one of the endowment rooms in the temple, I noticed a very elderly blind lady who was walking in. As she turned around the corner, I saw another lady, also using a walker, holding onto her arm helping her in. Then behind her, some men with crutches and in wheelchairs came in. I felt how wonderful it is that God will listen and solve their problems, and has solved their problems by having other kind people helping them. Immediately the Savior's compassion toward the Nephite sick came to mind, "Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt or maimed...Bring them hither and I will heal them...my bowels are filled with mercy"[41] I saw the Lord's graciousness to us all in that one session.

First, here is part of the conversion experience of a young man who was recently baptized in our mission. He wrote this: "I met the missionaries in March 2006. Normally, I would hide from them until they left, but this day I was caught off guard, sitting right next to the door (and a huge window), watching TV. I didn't want to look dumb, running and hiding when they had already seen me, so I decided to talk to them. I wanted to tell them I wasn't interested, but two things stopped me. The first thing was that they continued to talk most of the time and I never had a chance to tell them I wasn't interested. The second thing that blocked me was that every time they gave me an opening to speak, they would do it by asking me a question which I felt like answering. Well, after talking, we planned to meet again a few days later and discuss what I had read in the Book of Mormon which they had given to me. Sadly, I had no intention of ever talking to them again.

"I was able to avoid them for a month or two. I thought I had finally gotten them off my back when out of nowhere, they showed up and I was caught off guard again. Since I was out of school for the summer, I had more time so I started meeting with the missionaries and having the lessons.

"The next step was to get me to church and I had no intention of going to church. My main reason for not wanting to go was the fact that I would be alone in a new place and I'm a very shy guy. I'm not sure if the missionaries could sense this, but they started bringing members of the Church with them for our lessons. I believe the first three people were all guys who were returned missionaries. I still didn't go to church, so my missionaries decided to bring out their secret weapon and brought one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life to my lesson! Without holding back, they brought two more beautiful girls to my next lesson so there was nothing stopping me now from attending church at least once."

Well, this young man did attend church and he was immediately surrounded by loving, caring ward members and he started attending church every week. He even joined the ward choir before he was ever baptized. He continues to be a faithful member today.

