Gospel Story Finder

“A Blessing in My Life”
Blessing Nwakaego Okoronkwo felt drawn to the Gathering Place in her stake in Nigeria because she wanted to learn a skill—in particular, catering—that would benefit her financially.
“In the class, we learned amazing things,” she says. “I tried to take the class very seriously. I tried not to miss even once, and I always had my notebook and my pen.”
During one class in her Port Harcourt Nigeria North Stake, she and other students learned to make chin chin, a crunchy deep-fried snack popular in Nigeria, Ghana, and other West African nations. Blessing also learned to make peanut snacks.
“I decided to buy my ingredients and practice in my house what I had been taught,” she says. When she took her finished product to the school where she teaches, “Everybody was like, ‘Wow!’”
That prompted her to begin selling her snacks—in small quantities at first and then in larger quantities. Her little business quickly proved successful.
“It’s been amazing!” she says. “I’ve been really blessed by the Gathering Place.”
Blessing encourages others to take advantage of the opportunities that have blessed her. “Just put in your best effort,” she says.

The next week during play rehearsal, while the children playing Dorothy and the other lead characters were practicing their lines, Paige painted scenery with the rest of the munchkins and the flying monkeys. She turned to the girl next to her. “Could you pass the green, please, Trisha?”
“Sure.” Trisha set the paint can between them, and the girls dipped their brushes into it together. Trisha sighed as she gazed toward the stage where the other children were practicing.
“Did you want to be Dorothy, too?” Paige asked.
Trisha shook her head. “I wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West. I would have scared everyone with my cackle.” She cackled wickedly, and Paige laughed.
“That was super! I can’t believe Mrs. Mullen didn’t choose you for the witch after hearing your cackle.”
“I didn’t do it at the audition. I didn’t even try out for the witch. I overheard Sylvie talking about how much she wanted to be the witch, so I decided not to compete against her.”
“Wow, that was nice!”
Trisha shrugged. “It’s what I think Jesus would have wanted me to do. In my church we learn to ask ourselves, ‘What might Jesus want us to do?’ and try to do it.”

I would like to introduce my thoughts today by sharing a story that happened in our family a few years ago. For a long time, I could not even talk about it. However, there are some valuable parallel lessons to be learned from this experience, and so I will share it with you today.

In our family, we had the “kid’s car.” It was a sporty red SUV that was dependable and safe in the snow and the hills around our house. As each child went away to college or on a mission, the car stayed home for the next child to drive, and there were times when the car was shared by more than one child.

One spring day, it was determined that the tires on the car were quite bald, and we needed new ones. One of our daughters, Elizabeth, had the task of taking it in to get the new tires. That day was a stormy spring day, and the rain was really coming down in buckets.

Elizabeth headed out to the tire store, and got onto the freeway. A few minutes later, she hit a puddle of standing water that caused the bald tires to lose their grip on the road and the car did a little spin and bumped into the guardrail on the side of the road. The fender was dented, but she was ok- just a little shaken up. The car was still drivable, and she started up and headed down the road, continuing on to the tire store.

Because of the dented fender and needing some reassurance, she called me on her cell phone. She told me what had happened and that she was sorry for the dent. I made sure she was ok, and then we continued talking for a few minutes as she continued driving down the freeway. (Now, I know you are all thinking that you shouldn’t be talking on a cell phone while driving- and you are exactly right!)

After going a few miles, and while we were still talking, she came to another larger puddle of water. Even though she was going very slow, the car started to hydroplane. As I was talking to her, her voice changed. I could hear the anxiousness build in her voice… “Dad, Dad, Dad, I’m sliding…the car is starting to spin…Dad, DAD…I’m spinning around…………

And then it happened. I heard her yell, as the car spun completely around and then hit the part of the road where the water stopped. Because she was going sideways at that point, the tires skidded on the pavement. Amidst her screams, a horrific, loud, crashing, crunching sound came over the phone as the car flipped and rolled. It seemed like it lasted forever, and then there was silence. Every parent’s nightmare.

