Gospel Story Finder

It started out like any other day at school. Our teacher, Miss Blackstock, was writing on the chalkboard while I sat daydreaming at my desk. Then our principal walked in with a boy I had never seen before. The principal whispered something in Miss Blackstock’s ear, and everyone got quiet trying to listen.
The boy stood at the front of the classroom while the other kids stared at him. His faded plaid shirt hung loosely. There was a hole in the knee of his pants. With slumped shoulders, he dug his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor.
After the principal left, Miss Blackstock said, “Class, I would like you to meet Caleb Sanders. He recently moved here from Montana. That is quite a distance from here! Caleb, you may take the seat next to Luke.”
She pointed to the seat next to mine, and the class watched as Caleb nervously made his way down the aisle. As Miss Blackstock turned back to the chalkboard, whispers filled the room. Some of the kids were saying mean things about the way Caleb was dressed.
“Look at those weird boots,” someone said.
“He could hike up the Himalayas in those!” another boy chimed in.
I glanced over at Caleb, but he just sat there staring at his blank notebook page and clutching his pencil. I knew that he must have heard them because I saw him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Then a couple of boys snickered so loudly that Miss Blackstock stopped writing.
“I see that everyone is eager to talk to Caleb, so let’s have him come up here and tell us a little bit about himself,” she said.
The class got quiet and stared at Caleb. I felt sorry for him. The boy who sat behind him kicked the back of Caleb’s chair and jeered, “Go ahead, mountain boy.”
Caleb slowly made his way to the front of the class. His hair partly covered his eyes, and his boots scuffed the floor when he walked. The kids around me snickered again. I knew that Miss Blackstock was trying to help, but I was afraid this would only make things worse.
One boy raised his hand and asked, “Where did you live in Montana, under a rock?”
The class burst into laughter.
The girl on the front row asked, “Does everyone in Montana dress like you?”
I felt my face getting hot as anger welled up inside me. If someone didn’t stop this, I knew Caleb would remain an outcast for the rest of the school year. But if I stuck up for him, the kids might laugh at me too.
Then I remembered what my stepmom told me when I tried out for the soccer team. She told me about David in the Old Testament. David was the youngest of all his brothers, but the Lord chose him to be king. It didn’t matter what he looked like. Sometimes people judge others by their appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.
I knew Caleb needed help, so I raised my hand. Miss Blackstock called on me. Caleb didn’t look up. He probably expected me to make fun of him too.
“I’ve heard that there are some cool parks in Montana with great hiking trails. What are they like?” I asked.
The class got quiet. I felt my face turning red again, but Caleb smiled. I could see that he was relieved to answer a kind question. In a quiet voice he started to speak.
He told us that his family had lived on a large ranch in Montana, and he had even owned a horse. He told about his favorite trail in Glacier National Park and how he had encountered a real live bear. As he told more and more about his home, the other kids began asking questions about the bear, the hiking, and the rock climbing.
After school I wasn’t sure if anyone would sit by me on the bus. I held my backpack close and stared out the bus window. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Caleb.
“Can I sit here?” he asked shyly.
“Sure!” I said, moving over to make room.
I never would have guessed how that day would turn out. I am glad I had the courage to be nice to Caleb. Now he has many friends—and I’m proud to be one of them.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

One year a girl moved into our ward whose parents smoked and drank. We became friends, and went everywhere together. Her name was Elaine, and she became active in the Church. Although her parents were inactive, they were very kind to me and welcomed me into their home. When we were in junior high school, Elaine became very popular. Some of the girls wanted to crowd me out of Elaine’s circle of friends, but she wouldn’t let them. Then one day our friendship crashed. I was without my best friend for two horrible years. It was especially hard for me because Mama was very ill then.
Mama’s family had taught me to love music, and two songs were very special to me: “I’ll Walk with God” and “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” When the loneliness at school and the rejection at home got to be too much for me, I would go walking in the wheat fields and sing them. As I sang, I was filled with hope and courage, and I could feel the Spirit of the Lord giving me guidance and comfort.
At the end of ninth grade, Mama started taking a medication that helped her to feel better. By the time I graduated from high school, she started getting out into the community a little, and life was easier for all of us.
I feel that the Lord helped me develop a compassion for other people’s feelings because of the experiences that I had because of my mother. I grew up to love the Lord and depend on Him. And I never felt that I was alone, because I knew that He was always there when I needed Him.