When l was a youngster, my parents moved our family into a tough city-edge neighborhood. It was during the dark days of World War II, and with little housing available, we took what we could get near my father’s defense effort job. We had lived in the country among friendly folks, and now among strangers, I didn’t know what to expect on my first day at school.
My worst fears were realized. Many of the students and teachers were strangers in the transient conditions of the war. Not only did disagreement abound, but physical fighting broke out among my 12-year-old peers. There seemed to be no particular issues involved, just an effort by everyone to determine who was the “toughest.”
Later that year, in an effort to curb this unwanted practice in which so many young people were getting hurt, several faculty members managed to gain some control over it by putting boxing gloves on the combatants. Tournaments were held during lunch hour, and the nice thing was that a person could choose to compete or watch, as he preferred. I wanted no particular part in it. I already felt sufficiently challenged physically by the time school began just in walking three miles one way to class. Much energy was spent in work at home and getting up early to run through orchards and leap canals just to reach school.
However, there were obviously many students with pent-up energies who participated in these noon-hour boxing matches. Besides, I was content to believe that some of these kids who claimed to be “fourth toughest” or “second toughest,” or whatever, really were what they bragged to be. I was also a little dismayed, however, that they put so much ego—at times a little oppressive and unbearable for the others—into being physically tough. And if no one challenged them, under the arrangement, they could continue to claim whatever title they wished without even tying on the boxing gloves.
I was therefore somewhat pleased, but mostly aghast one day when a newfound friend of mine, a slightly built young man by the name of Terrance, told me he was going to challenge Phillip. Phillip had declared himself “Number Four.”
“Don’t do it!” I tried to persuade him. “Phillip will kill you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Terrance answered gamely. “How do we know unless I meet him in the ring?” Then, quietly, Terrance continued: “I think Phillip is talking too much about it. Frankly, I think he’s bluffing.”
I watched the first round with my hands over my eyes. But the round was no sooner over than Phillip stated he did not want to continue. That made Terrance Number Four. Suddenly, it was like in the cowboy movies. When they saw how easily he had wrested the title from Phillip, everyone wanted to challenge Terrance. And if Terrance didn’t want to “lose face” he had to participate.
As we were walking the three miles up the long a hill toward our homes in the government housings project, past monotonous rows of look-alike houses, Terrance confided something to me. “I know that fighting doesn’t really resolve anything. And personally, I never did like to fight. Where did it get either Phillip or me? I just wanted to humble him, but now I wonder if he’s better off than me. I don’t know. Maybe I can defeat Number One, but I know that wouldn’t prove anything, would it? I just wish there were some way out of this.”
Yet, Terrance acknowledged that he probably had already gone too far and there was no way out, except to finish what he had started. He trudged into his house, recognizable by the number over the door, and parted with: “Well, no use beating around the bush. Tomorrow, I’ll skip Number Two and Three and go right to Tracy, Number One.”
The next day word got around quickly that freckle-faced little Terrance was going to do battle with the much larger and stone-faced Tracy. Everyone ate lunch quickly and settled down to watch the proceedings. The boxing ring was in the basement of the school next to the boiler room. It was fine for a few dozen spectators, but on that particular day hundreds of kids packed into the concrete window abutments and stood on chairs to peer over heating pipes. I got there early and had a pretty good seat next to the custodian’s closet.
The two sparred for several rounds without either gaining much advantage. In the fifth round, several of the crowd said they thought that it should be over fairly soon, that Tracy was “just beginning to warm up.” However, as I looked at both of their faces, they appeared equally tired. When the round was over, Tracy walked over to Terrance. I could barely hear what Tracy was saying: “Why don’t we just declare it a truce and call ourselves co-champions? I’m not sure going on any further would prove either one of us better than the other.”
Terrance agreed. They put their arms around each other and the crowd cheered both as winners.
That by no means ended the daily boxing tournaments. But somehow, they were never the same after that. Deciding who was toughest just didn’t matter as much anymore. The two toughest kids in school had decided it wasn’t important.