I was frantic, calling into the phone…. Liz, Liz, are you ok. For a long while I heard nothing, and feared the worst. Then, I heard a weak voice say….” I, I think I’m ok.” Soon I heard knocking and pounding on the car as people came to help her and were trying to get her out of the mangled wreckage. I handed the phone to Sister Bekker and I raced to my car to go to where the wreck had occurred. When I finally got there, our Elizabeth was being helped by kind people who had witnessed the crash, and luckily she was not hurt. The fun red kid’s SUV was a complete loss, but it had proven to be a cocoon of safety for her as it rolled, and we know she was protected by heavenly angels that day as well. She is now the beautiful mother of three adorable boys, and her kind husband always keeps good tires on her car!

Why do I tell you this story? The reason is simple. Tread on tires can be related to “spiritual tread” in our lives. You cannot go out of the house today without your spiritual tread being thick and deep. Unfortunately, all too often, we are running our lives on bald spiritual tires.

As Gladys Monson lay in Salt Lake City’s St. Mark’s Hospital on Sunday, 21 August 1927 with her first son, her husband, G. Spencer Monson, told her a new bishop had been installed in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake that day. The mother’s response, “I have a new bishop for you,” proved to be prophetic. On 7 May 1950 this son, Thomas Spencer Monson, was sustained as bishop of this ward. Not yet 23 years old, the son, named for his father and his maternal grandfather, Thomas Sharp Condie, was perhaps the youngest bishop in the Church. And the ward, numbering more than 1,000 members, including 85 widows, had the largest welfare responsibility in the Church.

Two examples of Joseph’s ability to receive visions by means of a seer stone illustrate the power associated with the Prophet and this instrument. At Joseph’s annual visit to the Hill Cumorah in September 1826, Moroni told him that he could have the plates the following year if, in Joseph Knight’s words, “he Brot [sic] the right person.” Knight recounted this conversation further:

“Who is the right Person?” The answer was you will know. Then he looked in his glass and found it was Emma Hale, Daughter of old Mr. Hail of Pensylvany, a girl that he had seen Before, for he had Bin Down there Before with me. . . . He came to me perhaps in November and worked for me until about the time that he was Married . . . and I furnished him with a horse and Cutter to go and see his girl Down to Mr. Hails. And soon after this he was Married and Mr. Stowel moved him and his wife to his fathers in Palmyra Ontario County.

His military obligation fulfilled, Hal enrolled in the Harvard Graduate School of Business, where he earned a master’s degree in 1959 and a doctorate degree in 1963, both in business administration. Though he had the intellect to succeed in a career in science, Hal found that his passion lay in teaching, lifting, and strengthening others.
While attending Harvard during the summer of 1961, Hal met Kathleen Johnson, the daughter of J. Cyril and LaPrele Lindsay Johnson, of Palo Alto, California. She was attending summer school in Boston, and Hal was smitten the first time he saw her. He felt an immediate desire to do his best when he was in her presence—a feeling that has continued throughout their lives together.
They dated that summer and continued their courtship through phone calls and letters after Kathleen returned to California. They were married in July 1962 in the Logan Utah Temple by Elder Spencer W. Kimball. That same year Hal became an assistant professor at the Stanford Graduate School of Business.

Like my parents, I needed courage to live the gospel. I spent one year as a soldier in the German army. Most of the soldiers used bad language, smoked, and did other things I knew I should not do. Sometimes I felt alone, but I always tried to keep Heavenly Father’s standards. My officers respected my commitment and allowed me time off to participate in Church activities.
On the last night of a soldier’s service, the soldier and his friends would drink a lot of alcohol and have a rowdy party. I thought and prayed about what I should do when my last night came. When it did, I told the group of soldiers serving with me, “Let’s do something that has never been done before.” We dressed in our best suits and went to say a quiet good-bye to our army leaders. Our major couldn’t believe it. I felt that Heavenly Father had guided me to find an answer to my problem. Looking back, I can see that the greatest blessings in my life have come by following the counsel of prophets and keeping God’s commandments.

Last time you tried that backward shot, the ball ended up in the tree.
Your turn to get the ladder, Matt.
Dad, how can I be a missionary with Franco like Mandy is with Audrey? I don’t know what to say.
Franco knows you’re his friend, right?
Yeah. And I try to be a good example.
Sounds like you’re doing the right things.
I know! I could invite him to our next Primary activity!
Good idea. And if he says no, you’ll still be friends, right?
Of course!
Hey, I just thought of a new shot I want to try.
Good thing the ladder is still out.

