Gospel Story Finder

I was startled when my new ministering sister, Amy Jo, asked me for the names of all my children and then said, “I will pray for each of them and for you.” No one had ever offered to do that for me.
Every time we talk, she asks about my needs and those of my family and says she’ll pray for specific needs such as “I’ll pray for your son to find a job, and I’ll pray that you can be healed faster.” I have been extremely touched by this ongoing practice and feel the results of her efforts.

It was a beautiful, lonely countryside. Yellow wheat waved like a golden sea in the sun. The air was sweet and pure, and the stream danced clear and sparkling. Each afternoon a young girl would look up expectantly from her chores. Her gaze would follow the slope of the land to a valley where parallel tracks ran east and west.
First she would hear the shrill whistle. Next she would see the gray plume of smoke. Finally the huge black locomotive would push its way into the panorama. It would roar on and not even slacken its pace as it passed. None of its passengers probably ever noticed the girl perched on the top rail of the fence. She always waved excitedly, though, and felt a sense of awe as the wonderful train disappeared around a hill. Where had it been? Where was it going, so safe and secure on those steel ribbons that banded the land? What people did it carry, and what were they like? When the smoke from the train had vanished on the breeze, the girl slowly climbed down from the fence and went about her chores.
One day a peddler appeared on the horizon. The clank and jingle of his wagon and its goods could be heard for a mile. The girl’s mother shielded her eyes and watched the wagon approaching. The kettle was put on to boil, and another plate was set at the table.
The peddler had wondrous things to sell. Cloth and buttons, pots and scrub boards, hammers and ointments, spices and books were stuffed into or hung from the sides of his wagon. While her mother fingered the cloth and her father chatted with the peddler, the girl gazed longingly at his books. She pulled one from a box and carefully opened it. There were pictures of the ocean, strange lands, and strange people wearing clothes she had never seen before! She stared at page after page of marvelous sights!
“Your daughter seems to enjoy the books,” the peddler said and smiled.
“Indeed,” her father replied. “Perhaps it’s time she learned to read.”
“Yes, I believe it is,” her mother agreed.
“I’ll let you have the lot in that box for a dollar and a hot meal,” the peddler offered.
“It’s a bargain,” the girl’s mother replied.
So the dollar was paid, the meal was eaten, and the books were taken into the house. They did not, however, remain long in the box, for the girl was anxious to look at them all.
“God gave us good minds,” her mother said, “and we’re obliged to fill them with meaningful things. It’s time for you to learn to read.” She patted the table and smiled. “Come here by the light, and we shall begin.”
Evening after evening they pored over the pages, and word by word the girl learned to read. As she learned, whole new worlds opened before her eyes. And then when she watched the train in its daily passing, she no longer felt so sad. She knew that the train could go only where its tracks were laid and no farther. But she was free to travel with it, and beyond, with God’s gift of a mind that knows no bounds.

During my last year of high school, I decided I had to strengthen my testimony before I left for college. I studied all I could about the Savior’s life and His atoning sacrifice. As I did so, the reality of His love struck me so powerfully that it brought me to tears. I realized that I am indeed a beloved daughter of God. As the magnitude of this sank deep into my very being, I realized that dressing modestly is not just to prevent the boys from thinking bad thoughts. It is a way to show our appreciation for one of the most wonderful gifts God has given us: a body.
May I suggest that Church members be taught to be modest because they love and respect themselves and the Lord and they want to honor His gift. I never had a strong testimony of modesty until I learned to love Heavenly Father and the Savior more deeply.
Brenda Petty, Idaho, USA

Blair: I grew up in the Church and have a testimony. However, there is a part of my life that few people know. At age seven I often saw a pornographic poster on a teenage neighbor’s wall. It left an impression in my mind that I could not forget. Unworthy thoughts led me to develop an unworthy habit I felt I couldn’t break.

Blair: My self-confidence dwindled in church, school, and everywhere. Many times I felt very alone, awkward, and unworthy. If a girl liked me, I would think, “She wouldn’t like me if she really knew me.” I would shy away from being social.