“If every kid did something like this, just think how it could change the world.” This comment was overheard at a neighborhood swimming pool last summer in Craig, Colorado, a small community of 8,000 people. It was 13-year-old Evan Pressley they were talking about—and still are.
Evan, a deacon in the Craig First Ward, Meeker Colorado Stake, went door-to-door in his hometown last June asking for money, not for himself, but for orphans in China. He managed to raise $2,418. “And 45 cents,” he adds. He turned what he raised over to a Chinese nonprofit, tax-exempt service organization headquartered near Denver, Colorado.
Evan’s inspiration to help orphans living thousands of miles away in China began with his visit to that country in December of 1996. Evan accompanied his parents, Dave and Mary Pressley, when they adopted his little sister, Marianne Kai Yue. “After I got home, I just wanted to help some babies who are not as fortunate as my little sister, who has found a family.” Marianne and Evan have two older brothers, Ben, 19, and Dan, 18.
As a result of traditional prejudice against females, hundreds of girls are abandoned daily in China. Evan’s little sister was one of them. She had been left on a doorstep in a small village when she was only one day old. On a note attached to her clothing was the handwritten date and time of her birth: “April 15, 1996, 9:23 A.M.” Eight months later, when the Pressleys took her home, she weighed only 10 pounds. Poor nutrition is a fact of life for Chinese orphans. Their caregivers are very loving but lack the funds to feed the babies well.
In the spring of 1997, Evan sent a handwritten letter to Lily Nie and Joshua Zhong, directors of the agency the Pressleys went through to adopt Marianne, informing them of his project. His goal was to raise $2,175. He exceeded that goal and came up with a total of $2,418 (and 45 cents). He made a list of specific things he wanted done with that money: repair a child’s cleft palate and lip; buy a heavy-duty washer and dryer; provide enough formula for eight babies for one month; buy a crib and some toys; set up a small children’s health clinic. All this for $2,418! “Money goes a long way in China,” Evan explains.
In August of 1997, Evan hand-delivered the money to Lily and Joshua. And they more than honored his request. Joshua, who affectionately calls this “the Evan Project,” traveled to China last fall with the money and carefully carried out Evan’s itemized list. He even chose the child that would have the cleft palate surgery. The funds went to the Fusan Children’s Welfare House in Liaoning Province in northern China. “There are more than 150 children there,” Evan says, “and 95 percent of them are handicapped. They’ll never be adopted.”
Was Evan’s project easy? “A lot of people turned me down. I almost quit when I knocked on one man’s door and he told me that he wouldn’t contribute. He even admitted that he was hard-hearted!” Very discouraged at this point, he says, “I fasted for 24 hours and prayed. I told Heavenly Father that I really needed to do this, for the babies in China, and would he please help me find people who wanted to give.” Evan’s prayers were answered.
Several articles were published in the newspapers about the Evan Project. Later, Joshua Zhong sent a letter to one newspaper thanking the people of Craig, Colorado, for their support. He also sent a letter to Evan expressing his feelings. “I want to thank and salute you for an incredibly moving and successful fund-raising effort. I am deeply touched by your love for the Chinese children. … You are an amazing kid with a very BIG heart!”
What does this “amazing kid” have in mind for the future? You guessed it. He’s not through helping orphans in China. He’s given it a lot of thought, and he’s getting close to earning his Eagle Scout Award. For his project he’s going to do something like gathering baby formula—lots of it—to send to Chinese orphanages. After all, when you have a BIG heart, it can strrreettch a whole lot to make room for one more Chinese baby … or 50 … or 150.

By the beginning of 2010, I was preparing for graduation—and was pregnant with our first child. Two months before I was to graduate from the nursing program, I had complications with my pregnancy, and our baby was born via cesarean section. My teachers told me I should take time off from school and graduate later. But I was so close—only two months away!
So my husband and I carefully organized our time so we could properly balance our priorities and I could complete my education. I scheduled my study time so I could give my husband and our son the attention they needed. Sometimes my husband’s parents stayed with our son while I was in class. Two great classmates helped me review class materials. I felt that the Lord had sent all of these people to support me through this difficult time.
After graduation I passed the state certification exam and started working as a nurse to help support our family while my husband completes his education. Even though I am not planning on working once my husband starts his career, if a tragedy or economic hardship requires me to work in the future, my education helps me feel prepared to do so.

I remember the day my father died; my mind was somewhat in anxiety and turmoil. I returned home, sat in my favorite chair, and picked up the scriptures to meditate and find peace. I read a little, then closed my eyes, and in my mind’s eye I saw my father as a young man, and he was dressed in white. Although he had never become a member of the Church, I knew I would see him in the resurrection, and furthermore, I had seen him as he would appear. My mind was at peace again. When we rely on the Lord, we can have fulfillment of his promise, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: . . . Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27). He is “The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6).

Football is my favorite sport. I have been playing Little League football for six years. The position I play is running back. For the past five seasons we have not had many games on Sunday. This year was different. Almost half the games were on Sunday.
At the beginning of the season, my family had a family home evening on Sabbath day observance. We read in the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet that Sunday is not a holiday or a day for recreation or athletic events. I know it is important to keep the Sabbath day holy. My dad and I went to the coach and told him that I would not play football on Sunday. The coach was frustrated by our decision. He did not understand because he is not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Throughout the season I tried to be a good example. It was hard for me at times because I love to play football and hated to miss so many games. When I did play with the team at Saturday games, I played my best.
I have been blessed. Many of my teammates and coaches have asked questions about the Church because of my decision. This was a great missionary experience, and I know that I made the right choice.

