Gospel Story Finder

If his father is wise, his boy’s early years will be filled with stories of the experiences of the missionaries of the past. He should begin by telling of his own ancestors, to give the boy knowledge that mission adventures are not the exclusive property of the leaders but that the followers had equally miraculous adventures. But, of course, he will want to learn of the heroic journey of Samuel H. Smith and his companion from Far West on an eastern missionary journey. He will want to learn of the missionary journey of Heber C. Kimball and Brigham Young when they, ill from fever, arose from their beds and started out, how Brother Kimball was poisoned and was saved by the loyal work of his companion, and how they miraculously found money in the purse, just enough for each day’s journey. But he will need to know, too, that today with our affluence he may not find money; he will find something far richer—the great joy that comes from seeing people’s lives miraculously changed as they accept the gospel.

Still, the separation the Hammond family felt was a sacrifice. Being halfway around the world from those they loved was difficult. But it wasn’t as difficult as it would have been in the past. Technology made it possible for the family to be involved in one another’s lives as often as needed. Sandi says, “Couples don’t lose contact with their families. We kept in frequent contact with our children’s families back home. Because of FaceTime and emails, our four new grandchildren, born while we served, knew us and were warm and welcoming when we returned.”
Photograph courtesy of the Hammonds

When I was in eighth grade and stood six feet tall, Aunt Ruth, who was visiting us from Baltimore, said one evening, “Well, dear, perhaps you’ll be a high-fashion model. They’re all tall.” Then she looked at my bony knees and elbows that jutted out. “And extremely thin,” she added. That night my mother tried to comfort me.
“There are worse things than being tall,” she said. “If only you’d stand up straight. You’ve just got to stop slumping. You’d look so much better with good posture.” The look on her face added, “Please, please stop growing.”
“If only I could be as short as you are,” I often said to Angie, my older sister. Angie had only grown to be five feet nine inches, and she did look like a model. She was leading a normal life in college and had lots of dates. I was sure if I could only be her height, all my problems would be solved.
“Be proud of your height,” Angie would say. “It’s great to be tall!” But I didn’t listen.
By the time I started at Jackson High School, I stood six feet one inch. Everyday I walked to seventh period with Mary Beth Johnson who was under five feet tall. We caused stares and smiles. I slumped even more when I walked with her, but I didn’t think our height difference was a good reason to tell her I couldn’t walk with her anymore. That sounded so adolescent.
My only comfort at Jackson was that there were several tall basketball players I’d see in the hall once in a while. Whenever I’d see one, I’d try to move as close to him as possible without being conspicuous. It felt wonderful to be small for a change. Bret Price (six feet six inches) had a fourth period class right next to mine, and I often had the chance to walk right behind him to class. I didn’t really have a crush on him, it just made me feel great to walk behind him. One day I guess I was walking a little too closely, because when he stopped I almost bumped into him. In fact, I couldn’t have stopped much closer. Another two inches and there would have been a crash.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“S’okay,” he said.
The rest of the way to my history class, I walked several yards behind him. But, I wasn’t far enough behind him because I heard his friend Bill Wallops, the senior vice-president of the school, say, “That jolly green giant is still following you, Bret.”
“Yeah,” Scott Williams said, “you’d better watch out. She’s your size.” Bret turned to look at me, and I ducked my head and walked into history.
“Watch it, guys!” I heard him say. “She heard you.”
I slid into my seat in the back of the room and slumped down. Jolly green giant. My dark green outfit had always been my favorite. I thought it looked good with my light hair and brown eyes. Now I hated it. I hated myself. I hated being a giant, a jolly green giant. I’ll never wear this awful thing again, I thought. No, never! All my old inadequacies came back—not that they had ever left. I thought of all the names I’d been called in elementary school: Shorty, Shrimp, Skyscraper Susan. They all seemed to flood my mind at once, and I could feel my face getting warm. But, I wouldn’t cry. No, I wouldn’t.
It was a miserable 40 minutes, and I was sure that if Mr. Randolf called on me, my voice would sound choked, and then everyone would know I felt miserable. I tried to hide behind Will Smith, the boy who sat in front of me. That was hard to do because he was only five feet eight.
If the class saw me cry, I was sure it would be passed around the school. “The Jolly Green Giant cried in history class,” they’d say. Then the school clown would be an even bigger joke. I sat in class a few minutes after the bell, partly to copy down the assignment, but mostly to make sure I wouldn’t run into Bret and his friends again. After I was sure they would be way down the hall, I picked up my books and walked toward the back door of the classroom. I hurried faster when I saw Bret looking in the front door.
“Hey,” he called, “wait!” Had he been looking for me? “A little green man asked me to give this to you,” he said as he caught up with me.
“What is it?”
“Read it,” he said, his dark eyes smiling. He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. His large, warm hand that had shot all those winning baskets touched mine.
“Okay.” I must have looked puzzled. He hurried down the hall, and I stood staring after him, stunned. He had spoken to me.
What would the note say? Some other cruel joke about my height? Maybe I should throw it in the trash before I read it. I had, after all, been hurt enough. But curiosity made me take the note to the restroom where I opened it.
There were just three words scrawled on the paper in an easy masculine handwriting. I looked up into the mirror. Girls, all shorter than I, were around me, primping, humming, giggling, gossiping, and making faces as they combed their hair and applied their makeup. I looked back at the note and read it again. “Tall is terrific.”
“Tall is terrific,” I whispered. “Terrific, oh sure.” I looked in the mirror again. Me, terrific? The image smiling back at me was not really as bad as I had expected.
Had I perhaps filled out a little? Was I really a little prettier? I held my shoulders back. I did look better when I stood up straight. And yes, I was rather pretty. It was true I stood many inches taller than the rest of the chattering, giggling girls, but if tall was terrific, that didn’t matter.
I kept my shoulders pulled back and my back straight as I walked into the cafeteria to my regular lunch table where I always ate with my friend Cindy. Before I got to the table, however, I saw Bret Price sitting three tables away with all the “big men” of the school. He was looking right at me and smiling. Bret Price, star basketball player of Jackson, was smiling at me as if to say, “We have a secret. We know you’re terrific!”