Blair: I prayed for strength to leave these temptations alone. I made a list of things like prayer, scriptures, and clean thoughts that would help me draw close to God. But although I worked hard, it didn’t solve my problems.
The thought of confessing to the bishop made me cringe. I felt it would be better to tell the bishop about the problem when it was in the past. But I finally realized it wasn’t ever going to be in the past if I didn’t confess. If God already knew my struggles and I felt comfortable talking about them in prayer, why not talk face to face with God’s servant? Once I finally decided to confess, I felt a reassuring peace that it was the right thing to do.
If you are using pornography, you are not morally clean, even if you haven’t done anything else immoral. Rob talks about realizing that he wasn’t worthy to go to the temple or on a mission.
Rob: I humbly bowed before the Lord in tears and pled for strength beyond my own. Night after night I prayed, and finally I knew I had to talk to my bishop about it. That was the hardest part—admitting to someone else that I had a problem. I kept thinking I could handle it myself and no one would ever have to know. I wanted it to be something just between God and me. But I finally matured to the point that I realized that was impossible. I approached my bishop and began a long and difficult repentance process.
Repentance may have been difficult, but it was also comforting and filled with hope.
Speaking of those who struggle with this problem, one bishop says: “Help is available. The repentance process is just that—a process. It takes time to break negative patterns, and each small victory must be acknowledged, reinforced, and celebrated along the way. Sometimes those I have worked with still struggle, but at least they are not hiding anymore. They have begun to build a support system. They have realized they don’t have to face this challenge alone.”
A former bishop explains: “Besides my own family, I don’t think I loved anyone in my ward quite as much as I loved those who came to me with broken hearts, seeking forgiveness and peace. They cared more about what the Lord thought of them than what any person thought. I respected their courage and desire to make things right. I shed tears over them. I rejoiced when they were clean and whole again. And afterward I never looked at them as former sinners—only as beloved brothers and sisters.”
“Trust in the Lord,” counseled Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “He knows what He is doing. He already knows of your problems. And He is waiting for you to ask for help” (Ensign, May 1989, 36).
I felt relief when I stopped pretending. Sharing the burden with my bishop and my family meant I no longer had to deal with this addiction alone. Now I hold on to this support system.
A problem that dominated my youth could not be overcome overnight. This road has been long and hard—and it continues. It isn’t enough anymore to look happy. I want to be happy. I am coming to know Christ and the Atonement with much deeper and more personal meaning. The Atonement gives me the strength I need so my self-confidence and self-respect grow step by step each day.
I was honest with my bishop. And when my dad talked to me about the Internet sites I was visiting, I was honest with him too. We worked on the problem together. We decided not to have the Internet in our home for a while. That was a big help.
I’m turning 16 soon, and I’m glad I decided not to let pornography control my life. I feel better about myself, and I think about young women differently than I did before. With my bishop’s help, I’m preparing now for the temple, a mission, and a great marriage one day.
It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go through the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.
The best way to avoid a problem with pornography is to stay as far away from it as possible. But if you are struggling with pornography or any unworthy habit, please talk to your bishop or branch president. He loves you, he will be discreet, and he can help you put the power of the Atonement to work in your life. With the help of the Savior and His servants, you can gain the strength you need. You can become clean and worthy in every respect.
It is both dangerous and wrong to deliberately view things that stimulate sexual thoughts. Our environment is full of such things. And because they are often legal and common, it is sometimes impossible to avoid seeing them.
But you don’t have to let them trap you. If you put on the full armor of God every day by praying, studying the scriptures, and doing your best to keep the commandments, you will develop the strength to withstand this and any temptation.
Here are some other ways you can stay far from the lethal spiritual crevice called pornography.
Know it when you see it. A simple definition is this: Pornography is any entertainment that uses immodest or indecent images to stimulate sexual feelings. So even a mainstream television program or advertisement can be pornographic. If images trigger sexual feelings in you, you should avoid them.
Break the emotional connection. There is a connection between any addictive behavior and emotions such as stress, anxiety, and depression. If you are feeling stressed or anxious, try to deal with those feelings directly—rather than using pornography or any other destructive means to cover them up. Prayer, scripture study, exercise, positive friends, and regular Church attendance can all help. A parent, a Church leader, or another trusted adult can be a lifeline if problems seem too big to resolve alone.
Surf smart. If you have the Internet at home, ask your parents to install an Internet filtering service. But don’t rely on the filter alone; it may fail you. The only real control is self-control. Do keep your computer out of your bedroom; keep it where others will be around.
Be a modern-day Joseph. Remember what Joseph did when Potiphar’s wife tried to trap him in an immoral situation? Joseph “fled, and got him out” (Gen. 39:12). In other words, he ran. When you are exposed to pornography, leave immediately—whether by a mouse click, a channel change, or a quick exit from a friend’s house.
Get the most powerful help of all. Don’t let your spirit grow weak from lack of spiritual food. A steady diet of righteous influences—such as prayer, scripture study, Mutual, seminary, and a careful study of For the Strength of Youth—can give you the strength you need to navigate through a world that has spiritual crevices at every turn.
“I plead with you boys … to keep yourselves free from the stains of the world. You must not indulge in sleazy talk at school. You must not tell sultry jokes. You must not fool around with the Internet to find pornographic material. You must not dial a long-distance telephone number to listen to filth. You must not rent videos with pornography of any kind. This salacious stuff simply is not for you. Stay away from pornography as you would avoid a serious disease. It is as destructive. It can become habitual, and those who indulge in it get so they cannot leave it alone. It is addictive.

“It is a five-billion-dollar business for those who produce it. They make it as … attractive as they know how. It seduces and destroys its victims. It is everywhere. It is all about us. I plead with you young men not to get involved in its use. You simply cannot afford to.

“The girl you marry is worthy of a husband whose life has not been tainted by this ugly and corrosive material” (Ensign, May 1998, 49).President Gordon B. Hinckley
Pornography can be powerfully addicting. Scientific research—including new brain-scan technology—is beginning to show that pornography may cause physical and chemical changes in the brain similar to those caused by drugs. The only sure way to avoid the danger is to stay away from pornography in the first place.
If you have become addicted, you must seek help. The first person to see is your bishop or branch president. He can help you bring the Savior’s redeeming and healing power into your life. He can also help you obtain professional help as necessary. Please don’t try to go it alone.
Pornography isn’t just available, it is being pushed and marketed. Nobody—no adult, no returned missionary, no one—is so mature or so strong that he or she can risk deliberate exposure. Plan to be on guard your entire life. And that is even more true for those who have had a previous problem with pornography. It’s like being recovered from a drug or alcohol addiction. You must not return for even a taste because you can be overwhelmed in a moment.

Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness includes a mortal experience where all of His children will be tested and face trials. Five years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I have felt and still feel the physical pains from surgeries, radiation treatments, and medication side effects. I have experienced emotional struggles during torturous sleepless nights. Medical statistics indicate I will probably depart mortality earlier than I ever expected, leaving behind, for a season, a family who means everything to me.
Regardless of where you live, physical or emotional suffering from a variety of trials and mortal weaknesses has been, is now, or will someday be part of your life.
Physical suffering can result from natural aging, unexpected diseases, and random accidents; hunger or homelessness; or abuse, violent acts, and war.
Emotional suffering can arise from anxiety or depression; the betrayal of a spouse, parent, or trusted leader; employment or financial reversals; unfair judgment by others; the choices of friends, children, or other family members; abuse in its many forms; unfulfilled dreams of marriage or children; the severe illness or early death of loved ones; or so many other sources.
How can you possibly endure the unique and sometimes debilitating suffering that comes to each of us?
Gratefully, hope is found in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and hope can also be part of your life. Today I share four principles of hope drawn from scripture, prophetic teachings, many ministering visits, and my own ongoing health trial. These principles are not just broadly applicable but also deeply personal.
First, suffering does not mean God is displeased with your life. Two thousand years ago, Jesus’s disciples saw a blind man at the temple and asked, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?”
His disciples seemed to incorrectly believe, as do far too many people today, that all hardship and suffering in life are the result of sin. But the Savior replied, “Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.”
The work of God is to bring to pass our immortality and eternal life. But how can trials and suffering—especially suffering imposed by another person’s sinful use of agency—ultimately advance God’s work?
The Lord told His covenant people, “I have refined thee … ; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.” Whatever the cause of your sufferings, your loving Heavenly Father can direct them to refine your soul. Refined souls can bear others’ burdens with true empathy and compassion. Refined souls who have come “out of great tribulation” are prepared to joyfully live in God’s presence forever, and “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
Second, Heavenly Father is intimately aware of your suffering. While in the midst of trials, we can mistakenly think that God is far away and unconcerned with our pain. Even the Prophet Joseph Smith expressed this feeling at a low point in his life. When imprisoned in Liberty Jail while thousands of Latter-day Saints were being driven from their homes, Joseph sought understanding through prayer: “O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?” He ended with this plea: “Remember thy suffering saints, O our God.”
The Lord’s answer reassured Joseph and all who suffer:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high.”
Many suffering Saints have shared with me how they felt God’s love during their trials. I vividly recall my own experience at one point in my cancer battle when the doctors had not yet diagnosed the cause of some severe pain. I sat with my wife, intending to offer a routine blessing on our lunch. Instead, all I could do was simply weep, “Heavenly Father, please help me. I am so sick.” For the next 20 to 30 seconds, I was encircled in His love. I was given no reason for my illness, no indication of the ultimate outcome, and no relief from the pain. I just felt of His pure love, and that was and is enough.
I witness that our Heavenly Father, who notes the fall of even a single sparrow, is aware of your suffering.
Third, Jesus Christ offers His enabling power to help you have strength to endure your suffering well. This enabling power is made possible through His Atonement. I fear that too many Church members think if they are just a little tougher, they can get through any suffering on their own. This is a hard way to live. Your temporary moment of strength can never compare to the Savior’s infinite supply of power to fortify your soul.
The Book of Mormon teaches that Jesus Christ would “take upon him” our pains, sicknesses, and infirmities so He can succor us. How can you draw upon the power that Jesus Christ offers to succor you and strengthen you in times of suffering? The key is binding yourself to the Savior by keeping the covenants you have made with Him. We make these covenants as we receive priesthood ordinances.
The people of Alma entered into the covenant of baptism. Later they suffered in bondage and were forbidden to worship publicly or even pray aloud. Yet they kept their covenants the best they could by crying out silently in their hearts. As a result, divine power came. “The Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease.”
In our day, the Savior invites, “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.” When we keep our sacrament covenant to always remember Him, He promises that His Spirit will be with us. The Spirit gives us strength to endure trials and do what we cannot possibly do on our own. The Spirit can heal us, although as President James E. Faust taught, “Some of the healing may take place in another world.”
We are also blessed by temple covenants and ordinances, where “the power of godliness is manifest.” I visited a woman who had lost a teenage daughter in a terrible accident, then later her husband to cancer. I asked how she could endure such loss and suffering. She replied that strength came from spiritual reassurances of an eternal family, received during regular temple worship. As promised, the ordinances of the Lord’s house had armed her with God’s power.
Fourth, choose to find joy each day. Those who suffer often feel that the night just goes on and on, and daylight will never come. It is OK to weep. Yet, if you find yourself in dark nights of suffering, by choosing faith you can awake to bright mornings of rejoicing.
For example, I visited a young mother being treated for cancer, smiling majestically in her chair despite the pain and a lack of hair. I met a middle-aged couple happily serving as youth leaders though they were unable to conceive children. I sat with a dear woman—a young grandmother, mother, and wife—who would pass away within days, yet amid the family’s tears were laughter and joyful recollections.
These suffering Saints exemplify what President Russell M. Nelson has taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.”
I testify that our Heavenly Father remembers His suffering Saints, loves you, and is intimately aware of you. Our Savior knows how you feel. “Surely he has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.” I know—as a daily recipient—that keeping covenants unlocks the power of Jesus Christ’s atoning sacrifice to provide strength and even joy to you who suffer.
For all who suffer, I pray, “May God grant unto you that your burdens may be light, through the joy of his Son.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

There is a spirit that pervades our homes when there is a love of the Lord, a love for one another, and a commitment to obedience that springs out of that love. As I speak of that spirit, I remember our mission home in Frankfurt, Germany, where my husband served as mission president. Our daughter, Marianne, was ten years old at the time. Some of her friends from school would come to the mission home and occasionally stay overnight. One night, one of her friends said, “I like to come to your house because I feel safe here.” Marianne understood what she meant—all of our family knew the spirit of the mission home. It was a legacy that was left by thousands of dedicated missionaries who had passed through that home and shared their testimonies and their love for their Heavenly Father and the Savior. It is a spirit that can be felt in all of our homes when as families we share testimonies and feelings of the Spirit as we read the scriptures and when we kneel together in prayer.