“During a smallpox epidemic, Grandfather’s brother and sister died. His mother grieved for many months over the loss of these two children. One day a patriarch visited the family and blessed her. He promised that she would be compensated for the loss of her two children by having a son who would be like Alma of old, a man of faith and a leader in the Church. Sometime later she gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. My grandpa was that boy!”

Carly knew something was wrong when she saw her dad’s car in the parking lot.
“Dad’s home,” she said softly.
“Dad’s home?” her little brother, Robert, repeated excitedly. “Awesome!” He swung his backpack over his shoulder and hurried toward their apartment.
“Wait,” Carly said. “I think something is wrong.”
Robert stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Carly began, “but I heard Mom and Dad talking last night. Dad said that a lot of people at his work are getting laid off.”
Robert looked confused.
“That means Dad might lose his job,” Carly explained.
“What would happen then?” Robert asked.
“Well, if he doesn’t have a job, then he won’t make any money. And if we don’t have any money, then we can’t buy anything.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “We’ll be like those people downtown who live in the park.”
Carly shuddered as she thought about the people she had seen by the roadside holding signs that read, “Will work for food.” “I don’t think that will happen,” she said.
“We should call Brother Worthington,” Robert said. “He said we should call him if we have a problem. He said he would help.”
“You’re right,” Carly said. “Let’s tell Mom and Dad.”
As they opened the door, they saw their parents talking.
“Dad, did you lose your job?” Robert asked.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Yes, I did,” Dad said. “How did you know?”
“I heard you and Mom talking yesterday,” Carly said.
“Did you call Brother Worthington yet?” Robert asked.
“No, we haven’t told anyone,” Mom said. “We’re trying to figure out what we should do first.”
“We need to call Brother Worthington,” Carly said. “He always tells us to call him if we have a problem.”
“He is our home teacher,” Mom said. “Maybe we should call him.”
“I don’t want to bother him,” Dad said. “I just need to start looking for another job.”
“I’ll get a job too,” Robert said.
“That’s very sweet, but you and Carly are busy with school,” Mom said.
“How can we go to school if we’re living in the park?” Robert asked. He started to cry. “Please call Brother Worthington. He said he would help.”
Dad lifted Robert onto his lap. “We won’t have to live in the park,” he said as the phone started ringing. “I lost my job, but we haven’t lost everything.”
Carly went to answer the phone. Moments later she handed the receiver to Dad. “It’s for you,” she said with a big smile. “It’s Brother Worthington.”
As Dad talked on the phone, he grabbed a notebook and pen and wrote down names and phone numbers.
“What did he say?” Carly asked as Dad hung up.
“He heard about the layoffs on the news, so he called to see if I had been laid off. When I told him I had been, he gave me the name and number of the ward employment specialist, and names and numbers of other people he knows who might be able to help me find a job.”
“That’s great!” Robert said. “I knew he would help!”
“You were right,” Dad said. “He is the man Heavenly Father has asked to watch over our family when we need help. You children understood that better than I did. And now, thanks to Brother Worthington, I have some phone calls to make.”