Years ago, during my first week working in the Church’s public affairs office in Mexico, we received an invitation from a radio talk show. The show, which discussed world religions, offered us 45 minutes to talk about the Church.
“What a great opportunity,” I told the Area President as I shared details of the invitation. “Whom should we send to represent the Church?”
He responded, “You, of course.”
I was new in the office and very young. I was surprised he didn’t suggest someone with more experience. Nevertheless, I prayed, prepared as best I could, and invited a companion to join me. Soon we found ourselves at the radio station.
“We have with us this evening two representatives from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” the program director said as he introduced us. Then he asked, “Why does your church have such a long name? Why don’t you use a shorter, more commercial name?”
My companion and I were happy to answer such a great question. We explained that the Church’s name was not chosen by a man. Rather, the Savior Himself revealed it through a latter-day prophet (see Doctrine and Covenants 115:4).
The program director respectfully responded, “Then we will repeat the name in its entirety with great pleasure.” And he did—numerous times.
I still remember the sweet spirit we felt as we explained the origin of the Church’s name and how that name refers to the Savior and to the members of His Church today. My companion and I answered a lot of questions, many of which centered on the Church’s name. The experience was a blessing for the Church in our area and for me.

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a six kilometer cross-country trek through the sand hills. There were plenty of ups and downs and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He is the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There will be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I had heard Dad talk about it, and I had heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I had been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at three kilometers, but we had never run the whole six kilometers. That and the hills might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race, too. I had heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good 15 centimeters taller than I am. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I had asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They are less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a kilometer or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred meters ahead, going at a steady pace. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I would be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on me to win, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he had turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred meters ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I had gained a small advantage, since I had rested for a moment and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than 15 meters ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With less than one meter to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you would have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You would have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

Recently in a mission preparation class, we had a discussion about how to open our eyes to God’s love for us. We discussed various things that we could do to feel more self-worth; some of these things are serving your neighbor, praying for help in things that matter to you, reading the scriptures, and being a missionary. All these things are meant to bring us closer to Jesus Christ and help us see our potential to become like Him.
Santiago Z., age 17, Arizona, USA

I lived with my father and family that winter and even attended school. Because of the love they showed me, the prejudices and the hate for Mormons I had grown up with began to fade. Late in the winter my father asked me if I’d thought about being baptized. I told him I didn’t know. He said I could do what I wanted, but that if I believed in the gospel he would like to see me baptized.

He told me that before he had left my mother and Aunt Emily, he had given my brother Isaac and me a blessing. While his hands were on my head he prophesied I would come to the valley of the mountains and afterwards return with my brother. He told me he wanted me to go back in the spring and get my brother Isaac.

Nothing more was said on the subject of baptism for several months, and then I was asked again if I had thought about it. I had felt the healing warmth of the gospel and of members of the Church. I knew it was right. I told my father I wanted to be baptized.

We went up to City Creek. The water was cold, iced over, but I didn’t notice it much. After the baptism my father confirmed me and set me apart for the mission of bringing my brother back.

When I arrived at my old home in May of 1863, my grandparents, brother, and friends were happy to see me. A few days after my arrival, my grandmother and most of the family went to visit some friends for the day. My grandfather was ill and couldn’t go with them. He asked me to stay with him while they were away.

When we were alone he started to ask me questions about my trip to Utah. He asked me if I’d seen my father. I told him I had. He said he was glad I’d seen him. He asked me if I’d been baptized, and I told him I had. To my surprise he also said he was glad for that.

“I have suffered you to be prejudiced towards the Mormons and your father.” He closed his eyes while he talked. “And now I feel it is my duty to remove that prejudice.

“I knew Heber C. Kimball was your father, and I knew he was a good man; but I didn’t want you to know it. I wanted you and Isaac to be the means for my support while I lived. It’s a hard thing to be old and sick. You’ve been to your father now. That’s the way it should be. I’ve been wrong.

“I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and I know Brigham Young is his legal successor. I always did know it. The trouble with me was that I wanted to lead and could not be led. I’ve run my race and sealed my doom. I know what I’ve got to meet.”

My grandfather closed his eyes again and cleared his throat.

“I want you to go back to your father and take Isaac. I know that’s right. I want you to remain steadfast to the gospel, to Mormonism. Never, never yield that point; it will save and exhalt you in the kingdom of God.”

My grandfather wept like a child then.

After hearing the truth about our father, Isaac was willing to go back to Utah with me. We left just a few days after the talk I’d had with my grandfather. When we arrived in Salt Lake City, our father was very happy to see us. He welcomed us into his home, and we contentedly settled down there, feeling more loved and more at home than we had ever felt in our lives.