Like so many other young married couples, Jeff and Pat struggled through their student years at Brigham Young University. Nearing graduation in 1965, he was not eager to become a teacher of English, his academic major. Then came an opportunity to teach religion half-time at BYU while he worked on a master’s degree in religious instruction. He regarded it as an answer to prayer and felt privileged to be hired as an institute teacher in the Church Educational System on completion of his graduate work in 1966.

After a year in Hayward, California, teaching at several institutes in the area, he was appointed director of the institute in Seattle. Seattle Temple President Brent Nash, who was called as stake president during that time, says Jeffrey Holland reached out to many young members who might otherwise have faded into anonymity on campus. “Youth were drawn to him. If he was able to bring some of those young people into the institute, the gospel changed them.”

It was a time when uninformed comments about the Church had generated controversy on campus, but the young institute director’s ability to make friends and touch hearts helped erase ill feeling among students and organizations allied with other faiths. He became a sought-after speaker for firesides and other Church programs, and his wife frequently spoke along with him.

But anticipating a lifelong career in the field of education, Jeff knew he would need more schooling, including a doctoral degree. Years earlier, at BYU, he had opened a Yale University catalog and felt prompted that one day he would go there. A Yale-educated professor at the University of Washington recommended him for Yale’s American Studies program, and the Hollands moved to New Haven, Connecticut, in 1970.

I have always been interested in animals and birds, and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal. But he was patient enough to teach me.

I understood that it was common for members to receive their temple endowment before entering the mission field, so I started preparing to enter. I knew that one of the changes that would occur in my life would be committing to wear the temple garment. I hadn’t thought much about garments before I started to prepare for the temple, so I didn’t have any preconceived notions about wearing them.
After moving to college, I worked with my bishop and went to institute every week. My institute instructor was kind enough to offer tailored temple preparation instruction for several weeks up until my endowment date. This was a tender mercy, considering that I was away from my home ward and didn’t have any family in the Church to guide me. Eventually I received my mission call to Paraguay, and I was ready to go to the temple for the first time.
Going to the temple felt like returning home. Even putting on garments for the first time felt like the missing piece to a puzzle I was trying to solve. I understood that my covenant to wear the garment was an important step in my spiritual progression, and although this decision is sacred and personal, I made it happily because I knew that the knowledge I would gain about my divinity as a daughter of God was above anything the world could offer me.
After I received my endowment, the biggest adjustment was not in how I felt when wearing garments but in the new wardrobe I had to build up thereafter. I purged a lot of clothes in my closet that wouldn’t cover my garments.
However, making those changes in my life felt right. Because I put in the time to prepare for the temple, the adjustment to my wardrobe was a happy, easy experience. And as I strived to learn more, I deepened my testimony that committing to wear the temple garment is more than just an adjustment in wardrobe—it is a symbol of my devotion to my Savior, Jesus Christ, and my choice to follow Him. It is also a gift—a tangible reminder of my temple covenants and the power, protection, and blessings available to me through the Savior’s atoning sacrifice.
My only expectation going into the temple the day of my endowment was to feel God’s love for me. I was able to feel that in the temple more abundantly than ever, and I was determined to keep my covenants and wear my garments because I never wanted that feeling to go away.
During the loneliest and most treacherous times of my life, my testimony of simple, bedrock gospel principles has nudged me to wear my garments always and intentionally while striving to keep the covenants I made in the temple.
I find great comfort in these words from President Russell M. Nelson:
“Whenever any kind of upheaval occurs in your life, the safest place to be spiritually is living inside your temple covenants!
“Please believe me when I say that when your spiritual foundation is built solidly upon Jesus Christ, you have no need to fear. As you are true to your covenants made in the temple, you will be strengthened by His power. Then, when spiritual earthquakes occur, you will be able to stand strong because your spiritual foundation is solid and immovable.”1
My life has not become easier since joining the Church. In fact, the most trying times of my life occurred after my baptism. However, I know that my knowledge of the restored gospel and the strength from the covenants I made in the temple have made these challenges bearable, and the outcomes would have been drastically different without my faith in Jesus Christ.
It’s challenging to live intentionally as a disciple of Christ when the world seems to be at odds with the standards that I strive to keep. But as President Nelson stated, the best refuge for me is living within my temple covenants, including wearing my garments the way I promised to. And as I continue to do so and stay on the covenant path, I know I will experience joy.