When I joined the missionary preparation class, things didn’t go smoothly. I was battling personal conflicts and worried that I wouldn’t make a difference as a missionary. I felt more anxious every day.
I struggled with these feelings for a while and prayed to know if I really was good enough to serve.
One day, as I checked my email, I opened a message from ComeuntoChrist.org. There, in big, bold letters, were the words “You Are Enough!”
These words pierced my heart, and I felt comforted. My prayers had been answered! I realized that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are fully aware of our circumstances and can answer our prayers in the most personal ways.

It was while I was on my first mission that I discovered the constant need for dependence on the Lord.

I was a young missionary in northern England in 1922. Opposition to the Church became very intense. It became so strong that the mission president asked that we discontinue all street meetings, and in some places tracting was also discontinued. The opposition started largely among the ministers, and it became very, very severe. They didn’t know anything about us to speak of. I remember tracting one day when a lovely lady came to the door. We were having a nice conversation and the name Mormon was mentioned by my companion. Her husband came to the door in a Navy uniform, and he said, “Oh, you can’t tell me anything about those old Mormons. I’ve been in the British Navy for twenty years. We sailed right into Salt Lake port, and they wouldn’t even let us land.” That was so typical of what they knew about us in those days.

My companion and I had been invited to travel over to South Shields, on the northwest coast, and speak in the sacrament meeting.

In the letter of invitation, we were promised there would be a number of nonmembers present. They said, “Many of our friends do not believe the lies that are printed about the Church.”

We fasted and prayed sincerely and went to the sacrament meeting. The hall was filled. My companion had planned to talk on the first principles, and I had studied hard in preparation for a talk on the Apostasy. There was a wonderful spirit in the meeting. My companion spoke first and gave an excellent inspirational message. I followed and talked with a freedom I had never before experienced in my life. When I sat down, I realized that I had not mentioned the Apostasy. I had talked about the Prophet Joseph Smith and had borne my witness of his divine mission and of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

After the meeting ended, many people came forward, several of whom were nonmembers, and said to us, “Tonight we received a witness that Mormonism is true. We are now ready to consider baptism.”

This was an answer to our prayers, for we had prayed to say only those things which would touch the hearts of the investigators.

Hope was a little Pilgrim girl who lived in a log cabin with her family. Although she wasn’t eight years old yet, she could do many things to help around the house. She could rock the baby’s cradle. She could wash dishes, brush the ashes back from the hearthstone, and churn the cream in the wooden churn until the golden butter chunks sloshed in the buttermilk. She could do these things and more. Sometimes she even helped with sewing hems in towels.
The sewing had to be done by hand, so Hope’s mother showed her how to hold the needle, push the shiny point into the cloth, and pull it carefully out again to make a stitch that would not pucker the cloth.
Hope didn’t like to sew. “The needle pricks my hand,” Hope complained to her older brother, John. “I wish you had to sew. You get to be outside carrying the firewood to the shed. You don’t have to make silly stitches line up in a straight row! I hate sewing!”
John laughed. “Wood splinters prick too. And carrying wood isn’t fun. But since you hate sewing, you won’t be making a quilt block for the new schoolmaster’s quilt, will you?”
“Quilt for the schoolmaster? I know nothing about it.”
“I guess no one told you because your sewing isn’t good enough. The women and some of the older girls are going to make quilt blocks and then put them together for the new schoolmaster. I heard Dame Blodget say that all finished blocks are to be put in a box at the church entry so they can be joined to make the quilt. Mother is so busy she can’t help; it’s too bad we haven’t a girl in our family who can sew well enough to make a quilt block.”
When John left to do his chores, Hope sat still for a long time. She frowned and tapped her foot fretfully against the wooden floorboards for awhile. Then she got up, hunted for some scraps of material from her mother’s sewing box, and rummaged about for thread. “I can sew a block, even though John thinks I can’t. I can and I will! I’ll put four little pieces together, and I’ll make a yellow flower right in the middle, and it will be beautiful!”
Each day whenever she had time, Hope worked on her quilt block. She said nothing about it to anyone. She worked only when she was left alone to tend the baby or when she was outside, perched on a log under the big fir tree.
Hope worked carefully to join the four small pieces together. But then it seemed that the yellow flower just didn’t want to be made. She pricked her fingers, and the yellow stitches went this way and that instead of coming out smoothly and evenly from the center. Again and again Hope pulled out the stitches and put them back in. When the block was finally finished, tears ran down her cheeks as she looked at it. “It’s horrible! John was right, and this block isn’t even clean anymore.”
Finally Hope wiped her tears, wadded her work into a ball, pushed it into a crack in the fir tree’s bark, and went back to the cabin.
It was almost a month later when John came into the cabin and said, “Hope, the schoolmaster’s quilt is all finished. It’s spread on a table at the meetinghouse. Come see it.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Hope answered as she turned away. “I don’t care about a silly old quilt.”
“Mother says it isn’t kind or respectful not to admire the work of others,” John answered. “If you aren’t jealous of good sewing, you’ll come.”
“Oh, all right. I haven’t anything else to do right now,” Hope said. “I’ll go.”
When she and John entered the meetinghouse, Hope saw the quilt spread on the table. It was made with rows of quilt blocks joined together. It looked drab at first glance, but as she drew nearer, Hope’s eyes opened wide, and she gasped. A bright yellow glob in the middle of the quilt was all she could see. “My block,” she cried. “How did it get—?”
John grinned. “I found it,” he said. “I found it in the tree and took it to Mother. She washed it and brought it to the church. And do you know what, Hope? The new schoolmaster said he’d rather have that bright block made with a little girl’s hands than all the rest put together. He’s proud of it.”
“Oh, John!” was all Hope could say.
“I’m proud too,” John added. “And I think that when you grow up you’ll probably be the best seamstress in the whole country.”
Hope laughed happily. She tucked her hand into John’s bigger one, and they hurried home to tell their mother all about the schoolmaster’s quilt!