At a distant stake conference one Sunday I was approached after the meeting by a young man whose face was familiar. He identified himself as a returned missionary whom I had met out in the world a few years ago. He said he had not attended the conference but had come at its conclusion, wanting to say hello. Our greetings were pleasant and revived some choice memories. I asked him about himself. He was in college, still single, and fairly miserable.
I asked him about his service in the Church, and the light in his eyes went out and a dull, disappointed face fashioned itself as he said, “I am not very active in the Church now. I don’t feel the same as I used to feel in the mission field. What I used to think was a testimony has become something of a disillusionment. If there is a God, I am not sure any more. I must have been mistaken in my zeal and joy.”
I looked him through and through and asked him some questions: “What do you do in your leisure? What do you read? How much do you pray? What activity do you have? What are your associations?”
The answers were what I expected. He had turned loose his hold on the iron rod. He associated largely with unbelievers. He read, in addition to his college texts, works by atheists, apostates, and Bible critics. He had ceased to pray to his Heavenly Father. His communication poles were burned, and his lines were sagging terribly.
I asked him now, “How many times since your mission have you read the New Testament?”
“Not any time,” was the answer.
“How many times have you read the Book of Mormon through?”
The answer was, “None.”
“How many chapters of scripture have you read? How many verses?”
Not one single time had he opened the sacred books. He had been reading negative and critical and faith-destroying things and wondered why he could not smile.
He never prayed any more, yet wondered why he felt so abandoned and so alone in a tough world. For a long time he had not partaken of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, and he wondered why his spirit was dead.
Not a penny of tithing had he paid, and he wondered why the windows of heaven seemed closed and locked and barred to him. He was not receiving all the things he could have had. And as he was thinking of his woes and his worn-down faith, his loneliness, and his failures, I was thinking of a burned-out pasture in northern Argentina and burned-off telephone posts and sagging wires and dragging posts.

Presidency meetings can also be a time to evaluate and improve. “We had a sacrament meeting where not too many people showed up, and it was hard to know how to adjust when we were passing the sacrament,” says Bridger O., the deacons quorum president.
“As a presidency,” Bridger explains, we decided that the deacons should talk that through and be prepared if it ever happens again.” The presidency also decided to meet with each new deacon as he comes into the quorum and show him how to pass the sacrament.