For many New Caledonian young adults, their missions help prepare them for a lifetime of Church service. Syoelanne (Syo) Ulivaka received a call to serve as second counselor in the bishopric only a week after being released from his full-time mission. “I had just finished my mission,” Syo says. “I was tired, and I had told myself, now I’m going to rest.” But he still accepted the call. “I realized I’ll go where the Lord wants me to go. I’m in His service—not just for two years, but for life.”
Since he served in the bishopric, Syo has now gotten married, has a child, and has moved to a different ward. But he continues to serve and fulfill his Church callings.
Elder Earl C. Tingey, emeritus General Authority Seventy, told young adults: “A Church calling is one of the most wonderful blessings you can enjoy at your stage of life. You have so much to contribute to the ward or branch where you live. Your talents and skills are necessary to a growing Church.”3 Syo isn’t the only young adult on the island whose skills have been put to use to help the growing Church—other young adults serve in almost every capacity at the ward and stake level. Syo says, “We try to bring back the things we’ve learned on our missions to strengthen our stake and our wards.” These young adults make many sacrifices in order to strengthen the kingdom in their home country, but as Syo remarks, “what we sacrifice is mostly our time.”
Some young adults have two or even three callings. “That can be a blessing for them, but it can also be a burden,” says Syo, as many struggle to balance the demands of young adulthood with their Church responsibilities. “It’s hard to do everything at the same time.” But Syo found that when he put the Lord first, the rest was easy to accomplish. He says, “The Lord has helped with everything else—school, finding a wife—it was all in the Lord’s hands.”
Syo recognizes that, when it comes to serving the Lord, “We are His tools.” In these times of Church growth, the Lord will call upon the Saints of all ages, everywhere, to accept responsibilities to build and strengthen His kingdom. Are we ready to answer that call?

Olá! My name is Alice, and I try to SHINE MY LIGHT by SHOWING GRATITUDE!
I live in Brazil with my parents and sister and brother. My sister Julia and I play the piano for sacrament meeting in our ward.
One Sunday, a man named Brother Stahlke gave us a present. He said it was a gift to thank us for the music we played on Sundays. When we opened the box, we found a special kind of flute inside! I put the flute together and started playing. I was enchanted by the sound.
Soon I started playing hymns on the flute. I wanted to do something to thank Brother Stahlke for the gift. So I practiced the hymn “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195). I asked my dad to take me to Brother Stahlke’s house so I could show him that his gift helped me discover a new talent.
When I played for Brother Stahlke, he was very happy and emotional. He told me that he had a dream about this hymn the night before! I felt the love of God for him and for me.
When we show gratitude, the Lord blesses us with happy feelings from the Holy Ghost.

Ron Rasband never doubted that he would serve a full-time mission. The only question the 19-year-old had while opening his mission call was where he would serve.
“My dad went on a mission to Germany. My older brother went on a mission to Germany. My future brother-in-law went on a mission to Germany,” he recalls. “I thought I was going to Germany.”
But the Lord had other plans. Ron had been called, instead, to the Eastern States Mission, headquartered in New York City, USA. Disappointed, he took his call to his bedroom, knelt by his bed, said a prayer, randomly opened his scriptures, and began reading:
“Behold, and lo, I have much people in this place, in the regions round about; and an effectual door shall be opened in the regions round about in this eastern land.
“Therefore, I, the Lord, have suffered you to come unto this place; for thus it was expedient in me for the salvation of souls” (D&C 100:3–4; emphasis added).
Immediately, the Holy Ghost confirmed to Ron that his call to the Eastern States Mission was no mistake.
“I went from being disappointed to having my first of many scriptural impressions that this is where the Lord wanted me to go,” he recalls. “That was a pivotal spiritual experience for me.”

There was an architect in that first company, William Weeks, who had designed the Nauvoo Temple. But the hopeless desolation was too much for him. When President Young went east in 1848, Brother Weeks left, saying, “They will never build the temple without me.”