I was 13 when my mom and I joined the Church. My stepdad had been a member, but he had gone inactive. One day, he decided to go back to church. My mom and I got baptized. My sister got baptized not long after that.
We were living in Missouri, USA, and we attended a teeny little branch that met in a second story room of a local building. On Saturday nights, we’d go in and clean up posters and ash trays. I played a little keyboard for our meetings. The members of our branch were like our family.
When I was 16, we moved to Arizona, USA. The change was difficult, but the Church is pretty strong in Arizona. Later, I went to Brigham Young University and got married. My husband and I had four kids and we were living the life.
But things happened, and when we got divorced, I was excommunicated. It took me about 15 years to get back into the Church. It took a while, but I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to be going to church for all the right reasons.
I remember when we first moved to Kentucky, USA, I’d take my son to church and stay in the car while he went inside. It was a hard time. My daughter was the first of my children to get married in the temple, and I couldn’t be there. That really hurt my feelings, but of course, it was my fault.
It just takes some people like me a long time to finally figure things out. Ward members and friends were patient with me. They let me know that they were there. One family in particular reached out to me and were really like my family because I didn’t have anybody out here. They helped me start going to church, but they never pressured me. The cool thing is that when it was time, my son rebaptized me.
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life. I wish I hadn’t made those mistakes, but I am grateful for the lessons I am learning throughout the repentance process. None of us goes through life without making mistakes—only the Savior was able to do that. When we make mistakes, it’s important that we turn to Him for strength and to learn from those mistakes.
I know I can’t go back and change anything, but my goal now is to do everything I can to give my kids a good example because they didn’t have one for many years. I hope they can see I’ve overcome many challenges.
I want them to know that if they have bad spells, they can move past them as they turn to the Savior for help. It’s a matter of having faith and never giving up. The Lord has helped me as I’ve gone along, and I know He can help them too. The progress has been painful, but the Lord has built me up and made me stronger.

On an evening in November 1999, when our family home evening was finished and we were going to bed, my mother said, “Don’t forget that next Sunday is fast Sunday, OK?”
I asked her if we were going to fast as a family for a specific purpose.
“I don’t know yet,” she replied.
Suddenly, I felt impressed to fast and pray to prepare to receive my patriarchal blessing.
At 10:00 P.M. I had not been able to go to sleep, so I went to my parents’ room. I felt there was something I had to do that night. My mother told me to read for a while and she would turn out my light later. I went back to my room, picked up a school textbook, and started to read. I found some information I needed for a school assignment that was due the next day, information I had not found in my other books.
When I finished the assignment, it was about 11:00 P.M. I placed the book and the assignment on the desk and went to bed. But even though my body and mind were tired, my spirit was uneasy. I lifted my head a little and noticed that the very wrinkled first page of a First Presidency Message was sticking out from a pile of books. I retrieved the November 1995 A Liahona (Portuguese) and started reading “Serving the Lord and Resisting the Devil” by President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. The last section of the message was entitled “Fasting and Prayer.”
After finishing the article, I promised myself I would pray and fast about my patriarchal blessing. Then I placed the magazine on the desk and again tried to sleep—but to no avail. So I picked up A Liahona again and turned the page. “My Miracle” was the title of the very next article. I was touched when I realized this article was a young woman’s experience of receiving her patriarchal blessing. She said it is necessary to pray and fast in order to prepare ourselves spiritually for a patriarchal blessing.
I had spoken to my bishop before about receiving my blessing, and he felt I should wait. After I read the young woman’s message, I understood the reason for his reply. I had not fasted or even prayed about this matter. After finishing the article, I knelt and prayed fervently to my Heavenly Father. For the first time in my life, I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost. After this prayer, I put the magazine away and was able to sleep.
I prayed and waited anxiously all week. On Sunday I fasted, and I went to see the bishop. After hearing about my experience, he said, “I think you’re ready for your patriarchal blessing.” It made me very happy to know that the Lord wanted me to learn about fasting and prayer—and to prepare spiritually for my blessing.
I know the Lord loves us. He gives us patriarchal blessings to guide us.

My friend of many years spent his life as a rancher, doing the hard work of raising cattle and sheep in the rugged Rocky Mountains. He once shared with me the challenges and hazards associated with raising sheep. He described that in early spring, when snow on the expansive mountain range had mostly melted, he placed the family herd of approximately 2,000 sheep in the mountains for the summer. There, he watched over the sheep until late fall, when they were moved from the summer range to a winter range in the desert. He described how tending a large flock of sheep was difficult, requiring early days and late nights—waking well before sunrise and finishing long after dark. He could not possibly do it alone.

Others helped tend the flock, including a mix of experienced ranch hands assisted by younger hands who were benefiting from the wisdom of their companions. He also relied on two old horses, two colts in training, two old sheepdogs, and two or three sheepdog pups. Over the course of the summer, my friend and his sheep faced wind and rainstorms, sickness, injuries, drought, and just about every other hardship one can imagine. Some years they had to haul water all summer just to keep the sheep alive. Then, every year in late fall, when winter weather threatened and the sheep were taken off the mountain and counted, there were usually more than 200 that were lost.