“Come in, Thad!” said the bishop, rising from his chair in the tithing house, where he ran the affairs of the United Order of Orderville. “Thank you for coming.” On his desk was a very strange-looking machine—a combination of gears, spindles, and reels, with a handle to turn them—attached to a wooden base on which “Peerless Easy Rope Maker” was printed in gilded letters. I had never seen anything like it.
The bishop came around his desk and shook my hand. “We ordered it all the way from Philadelphia,” he said, nodding toward the machine. “If you’re willing, I’d like you to learn how to use it to make rope from the flax and cotton we grow that aren’t good enough for our cloth factory.”
I tried to look calm and grown-up, but a big grin spread across my face in spite of myself. I had been waiting a long time for a real assignment in the Order. “I’ll do my best, Bishop,” I said.
The bishop patted me on the shoulder. “Thad, I’m sure you’ll be a good worker, just like your brother.”
That hurt. Everyone was always comparing me to my twin brother, Theo, and I usually got the worst of it. He was bigger than I was, had no freckles, and at thirteen looked more like a man than I did. He had already been given many important assignments. This was my first chance. I had to make the most of it.
The bishop handed me the machine. “Take it over to the harness shop, and Brother Spencer will give you any help you need. You will work under his direction.”
The machine was heavy, and it was a hot day and a long way to the harness shop. When I finally got there, I felt as if my arms were stretching. And maybe they were—Sunday Mom complained that my good shirt’s sleeves were getting too short. Anyway, at the harness shop Brother Spencer put the machine in a wheelbarrow and told me to take it to the cabinet shop and have a stand made to mount it on.
The cabinet shop was part of the carpenter area of the Order and was a beehive of activity. The carpenters’ goal was to have a new two-bedroom home completed every six days all summer. The rest of the morning I helped Brother Carling find, measure, mark, and saw the boards into the correct length and size, and drill the holes needed to mount the rope-making machine.
That afternoon we loaded it and its stand on a wagon and took them to the blacksmith shop to be bolted together. Brother Worth, the blacksmith, was a powerful man with huge arms and shoulders. He loved to sing and could be heard singing Church songs as he heated and hammered iron. He was not singing when I arrived but was loading his tools into a wagon. “I have to go up to the factory to help fix a breakdown, Thad. Leave your things, and I’ll send word when we can work on your stand.”
The water in the irrigation ditch looked cool and inviting as I headed back to the cabinet shop. I knew that the swimming hole would be full of my friends keeping cool and having fun. I wondered if running a rope machine would be the end of having a good time.
“Go join the boys for a swim,” Brother Spencer said when I arrived. “Tomorrow we’ll start learning how to make rope.”
At dinner I told everyone about the Peerless Rope Machine and my new job. Theo jokingly said, “You won’t be able to make a rope good enough to hold up a bed.”
Everyone laughed until Dad said, “That’s enough. Let’s kneel down and have prayer.” How good it was to hear Dad pray that I would become a good rope maker.
That night I dreamed that all the horses in town were tied up with my ropes. They broke the ropes and ran away, and someone was calling me to go find them. But it was just the morning call to get up and do chores.
After breakfast I hurried over to the harness shop. By the side of the shop was bundle after bundle of flax and cotton made into short pieces of twine. The machine was still at the blacksmith shop. Brother Spencer picked up a piece of twine and handed it to me. “What does a spinning wheel do to the fibers to make them into thread or string?”
That I knew. I had watched lots of wool being spun. “It twists all the fibers in the same direction,” I answered.
“Right! Has that been done to the cotton and flax we have here?”
“Yes, but they’ve put so many fibers together that I’d call it twine, not thread or string.”