Twelve-year-old Elizabeth watched Carol’s long fingers glide smoothly over the black and white piano keys.
“Excellent, Carol!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed for the second time in a matter of minutes. “You’ll do beautifully in Saturday’s competition. I’m expecting you to win that trophy again this year.”
Elizabeth squirmed uneasily and rubbed her moist palms together. The grandfather clock against the wall seemed to stare at her. It wasn’t easy following Mrs. Brown’s best student at piano lessons every week. No matter how hard Elizabeth practiced, she always felt a bit inadequate compared to Carol.
“The competition begins promptly at two o’clock Saturday,” Mrs. Brown told Carol.
“I’ll be here,” Carol replied. “I want to add this year’s trophy to my collection. See you Saturday, Mrs. Brown.” Carol walked confidently across the room to the door, ignoring Elizabeth.
“Let’s get started, Elizabeth,” the teacher said, motioning her toward the piano. The bench felt hard and unfriendly as Elizabeth sat down and slid to the center. In a way, Mrs. Brown still frightened her, even after two years of lessons.
“Arch those fingers, and wrists down,” Mrs. Brown began. “And please count out loud.”
Elizabeth began her scales. “One, two, and three and four and one,” she repeated again and again. Her fingers were loose and steady. Those extra hours of practicing were making a difference.
“Sounds good, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Brown’s voice sounded a little surprised. “Now let’s try your piece for the competition Saturday.”
Elizabeth took the teacher’s request as a challenge. Her fingers were like the smoothly moving parts of a machine as they glided almost effortlessly over the keys. The music was soft, then loud; sweet, then proud. She turned the last page and finished the piece boldly.
“Good, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “Very good. In fact, Elizabeth, that performance deserves a bravo!”
Elizabeth smiled, her eyes glistening happily. She knew that she had to be good to receive comments like those from Mrs. Brown.
“Those judges are going to have quite a decision to make on Saturday if you play this well then, Elizabeth,” her teacher praised her at the end of the lesson. “The best of luck to you. Remember, the competition starts at two o’clock.”
Elizabeth walked outside in a daze and waited for her ride. Bravo! she thought, recalling Mrs. Brown’s words. She sat down on the grass and began imagining herself in a large, dark concert hall, bowing to thunderous applause. Hot theater lights made her perspire as she curtsied proudly.
The out-of-tune honk of her mother’s car horn startled Elizabeth and brought her back to reality. “Mother!” Elizabeth cried. She grabbed her books, jumped up, and ran excitedly to the car. “Mrs. Brown liked my playing today. She said I even have a chance for the trophy at the competition on—“
“Slow down, Elizabeth,” her mother interrupted. But there was a pleased look on her face. “Tell me all about it from the beginning.” She pulled the car slowly into the street.
“Oh, Mother,” Elizabeth began, “after I listened to Carol play today, I was really discouraged. She never makes a mistake, and she’s won the trophy the past three years.”
“Carol is a good player,” her mother responded honestly.
“But when I played my piece for Mrs. Brown, she liked it. She said ‘Bravo,’ Mother. And she said that the judges would have a hard time choosing a winner on Saturday.”
“All those hours at the piano are really beginning to pay off,” her mother replied encouragingly. “I always believed that you had a real talent for the piano.”
Elizabeth spent many hours the next three days seated at the upright piano in the corner of the living room. Her fingers worked endlessly. All she could think about was winning the trophy.
Autumn turned annoyingly into winter the Saturday of the competition. Gray black clouds filled the sky, and before noon large snowflakes were falling.
Elizabeth practiced playing her piece for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Nervously she put on her favorite blue dress. Her shining dark brown hair lay clean on her shoulders.
“I’m ready to go,” she told her father. Her little brothers wore their white shirts and dress pants.
“Let’s get started then,” Dad said. “This storm has turned into a blizzard. We’ll need extra time to get to the competition.”
The windshield wipers on the car slapped noisily from side to side, sweeping the snowflakes aside as they accumulated. As the car wound slowly toward the studio, the storm worsened, and cars began sliding on the road.
“What if we’re too late, Dad?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“I think we’ll make it, if we’re careful,” her father reassured her.
Elizabeth relaxed momentarily, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. We just have to make it! she thought. I’ve worked too hard to miss the competition.
The monotony of the windshield wipers was interrupted by a slushy, skidding sound. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see a large sedan slide off the road.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” her father said grimly.
Elizabeth stared out the window at the struggling vehicle as their own car crept slowly by. The sedan seemed to be hopelessly stuck.
Suddenly Elizabeth recognized it. It was the one always parked in front of the piano studio when she arrived for her lesson. Carol was inside that car! Mrs. Brown’s best piano student was agonizing, no doubt, as she listened to the car’s wheels whine desperately.
A triumphant smile spread over Elizabeth’s face as she imagined the trophy on her dresser. After all, it was not her fault that Carol’s car had slipped off the road.
The big sedan was not much more than a spot in the distance now, and Mrs. Brown’s studio was just a few minutes away. But Elizabeth felt uneasy. Her earlier enthusiasm for an easy victory had disappeared. Several times she squinted out the back window at the stalled car. It had not moved.
“We’re going to make it, Elizabeth!” her father said happily. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“Dad, you have to turn back,” Elizabeth declared firmly.
Elizabeth’s mother and brothers stared at her.
“Carol was in that car back there that slid off the road. If we don’t go back and help, she’ll never make it in time to play.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Elizabeth, but we’re sure to be late.”
“Then stop and turn around, Dad. Now. We can both still make it if we play last.” Elizabeth sounded sure about her decision.
Slowly her father brought the car to a halt. He turned it around carefully and drove back to the car that was stuck.
Later the audience clapped enthusiastically as Carol stood and walked to the judges’ stand. She had performed flawlessly. Her hands grasped the tall trophy.
Behind Carol, out of the bright lights, Elizabeth stood with the other contenders. She had not won the trophy, but she knew that her parents were equally proud of her. A feeling of contentment came over her as she realized that some things were even more important than winning a trophy.