The flock of 2,000 sheep placed in the mountains in early spring was reduced to less than 1,800. Most of the missing sheep were not lost to sickness or natural death but to predators such as mountain lions or coyotes. These predators usually found the lambs that had strayed from the safety of the flock, withdrawing themselves from the protection of their shepherd. Would you consider for a moment what I have just described in a spiritual context? Who is the shepherd? Who is the flock? Who are those who assist the shepherd?

The Lord Jesus Christ Himself said, “I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, … and I lay down my life for the sheep.”7
The prophet Nephi likewise taught that Jesus “shall feed his sheep, and in him they shall find pasture.”8 I find abiding peace in knowing that “the Lord is my shepherd”9 and that each of us is known by Him and under His care. When we confront life’s wind and rainstorms, sickness, injuries, and drought, the Lord—our Shepherd—will minister to us. He will restore our souls.

In the same way that my friend tended his sheep with the assistance of young and old ranch hands, horses, and sheepdogs, the Lord also requires assistance in the challenging labor of caring for the sheep in His flock.

As children of a loving Heavenly Father and as sheep in His flock, we enjoy the blessing of being individually ministered to by Jesus Christ. Simultaneously, we have a responsibility to provide ministering assistance to others around us as shepherds ourselves. We heed the words of the Lord to “serve me and go forth in my name, and … gather together my sheep.”10
Who is a shepherd? Every man, woman, and child in the kingdom of God is a shepherd. No calling is required. From the moment we emerge from the waters of baptism, we are commissioned to this work. We reach out in love to others because it is what our Savior commanded us to do. Alma emphasized: “For what shepherd … having many sheep doth not watch over them, that the wolves enter not and devour his flock? … Doth he not drive him out?”11 Whenever our neighbors are in distress temporally or spiritually, we run to their aid. We bear one another’s burdens that they may be light. We mourn with those who mourn. We comfort those who stand in need of comfort.12 The Lord lovingly expects this of us. And the day will come when we will be held accountable for the care we take in ministering to His flock.13

My shepherd friend shared another important element in the watchcare of sheep on the range. He described that lost sheep were particularly vulnerable to the dangers of predators. In fact, up to 15 percent of his and his team’s total time was devoted to finding lost sheep. The sooner they found lost sheep, before the sheep drifted too far from the flock, the less likely the sheep were to be harmed. Recovering lost sheep required much patience and discipline.

Some years ago, I found an article in a local newspaper so intriguing that I saved it. The front-page headline read, “Determined Dog Won’t Abandon Lost Sheep.”14 This article describes a small number of sheep belonging to an operation not far from my friend’s property that were somehow left behind in their summer range. Two or three months later, they became stranded and snowbound in the mountains. When the sheep were left behind, the sheepdog stayed with them, for it was his duty to look after and protect the sheep. He would not go off watch! There he remained—circling about the lost sheep for months in the cold and snowy weather, serving as a protection against coyotes, mountain lions, or any other predator that would harm the sheep. He stayed there until he was able to lead or herd the sheep back to the safety of the shepherd and the flock. The image captured on the front page of this article allows one to see character in the eyes and demeanor of this sheepdog.

In the New Testament, we find a parable and instruction from the Savior that provide further insight pertaining to our responsibility as shepherds, ministering sisters and brothers, of lost sheep:
“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.
“And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”15
As we summarize the lesson taught in the parable, we find this valuable counsel:
We are to identify the lost sheep.
We search after them until they are found.
When they are found, we may have to lay them on our shoulders to bring them home.
We surround them with friends upon their return.
Brothers and sisters, our greatest challenges and our greatest rewards may come as we minister to lost sheep. The members of the Church in the Book of Mormon “watch[ed] over their people, and did nourish them with things pertaining to righteousness.”16 We can follow their examples and remember that ministering is to be “led by the Spirit, … flexible, and … customized to the needs of each member.” It is also critical that we “seek to help individuals and families prepare for their next ordinance, keep [their] covenants … , and become self-reliant.”17
Every soul is precious to our Heavenly Father. His personal invitation to minister is of greatest value and importance to Him, for it is His work and glory. It is quite literally the work of eternity. Each one of His children has immeasurable potential in His sight. He loves you with a love you cannot even begin to comprehend. Like the devoted sheepdog, the Lord will stay on the mountain to protect you through the wind, rainstorms, snow, and more.
President Russell M. Nelson taught us last conference: “Our message to the world [and, may I add, “to our ministering flock”] is simple and sincere: we invite all of God’s children on both sides of the veil to come unto their Savior, receive the blessings of the holy temple, have enduring joy, and qualify for eternal life.”18
May we raise our sights to this prophetic vision so we can shepherd souls to the temple and ultimately to our Savior, Jesus Christ. He does not expect us to perform miracles. He asks only that we bring our brothers and sisters unto Him, for He has the power to redeem souls. As we do so, we can and will secure this promise: “And when the chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away.”19 Of this I testify—and of Jesus Christ as our Savior and our Redeemer—in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

For my second example I turn to the release of a stake president in Star Valley, Wyoming—even the late E. Francis Winters. He had served faithfully for the lengthy term of twenty-three years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.
As I stood to speak following the reorganization of the stake presidency, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he felt when he witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.

Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.

My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.

So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.

“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.

“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”

I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.

I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.

As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.

When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.

Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.

Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.

For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.

He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.