“You’re observant, Thad. But the pieces of twine are short, just leftover bits. How are you going to make them longer?”
I spoke without thinking. “Just tie them together with a knot.”
“Think again. Would that make a nice smooth rope?”
“How else could I do it?”
“Watch! You untwist each end, then lay them together and twist them back together to make a simple, twisted splice. When it’s pulled tight, it will be almost as strong as any other piece of twine. Let’s try it.”
Brother Spencer made it look easy. I tried and tried, but it took a long time to get mine to go together and stay, Finally I could make a good splice almost every time. It wasn’t long until I had a mixed-up mess of newly spliced twine scattered around me.
When Brother Spencer came out to check on me, he said, “Good work, Thad, but where is the end? Find it and start winding what you have connected together into balls. When you get the machine, you will put the twine on the spools as you splice it.”
Early in the afternoon Brother Spencer sent me back over to the blacksmith shop and said, “If you can’t help there with the machine, go ahead and go swimming.”
I went swimming. The boys asked, “Thad, can you make a rope that we can hang from a tree to swing out over the water?”
“Sure!” I said. “That will be a good place to test the rope to see how strong it is and how well it lasts.”
On my way home I went back by the blacksmith shop, and there was the machine, bolted to its stand.
Brother Worth said, “The next wagon that comes by will take it over to the harness shop.” All the way home I hummed the song I had heard him singing. Tomorrow I would make rope.
We took the rope-making machine from the blacksmith shop the next morning and we put it close to the harness shop door so that I could work outside but move it inside easily at night.
Brother Spencer took a spool off the machine and handed it to me. “Fill it with twine.”
Round and round I wrapped the twine. One ball was soon used and then a second, and the spool wasn’t even half full. “Can I put some on a second spool?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I put two balls on the second spool. Brother Spencer watched me. “Go ahead and try to make a two-strand rope. Can you see which holes to thread it through on the tightener?”
“Yes—the ones marked with a two. There are also three holes marked with threes and four with fours.”
“You’re a smart young man, Thad. Now pull both strands over the take-up roller and tie them to the big take-up spool.”
Following his instructions, I threaded the machine and began turning the handle. At first the twine kept breaking, but we kept resplicing it, making adjustments, and trying again. After several failures, we finally got it right, and I saw real rope emerging on the take-up reel. “It’s working! It’s working!” I kept turning. Just as I got the feel for how it should be done, one of the little feed spools ran out of twine. My first attempt at rope making had ended.
Brother Spencer unwound the finished rope and handed me one end. We stretched it out, and it was at least twelve feet long! We again each grasped an end and pulled against each other. We couldn’t break the rope.
“There you are, Brother Rope Maker,” Brother Spencer said. “For the rest of today, make rope with just two strands. Tomorrow you can make some of three strands, and the next day four. Be sure to save samples so that you can see if you’re getting any better. Take this first piece home to show your family. I’m proud of you, Thad.”
That night I sat a little straighter next to Theo at the dinner table. It felt good.
The next two weeks, I untangled lots of cotton and flax twine, joined it together, and made it into rope. We got a long plank and put it up on saw horses so that I would have a good place to join the ends together. The pile of short pieces of twine got smaller and smaller, and my pile of finished rope got bigger and bigger. On Saturday I loaded what was done into the wheelbarrow and hauled it to the tithing office. There I turned it over to the clerk, who wrote up a receipt that read: “One wheelbarrow load of assorted sizes and lengths of machine-made rope of both cotton and flax. Quality excellent.”
(To be continued)