A few years ago, on a beautiful Halloween evening, my wife and I were in the temple in Kirtland, Ohio. In the late fall afternoon the sun was streaking through the old, wavy, hand-blown windowpanes. The building was light and airy and magnificent. Since some of my forebears were involved in its construction, I was humbled and honored to be under its roof. Within its walls and under its spell, I was enchanted by its beauty. I was so impressed with the building that I came back to Church headquarters and told the Brethren that it would be wonderful if that building were still operating as one of our temples. Elder Packer corrected my thinking when he said, “We do not have the building, but, when our people left, they took with them that which was important. They preserved the keys of the ordinances, the covenants, the endowment, and the sealing power. They took with them all the essentials which we have today.” So the Church cannot, in and of itself, be the temples, magnificent as they are, because the temple buildings alone do not bless. They are the exquisite containers for the pearls of great price administered therein by the priesthood of God.

While my husband and I served as mission leaders in North Carolina, we traveled by plane to a mission leadership conference in Atlanta, Georgia. If you have ever been on an airplane, you know that unless you are sitting in a first-class seat, you get caught in a jam at the front of the plane while waiting for others to move to their seats in the back. Our seats were not in first class, but we were stopped in the aisle next to a woman who was.

I couldn’t help but overhear her loud and frantic cell phone conversation with someone she obviously trusted. It went something like this:

“You know how scared I am to fly. What if something happens to the plane?”

She listened to the person on the other side of the conversation and then responded, “I mean it! I am so nervous. Wait a minute. Jesus Christ is standing right next to me! I’m going to be okay!”

What she saw was my missionary badge, which displayed the name of Jesus Christ in bold letters.

She belted out, “I’m not kidding. It says ‘Jesus Christ’ right on her chest! Everything is going to be alright!”

She obviously knew that I was not Jesus Christ! But we both laughed for a second, and she relaxed. The line moved forward, and we went to our seats—in the back of the plane.

I was still chuckling as I settled into my seat. And then this question came into my mind: If I had not been wearing my missionary badge, would she have recognized me as a disciple of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ? I pondered that question the entire flight. And I continue to ask myself that question often.

One of President David O. McKay’s annual family traditions was to take the grandchildren riding on a bobsleigh pulled by a fine team of horses, “bells a-jingle.” The ride was one of their favorite traditions. President McKay continued it into his 80s. To stay warm, President McKay wore his long, thick raccoon coat and big gloves. The smaller grandchildren rode in the sleigh, but the older ones “whizzed along behind on their own sleds” tied to the back of the bobsleigh. These long-to-be-remembered Christmas celebrations sometimes ended with carols around the piano and singing “Love at Home.”7