Truman O. Angell, a carpenter, was appointed to replace him. He said: “If the President and my brethren feel to sustain a poor worm of the dust like me to be Architect of the Church, let me … serve them and not disgrace myself. … May the Lord help me so to do.”

After I graduated from high school, I went to BYU. In my freshman English class I was assigned to write an essay about a time when I overcame a conflict. I chose to write about my relationship with Bruce. It was a very difficult paper to write, but after I did, I felt better.

A few months later I was asked to give a talk in my ward on repentance. I decided to share the story I had written. My mother and Bruce weren’t going to be able to make it. I was actually quite relieved to find out they weren’t going to be there. Then just before I was supposed to give my talk, my mother and Bruce slipped into the back of the chapel. My heart started to beat wildly. I felt like I was going to cry. I had to pull it together. What was I going to do?

After a few minutes into my talk, I began to read my story, and as I did, tears came streaming down my face. I paused, took a deep breath, and continued to cry throughout the rest of my talk. When I finished, I looked over at my mom and Bruce. They were both teary-eyed and sniffling. After church Bruce came up to me and told me he was so sorry. He said he hadn’t realized what I had been going through. He told me that he was sorry, whereas I was the one who had done all of the terrible things. I quickly told him that I was sorry and that I hoped he could forgive me. The beautiful part was that he had already forgiven me. I didn’t even have to ask.

Once, when I was trying to develop a habit of getting to bed early, a ward member heard me talk one Sunday about my hope to get more sleep that week. He asked me what I was going to do to make it happen. I committed to go to bed by my desired time at least one night that week. “I’ll ask you about it next week,” he said. I believed he would, so I kept my commitment.

Sure enough, the next week at church he asked if I had met my goal (I had!), and he asked if I would do it again the next week. I knew he would follow up, so I did it. The next week, he encouraged me to meet my goal twice that week. And the next week? He committed me to three nights. He kept encouraging me each week until my plan was a real habit.

Years later, I told that story to another friend at church because I had fallen out of my good habit and knew I needed to start again. “I’ll help you be accountable,” she said. So each week she followed up with me until I developed a habit of good sleep again. Over the years, family and close friends have helped me with goals to get enough sleep, but the two times it has been most effective were when ward members—with whom I wasn’t especially close—helped me set and keep a goal and then followed up with me in an encouraging way.

I think dinosaurs are terrific! My mom says I’ve been crazy about them ever since I could talk. I can’t always visit the museum or library when I want to, so I go on lots of pretend dinosaur hunts. Then I make a museum in the backyard. When my family and friends visit my museum, I tell them all about these wonderful animals.
Other prehistoric creatures roam my backyard too. I dig holes in the dirt and fill them with water so the woolly mammoths and sabertoothed tigers can have a drink at my tar pit.
One day my backyard games turned into the real thing. I was digging a tar pit in the garden when my shovel clanked on something buried underground. I bent down to see what it was and I came up with a hard brown rock about the size of my fist.
I couldn’t wait to show somebody what I had, and I ran into the house calling, “A fossil! I found a fossil!”
“Take that dirty dog bone back outside,” Mom said.
So I did. I pulled some picnic benches together and set up my museum workshop. I knew just what to do because I had watched the scientists through the glass wall at the Page Museum. The equipment I needed was under the kitchen sink: a scrub brush, a towel, a container for water.
I went to work cleaning my discovery. With the brush and water I scrubbed off most of the garden soil. I dried it with a towel. It was smooth and dark brown with two bumps on one end. The other end looked like it had been broken.
It was a wonderful fossil. I played museum with it until dinnertime. This time when I took it into the house Mom didn’t say no. And the next morning she told me she had looked at my fossil while I was sleeping. “I’m sorry I called it a dog bone,” Mom said. “It really does look rather unusual.”
Then she called the page Museum at the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles, California. She described what I had found in the backyard, and the man asked her to bring it in for him to examine.
So the next Saturday our family drove to the museum. We met the man my mom had talked to on the phone. I showed him my fossil. He showed it to another man, and I thought he said, “Bison.” Then he looked at me and said, “I think you’ve found something, son.”
The man took us into a room on the other side of the glass wall. There were rows and rows of big gray drawers. He pulled open a drawer and brought out a fossil that matched mine and another one that was longer than my arm.
“You have found part of a rib bone of a Bison Antiquus,” he said. “This long one is what the entire bone looks like.”
He told me that the Bison Antiquus is an extinct relative of our American buffalo and that an ancient Indian tribe used to hunt the Bison Antiquus in what is now Southern California. I closed my eyes and tried to picture all this happening in my own backyard thousands of years ago.
“Before you leave, be sure to take a look at the skeleton of the entire Bison Antiquus in the exhibit area,” the man said.
My mom asked him what we should do with my fossil. And he said to take it home and save it, because someday I might be a paleontologist who studies fossils.
We said good-bye and he shook my hand. “Keep up the good work,” he told me.
And I have. I still play museum in my backyard. Sometimes friends come over to help me dig because they heard about my fossil on the six o’clock television news. But mostly I play with my little brother, Jeff.
The other day Jeff found something in the dirt, and I knew it was a fossil. We showed it to Mom and she promised to take us back to the museum soon. I wonder what this fossil is. It sort of looks like it came from a sea animal.
When I grow up I want to learn all about prehistoric animals. Then when I find a fossil, maybe I’ll have a real museum and can figure out what it is all by myself.