“But I don’t want to take a nap.
I don’t,” Melinda said.
“I want to run and jump and play,
Not lie here in my bed.
“I want to go play hide-and-seek
With Jon and Bill and Sue;
Or maybe make a picture book
With scissors, paint, and glue.
“There are games to play and books to read—
I can’t lie here all day.
There is so much I want to do.
I’m just not tired, I say.
“I could be soaring on the swing
Or working with my clay.
Playing jump rope, jacks, or house
Would be just great today.
“There are so many things to do,
Like playing with my doll.
There are puzzles, toys, and storybooks.
I need to do them all!
“The animals on Grandpa’s farm—
The horses, cows, and sheep—
I’d rather go and visit them;
They’re much more fun than sleep.
“There are a hundred things to do
Instead of lie in bed—
I wish that I could do them all,
’Cause I’m not tired,” she said.
“The sun outside is bright and warm
For splashing in the pool.
And if it gets too hot to swim,
The shade tree’s nice and cool.”
Melinda yawned and rubbed her eyes,
Then sat down on her bed.
She felt worn-out from just the thought
Of doing all she’d said.
She smiled at Mom who handed her
A pillow for her head.
She closed her eyes and then she fell
Fast asleep in bed.

Then Hannah thought about Grandfather Bird. As a young man, Grandfather had gone on a mission to Wisconsin. He had cut down trees, which were then floated down the Mississippi River and used to build the Nauvoo Temple. Hannah had heard him talk about how important temples were. Did she want to go to the temple because of Grandfather?

Growing up, I didn’t believe there was a God. My life was full of turmoil, and in my darkest days I was depressed enough that I wanted to end my life. That was when the missionaries came knocking on my door. The gospel was exactly what I needed; I was drawn to it like a magnet.
My trials didn’t end after I joined the Church, but I was in a better position to resist the influence of the adversary. For the first time, I knew what happiness felt like.

Andrew Christofferson, who had returned to Lehi, corresponded with Fia, asking her to come to Utah. She wanted to emigrate, but she didn’t earn enough money to afford the voyage, so Andrew saved until he could send the money for her passage. She traveled to England where she boarded a boat for the United States. As she landed in Boston, an immigration officer noted her poor eyesight and refused her entry; her poor vision would cause her to be a burden on his country. Sadly she returned to England.
When Andrew learned what had happened, he determined to try again. Once again, he worked and saved and sent her the boat fare. He told her to try entry at New York City this time. Again Fia was refused entry because of her poor vision.

12. How Firm a Foundation, Kaku Family, by Angela Nelson
“When Brother and Sister Kaku invited us into their home in Cape Coast, I felt like I was walking into my own home in Utah,” wrote artist Angela Nelson. “My favorite part was after the commotion of dinner, all the children gathered around their parents with scriptures open. I will never forget being with this family and watching the children look to their parents for guidance and their parents turning to the scriptures for answers.”