“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.

“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”

I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.

“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.

“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”

John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.

The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.

At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.

The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.

I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.

“I love you, Mom,” I said.

She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.

“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

The Lord’s light helped Shelly Ann Scoffield face a frightening trial in her young life, but she faced it with great faith and love for Heavenly Father. One day Shelly began to feel sick. She saw a doctor, who determined that there was something seriously wrong. Shelly said: “I was scared. I had huge masses on my lungs, and the doctor began to say things like cancer and chemotherapy and radiation.” But Shelly didn’t give in to her fears. True to her training in Personal Progress, she got busy and set a long list of goals to accomplish while she couldn’t go to school because of her treatments. She busied herself with accomplishing good things. She was mindful of her blessings, including a father with the priesthood who had administered to her, a wonderful family, super friends, and great doctors. “Best of all,” Shelly said, “I have a testimony of my Heavenly Father, that He loves me and will help me through this struggle.”

Shelly recorded her thoughts for her young women friends, and I would like to share with you some of what she said:

“I want you girls to know that now is the time to grow close to your Heavenly Father. Work to show Him you can do all that you promised you would do. I am trying. I am learning more now than I have ever in my life known about the gospel. I know that Heavenly Father is with me. When I’m feeling pain and sorrow, He is too, and He just wants me and every one of you, when you’re feeling those things, to get down on your knees and pray for His help, because He is so willing. He loves you so much. I pray that throughout your life, throughout your struggles, that you’ll learn from them and stay close to Him and have faith. Gain a testimony and stay true to what is right.”

Shelly Scoffield passed away November 3, 1998, strong in the faith.

Apples to Oregon: Being the (Slightly) True Narrative of How a Brave Pioneer Father Brought Apples, Peaches, Pears, Plums, Grapes, and Cherries (and Children) Across the Plains, by Deborah Hopkinson, illustrated by Nancy Carpenter. This is the silly tall tale, based on truth, of how young Delicious and her family faced rivers, storms, drought in the desert, and other obstacles on their way across the plains to the West. The colorful oil painting illustrations give even more life to this exciting tale.

Some of these spunky women were instrumental in bringing education, culture, and women’s rights to their communities. At age fourteen Ida Frances Hunt Udall13 had progressed in her education to the point where she served as bookkeeper for the Beaver Woolen Mills. One of a family of eight children, she made the cloth she received in payment for her work into dresses for herself, her mother, and her five little sisters. When she was eighteen her father moved the family across the mountains to Joseph City, in Sevier County, where Ida taught in a log cabin school and continued to develop her musical abilities.

In 1877, when Ida was nineteen, her father and mother responded to the urge to move to Arizona. Ida drove one of the teams on the three-month journey and kept a daily record of that journey in pencil on a still extant stub of a receipt book.

There Ida spent several years teaching until David Udall went to Snowflake, Arizona, searching for a Spanish-speaking clerk for his store in St. Johns; he found much in common with Ida. After several months she became his wife. That was in 1882. In the years that followed Ida bore six children, a daughter and five sons, the rearing and caring of whom devolved mostly upon her because of Bishop Udall’s important Church and civic responsibilities. In the words of Pauline Udall Smith:
“She half soled their shoes, barbered their hair and made every article of clothing they wore until they were nearly grown. She made butter and cheese for sale, raised chickens and a garden each year, while at the same time cooking for hired men. … [She also] found time for the refinement of life. There were petunias blooming in the window or mignonettes in the yard. On the wall hung pictures, the frames of which she had fashioned from pine cones. The Mexican house in which she lived, often ran tubs of water through its leaky roof, yet she never gave up the yearly going over its ceilings and walls herself with the white wash brush. The rag carpet on the floor had taken hours of her time to make, but brought comfort and cheer to her home.
“On the Sabbath day, she was often seen in the cart with its shafts drawn by one horse, accompanied by her children and their cousins on the way to the school house, one mile distant, or perhaps walking another time. There, a Sunday School class would be taught by her or a choir practice held. In the evening, the hired men and boys gathered around the coal-oil lamp, after the evening meal, and listened to Aunt Ida, as everyone called her, play the guitar and sing.”14
Despite crop failures due to drouth and many health problems, this serene intellectual introduced culture and education into many frontier LDS communities in Arizona.

I was baptized on 20 December 1995. Before I was baptized, I read the Questions and Answers section of the Liahona (English) in the November 1995 issue, entitled “I Don’t Feel the Spirit. Is There Something Wrong with Me?” I was touched because I also hadn’t felt the Spirit during Church meetings. But after I read the readers’ answers and testimonies, I tried harder to listen to the sacrament meeting speakers and I felt the Spirit as I never had before. I now make an effort to become interested in what speakers have to say in Church meetings.
Lorna Penuliar,La Trinidad Second Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, is a most interesting place. In company with Elders Richard G. Scott, Rex D. Pinegar, and Larry W. Gibbons, I presided at a regional conference there just a short time ago. The facility in which we met was packed with members of the Church and other interested persons. The singing by the choir was heavenly, the spoken word inspiring, and the sweet spirit which prevailed during the conference will long be remembered.
I reflected on my previous visits to this location, the beauty of the state song—“Oklahoma,” from the musical production of Rodgers and Hammerstein—and the wonderful hospitality of the people there.
This community’s spirit of compassionate help was tested in the extreme, however, on April 19, 1995, when a terrorist-planted bomb destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, taking 168 persons to their deaths and injuring countless others.
Following the regional conference in Oklahoma City, I was driven to the entrance of a beautiful and symbolic memorial which graces the area where the Murrah building once stood. It was a dreary, rainy day, which tended to underscore the pain and suffering which had occurred there. The memorial features a 400-foot reflecting pool. On one side of the pool are 168 empty glass and granite chairs in honor of each of the people killed. These are placed, as far as can be determined, where the fallen bodies were found.
On the opposite side of the pool there stands, on a gentle rise of ground, a mature American elm tree—the only nearby tree to survive the destruction. It is appropriately and affectionately named “The Survivor Tree.” In regal splendor it honors those who survived the horrific blast.
My host directed my attention to the inscription above the gate of the memorial:
We come here to remember those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever.
May all who leave here know the impact of violence.
May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.
He then, with tears in his eyes and with a faltering voice, declared, “This community, and all the churches and citizens in it, have been galvanized together. In our grief we have become strong. In our spirit we have become united.”
We concluded that the best word to describe what had taken place was compassion.