Molly held five tickets in her hand as she walked to school. Every Monday, Mom gave her tickets to buy milk at lunch. But lately Molly had lost her tickets before lunchtime. Today Molly was determined to not lose her tickets. When she got to school, she carefully put the tickets in her pocket before playing on the slide.
When the bell rang, Miss Martin came outside. The children began to give her their milk tickets for the week. Molly put her hand in her pocket, but the tickets were gone! Molly’s heart sank. She knew Mom would be disappointed.
Molly panicked as she moved closer to Miss Martin. She decided to make up a story so she wouldn’t get in trouble. She said to her teacher, “A boy took my tickets.”
Miss Martin looked surprised. “Which boy, Molly?” she asked.
Molly’s eyes searched the playground and found an older boy kicking a ball. She pointed at him. “That boy! He took my milk tickets.”
Miss Martin told Molly to go to the classroom while she talked to the boy. Molly felt awful. She hadn’t meant to get the boy in trouble.
All Molly could do all morning was worry. But she knew if she told the truth, she would be in trouble for lying.
As Molly was going to recess, the principal stopped her and asked her to come to his office.
“Oh no!” she thought. “He knows I lied, and I’m going to be in trouble!”
But the principal talked to her nicely and asked her to tell him what happened that morning. Molly said the boy had taken her milk tickets.
“Are you sure that is what happened, Molly?” the principal asked.
She nodded. The principal told her she could go to recess.
As Molly left the office, she saw the boy sitting in the hall. He looked like he had been crying. Molly knew how much trouble she was causing, but she was too scared to tell the truth.
After school Molly walked home slowly, feeling worse with every step. When she got home, Mom said, “Molly, the principal called.”
Molly couldn’t stand it anymore. She started to cry, and she told Mom the whole story.
“Molly, this is a very bad thing you’ve done. Do you understand that?” Mom said.
“Yes.” Molly really did understand.
“What do you think you should do?” Mom asked.
Molly knew she had to tell the truth. But what if the principal got angry? What if Miss Martin didn’t like her anymore? Molly didn’t know if she had enough courage. But then she thought about the boy she had gotten in trouble, and she knew she had to be brave.
“I want to go back to school,” she told Mom.
Mom held Molly’s hand as they walked back to school. The principal listened carefully.
“Molly, I am disappointed in you,” he said. “But I am glad you decided to tell me the truth. I know it wasn’t easy.”
While they were walking home together, Mom said, “Molly, I am proud of you for telling the truth. But what else do you think you need to do to make this right?”
“I need to apologize to that boy,” Molly said.
“Right,” Mom said. “I can drive you over to his house tonight.”
Molly’s heart got a little lighter. “Mom, do you think we should make him some cookies too?”
Mom hugged her. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

A note from a sister in her ward comforted Raihau Gariki of Tahiti, who was called as a Relief Society teacher just one month after turning 18. She was nervous to teach “mothers and grandmothers, women who already knew so much, had faced many trials, and experienced a lot of things.” After her first lesson, she received “a note full of love” from a woman in the class. This note bolstered her confidence—she pasted it in her journal to help her through hard times.