“Since you’re friends with us now, you can’t be friends with anyone else,” Jada told me.
“OK,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was friends with the popular girls! I was so lucky! This year was going to be so cool. I could hardly wait to see what popular kids did to be, well, popular.
After school my old friend Aaliyah met me. “Hey, La-Neisha, are you ready?” she asked. We lived on the same street, and normally we walked home together.
I looked around me. I didn’t want Jada to see me talking to Aaliyah.
“No, I don’t want to walk home with you,” I said. Aaliyah looked confused and sad as I turned and walked home alone, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to risk losing my new, popular friends.
That Sunday in Primary, I looked for a place to sit. Aaliyah waved at me. There was an empty seat by her, but I didn’t sit there. Even at church I couldn’t risk sitting by someone who wasn’t popular, I decided. Besides, who needed friends at church? Having the right friends at school was more important.
The next few days, Aaliyah kept asking me to walk home with her, and I kept saying no. Why won’t she leave me alone? I thought. Can’t she see I’m not her friend anymore? I was hanging out with my new friends a lot. Being popular was fun! I tried not to notice Aaliyah at school or church. I told myself she had other friends, so I didn’t have to talk to her.
One night the phone rang. Mom answered it and frowned as she listened.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll talk to her. Thanks for calling.” Mom hung up the phone.
“La-Neisha,” Mom said to me. “That was Aaliyah’s mom. She says you won’t walk home with Aaliyah or even talk to her. Aaliyah is really sad. She doesn’t understand why you keep ignoring her.”
My stomach got tight. I tried to come up with something to say, but I didn’t think Mom would understand how important my new friends were to me.
“I just don’t want to be friends with her anymore,” I said. But I felt guilty. I knew that wasn’t true. I thought of how mean I had been to Aaliyah lately. We used to be good friends. I knew in my heart that the way I was treating Aaliyah was wrong.
On Sunday, Sister Hong gave a lesson on repentance. She said, “If you do something wrong, you need to ask the person you have hurt for forgiveness.” I kept thinking about those words. I knew what I needed to do. I didn’t care what Jada, or any of my popular friends, thought. I was going to talk to Aaliyah and say sorry.
After church I saw Aaliyah. My stomach knotted, but I knew I should ask her for forgiveness. I needed to be kind at school and church—and everywhere in between. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“Hi, Aaliyah,” I said. “Can I talk to you?”
Aaliyah’s face lit up. “Of course.”
The knot in my stomach came undone. Aaliyah didn’t have to forgive me, but I still wanted to ask. Maybe we could start walking home together again. And we could be new, old friends.

My mother, Mildred Bennion Eyring, grew up in the farming community of Granger, Utah, USA. One of her brothers, Roy, followed the family business of raising sheep. As a young man he spent many weeks away from home. Over time he became less interested in the Church. Eventually he moved to Idaho, USA, married, and had three children. He died at the age of 34 when his wife was 28 years old and their children were small.
Even though Roy’s little family was in Idaho and my mother had moved about 2,500 miles (4,025 km) to New Jersey, USA, she often wrote them letters of love and encouragement. My uncle’s family affectionately referred to my mother as “Aunt Mid.”
Years passed, and one day I received a phone call from one of my cousins. I was told that Roy’s widow had died. My cousin said, “Aunt Mid would want you to know.” Aunt Mid had long since passed away, but the family still felt her love and reached out to tell me.
I can still remember the love in the voice of my cousin who called and said, “Our mother has died, and Aunt Mid would want you to know.”
It is a blessing to live in the time when the promise of hearts turning is being fulfilled. Mildred Bennion Eyring felt that urge in her heart. She loved her brother’s family, and she reached out to them. They felt their hearts turn in love to Aunt Mid because they knew she loved them.

Such was Walter Stover of Salt Lake City. Born in Germany, Walter embraced the gospel message and came to America. He established his own business. He gave freely of his time and of his means.
Following World War II Walter Stover was called to return to his native land. He directed the Church in that nation and blessed the lives of all whom he met and with whom he served. With his own funds he constructed two chapels in Berlin—a beautiful city that had been so devastated by the conflict. He planned a gathering in Dresden for all the members of the Church from that nation and then chartered a train to bring them from all around the land so they could meet, partake of the sacrament, and bear witness of the goodness of God to them.
At the funeral services for Walter Stover, his son-in-law Thomas C. LeDuc said of him, “He had the ability to see Christ in every face he encountered, and he acted accordingly.”