When I married, I never thought that the word divorce would ever become part of my personal history. But despite my pleas and best efforts to save our relationship, my husband left and our marriage ended. I felt like a failure.
A time of deep pain, humiliation, and shattered dreams followed. I had never experienced greater loss or grief.
In the midst of my sorrow, my ministering brothers came to see me. They consoled me and gave me a blessing. Then, in their deep voices, they sang a hymn for me that I didn’t recognize. For me at that difficult time, it was the most beautiful, comforting hymn I had ever heard. They sang:
Where can I turn for peace?
Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart,
Searching my soul? …
Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?
Who, who can understand?
He, only One. 1
I could not help but weep at the words and music. They confirmed for me, and strengthened my testimony of, the truth that the Savior understood me, loved me, and would never leave me alone in my sorrow.
As my ministering brothers finished singing, I remembered the words that Isaiah used to describe the Savior: “Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. … And with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:4–5).

The Evans family was finally moving out of the house on our homestead farm in New Mexico.
“I wish they’d hurry and leave so we can move in,” Ed said as we watched from the barn roof. No one but Papa had seen the inside of the house.
“I wonder if they’ll leave anything,” Caroline said.
“Probably not.”
“The Caldwells found all sorts of good things left in their house,” I put in.
“Like what?”
“A table and some fruit jars.”
“And a pretty good harness in the barn.”
“Don’t forget the stove. They left a good stove,” I added.
“The oven has to be propped up,” Caroline reminded us.
“It’s still good.”
By the time the Evanses had finished loading their belongings onto the wagon and started out the gate, it didn’t seem likely that anything could be left. We slid down the smooth board and ran to look inside. The house was completely empty except for one thing.
“A high chair!” Caroline exclaimed. “Look at that. Georgie can have a high chair.”
“But we don’t even have a table,” I complained.
“Papa will make us one,” she said. “Let’s go ask him.”
After we moved our things from the dugout, Ed said, “Now I get to sleep in the barn.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Nothing doing,” Mama warned. “The barn’s for animals, not children.”
“Papa promised,” Ed told her.
“It’s all right, hon,” Papa told Mama. “The loft’s clean and warm and close enough so that we could hear them call if they needed us.”
“Well, it is pretty crowded in here,” Mama relented a little. “Just one room for the seven of us.”
“Please, mama,” Ed coaxed.
“Please,” I echoed.
“I guess it won’t hurt to try it,” she conceded, and we started out the door.
Frank grabbed my legs and shouted, “I wanna sleep with Dora! I wanna sleep with Dora!”
“Let him come, Mama. I’ll take care of him.” She knew I would too.
“Watch him, then, so he doesn’t fall down the ladder,” she cautioned.
“I don’t fall down ladders.” Frank said indignantly. “I climb down.”
So the three of us moved into the barn.
Papa began to make some furniture, first a table and then a long bench. Georgie would use his high chair. He built a stretched-out sofa, too, and Mama sewed cushions for it. In the barn Papa was working on some chairs with woven seats.
Every day Papa put a bucket down the well, hoping to bring up water, but the best he could get was damp sand on the bottom of the bucket.
“Don’t try the well till I get there,” Ed called down from the loft to Papa, when he heard the door shut after milking.
“Me, too,” I yelled and scrambled down the ladder.
One day the bucket made a splash when it went down. “There’s water,” Papa announced and pulled quickly on the rope to bring up a dripping pailful.
“Water!” Ed shouted.
“Water!” I echoed.
It was a race to the house to tell Mama, and she was so excited she said, “Let’s celebrate. I’ll make pancakes for breakfast.”
“Hurry then,” Papa said. “We have to get the pipe and sucker rods in.”
“What are sucker rods?” Ed wanted to know.
“They’re wooden poles to suck the water out of the ground.”
“Where do you put them?” I asked.
“First, we put a big pipe down to the bottom of the well. Then we put the sucker rods, one at a time, inside the pipe and push them as far as they’ll go into the sand.”
“What if they aren’t long enough?” Ed asked.
“We’ll fasten another one onto the first. They’re made so they can be screwed together.”
“Then will the water come up?”
“Yes, as soon as we build a windmill to run the pump.”
“What if it pumps water all over and makes a mud hole?”
“It won’t. We’ll have it fixed so we can turn if off.”
“What if the wind doesn’t blow when we want water?”
“We’ll have a storage tank. The pump will fill it up when the wind’s blowing, and we’ll use the water when we need it. I saw a galvanized tank in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. I’d better send off for one right away.”
“Pancakes are ready,” Mama announced, and we sat up to the table to eat them.
“Anyone want to go with me to look for a Christmas tree?” Papa said one day in December.
“I do!” Ed shouted.
“Me, too,” I declared.
Caroline had just spread out her paper dolls to play with while the little boys were having their naps, and she didn’t want to pick them up just yet, so she shook her head.
“Where can you find a Christmas tree?” Mama asked. “I haven’t seen any pine trees growing around here.”
“Don’t know,” Papa said. “Maybe we’ll have to use a cactus.”
“A cactus Christmas tree?” Ed sounded disappointed.
“Why not!” Papa said. “Think how pretty it would be with paper chains and popcorn strings.”
“I guess so,” Ed conceded.
“I’ll pop the corn while you’re gone,” Mama offered. “We’ll string it when you get back.”
We tramped around in the warm sunshine, trying to imagine it was winter and that Christmas was nearly here. Although we learned to expect some snow every year, it wasn’t really very much when compared with what we had in Utah. This year December seemed more like March.
We could find nothing on our property that would do, so we started down the road to the sand hills. This definitely was not Christmas tree country. We decided there was no use hunting for a green tree and began to search for something else.
“Look at this,” Ed said, pulling a spiky round bush from next to the fence where it had tumbled in the wind.
“Not bad,” Papa said. “Not bad at all.”
I found another like it but not so squatty. “Look!” I exclaimed.
“That’s even better,” Papa said.
Once we began to look, we found a whole little forest of tumbleweeds along the fence line and finally selected one that was nearly cone shaped. Papa carried it on his shoulder, and we sang “Silent Night” as we walked home in the desert twilight.
The “tree” was suspended from the ceiling in the corner, where Frank and Georgie could see but not touch. We draped it with popcorn strings and chains made from the bright Christmas paper our purchases were wrapped in at Younger’s General Store.
We didn’t receive many gifts that first Christmas in New Mexico. Our stockings contained an apple, an orange, a handful of nuts, and a peppermint stick.
Each of us had one package, and inside was a napkin ring carved by Papa. Tucked inside the ring was a paper Mama had decorated with pretty writing and flowers painted around the edge. It read: “Coupon for part interest in a place of our own. To be redeemed for a deed in seven years.”
It was the best gift of all—the gift of hope. I put mine in the box where I kept my precious things. (To be continued.)