Clara groaned. “There’s nothing to do!”
There were lots of things she wanted to do. But she couldn’t. She wanted to go swimming. But the pool was closed. She wanted to play with her toys. But they were packed away. She wanted to play with her friends. But her family had just moved. Now they lived in an apartment where they didn’t know their neighbors.
“Why don’t you color a picture?” Mom asked.
“That’s boring,” Clara said.
But her little brother, Ben, jumped up. “OK!” he said. He ran over to the table and found some crayons. He drew a tree and a yellow sun.
“I want to give this to our neighbor,” he said.
Clara frowned. “But we don’t know our neighbors.”
“Then let’s go meet them!” Mom said.
Ben and Mom walked out the front door. They knocked on the door across the hall. Clara watched from the doorway.
A woman answered. Ben handed her the picture. The woman smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
Clara watched Ben walk back to the table with a big smile. Maybe coloring isn’t so bad, she thought.
Clara sat by Ben. They both colored a picture. Clara drew a rocket ship and lots of stars.
They gave their pictures to two more neighbors. Then they colored more. They gave out pictures for the rest of the afternoon. Some people looked sad when they answered the door. But when they saw the picture, they smiled. Clara and Ben even met a few kids who lived in the apartment building.
When they were done, Clara grabbed Mom’s hand. “That was really fun.”
Mom smiled. “When we do a nice thing for someone, it makes them happy. It makes us happy too. And best of all, it makes Heavenly Father happy.”
“Maybe tomorrow we can ask the other kids to color with us,” Clara said.
“That sounds like a great idea.”
Clara smiled. Coloring and sharing pictures had been fun. Her boring day had turned into a happy one!
This story took place in the USA.

One day a few years ago when my wife and I were riding a train in Holland, a lovely lady some 85 years young shared our six-seat compartment. I greeted her in Dutch, and we spoke for a few minutes when she said, “You’re an American. I can tell from your accent, but where did you learn to speak Dutch?” I told her that I had been a Mormon missionary to Holland some 25 years earlier. Then I asked the golden question, whether she knew anything about the Mormon church.
She had been a missionary with her husband for the Dutch Reformed Church in Indonesia for 25 years, and she said yes, she had heard of the Church. But then she said, “The Mormons are foolish people.” To my question of why she thought we were a foolish people, she said, “They don’t believe in Christ.” I was stunned for a minute. I wondered how someone who knew enough to be a missionary for another church would think Mormons do not believe in Jesus Christ. When I overcame my shock, I asked her if she had read the Book of Mormon. She said she had seen it and read in it a little, but she thought that it was just further evidence that we believed in Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, but not in Jesus Christ.
I asked her if she believed in Abraham and Moses, in Enoch and Isaiah, and Jeremiah and Ezekiel; and she said she certainly did. I wondered how she could believe in those men and still believe in Christ. She answered immediately that those men were Old Testament prophets, and some of them had prophesied that the Messiah would come. I then told her that Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, and even Joseph Smith were also prophets of the Lord Jesus Christ, that they were called to teach other of the Lord’s children than the Jews. And had she read more carefully in the Book of Mormon, she would have seen that its prophets taught of Jesus Christ.
Just as I was warming up to my discussion of how the Book of Mormon teaches of Christ, the train pulled into her stop, and she had to leave. But I sat musing in my mind how someone could even look at the Book of Mormon and not see it is a Christian book. Doesn’t the title page declare that “Jesus is the Christ, the ETERNAL GOD”? But then, that statement appears almost at the end of the second paragraph, and maybe she didn’t read that far.