“This is going to be the most boring family home evening ever!” groaned Jeremy, slumping in his chair as he pushed his carrots into his potatoes. “Couldn’t we just stay home and make Easter treats? What kind of Easter celebration is this?”
“We’ve already discussed this,” said Dad firmly. “Too many Easters have come and gone with very little thought about its real meaning. It’s time our family made a change. Tonight’s service project is the sort of thing the Savior was doing the last week of his life—helping others.”
“But why her?” moaned Jeremy.
“That’s enough,” said Mom. “Finish your dinner. We don’t have a lot of time before the sun goes down.”
Sullenly Jeremy sat up and started in on the cold potatoes. It wasn’t that he had anything against their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Adams. And it was obvious that an eighty-year-old widow needed help. But why couldn’t they do something for someone like Sister White? Every time anybody did anything for her, she treated them with delicious homemade cookies.
Or what about the Spencers? Jeremy’s Primary class had helped them move in. The very next Sunday Sister Spencer had even cried as she bore her testimony about “those wonderful Blazer boys.”
And the time Jeremy’s Cub Scout den had cleaned up the playground at the park hadn’t been too bad, either. The mayor himself had written them a thank-you note and sent them each a coupon for an ice cream cone.
But it was going to be different with Mrs. Adams. She hardly did any cooking—people brought most of her meals in to her. She didn’t go out in public enough to tell anybody else how wonderful Jeremy’s family was. And she certainly didn’t have enough money to treat everyone to ice cream. Besides that, she was hard of hearing. She would probably sit in her house watching TV and never even notice that they were working in her yard.
Cleaning Mrs. Adams’s yard was about as hard as Jeremy had imagined. It took his whole family nearly two hours to rake up the dead leaves and grass and prune the bushes on the side of her house. It was nearly dark when they finished. And he had been right about Mrs. Adams and the TV. She had it turned up so loud that they could hear it outside. She never knew what was going on only a few feet away, right outside her door. Even so, Jeremy started to smile when he thought about how surprised she would be.
Jeremy’s oldest sister, Kim, was helping him tie up the last bag of dead leaves. “I know how you feel about tonight. I had to cancel plans with my friends!”
Jeremy didn’t know what to say. Kim was in high school and was so busy that he hadn’t really talked to her for a while.
“But this morning in seminary,” Kim went on, “Sister Hansen reminded us that no one has ever done more for other people on this earth than Jesus. When he prayed in Gethsemane and when he died on the cross, nobody said thank you. Anyway, I started thinking that maybe it would be a good way to celebrate Easter, to do something hard without getting thanked.” She smiled. “You’re quite a worker, you know that? And I happen to know that Mom made brownies for us, so cheer up.” She picked up the bag and carried it out to the curb.
But it wasn’t the brownies that Jeremy was thinking about as he watched her go. He was thinking about how strangely peaceful he felt. The last dark pink of the sunset was just fading, and he could barely see the rest of his family as they gathered up the rakes, pruning shears, and other things and headed home. But he knew that his family were there, and he knew that he loved them. He could see Mrs. Adams through her living room window as she stood up with her cane to go into the kitchen. And while Jeremy didn’t understand all of those feelings he was having, he knew for sure that Easter time was never going to be the same again.

In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.