“Am I ever bored,” Natalie said on Monday morning as she and her sister and brothers sat under the maple tree in their backyard, drinking lemonade. “School’s only been out two weeks, and I’ve already run out of things to do.”
“Me, too,” Travis agreed. “Later we’ll have swimming lessons and summer camp, but right now, what?” He was the oldest Carter child. They ranged in age from Johnny, who was six, to Travis, fourteen; with nine-year-old Natalie, ten-year-old Roger, and twelve-year-old Susan in between.
“I’ve been thinking,” Susan said slowly.
“Hooray!” Roger teased.
“Seriously,” Susan went on, making a face at Roger, “why don’t we form a club?”
“We’ve already had lots of clubs,” Johnny groaned. “And I never got to be president of any of them.”
“Not a regular club—a special one, one that isn’t just for fun, but to help people too.”
“Sure!” Travis exclaimed. “We could have a good-deed club, or something like that. We could secretly do nice things for people.”
“We’ll need a name and a general plan,” Natalie pointed out.
“Why don’t we each think of a different good deed. That way we’ll do one for each day of the week,” Roger put in.
“Let’s call ourselves the Sunshine Club,” Natalie suggested.
“OK!” the others chimed in.
“Let’s pick ideas from oldest to youngest,” said Susan.
They all agreed. Then Travis announced that he already had an idea for that day. “Remember Jeff, the boy who was burned in that house fire last week? We heard about it in sacrament meeting and in Primary. We could each write him a letter and send a get-well card.”
After lunch the children wrote notes to Jeff. Johnny cut out pretty pictures from a magazine to help fill his page, and Natalie included a poem she liked. Travis found a card with a happy verse in the family greeting-card box.
The children rode their bicycles to the post office and mailed the large envelope. “That was fun, wasn’t it!” Johnny whooped as they pedaled home.
After supper, the Sunshine Club met hastily on the back porch. They decided to announce their activity at ten each morning and to try to complete it during the afternoon.
On Tuesday, Susan suggested they pick flowers from their garden, make bouquets, and take them to the retired people’s center. That afternoon, while Susan and Roger cut flowers with Mom’s permission, the other three children found old jars that they cleaned and covered with foil or pretty wrapping paper.
“Off we go,” they cried as they headed into town, pulling a wagon loaded with colorful blossoms. At the retirement center, they split up and each delivered three small vases of flowers.
Roger was having a hard time deciding what to suggest for Wednesday. But when Mom said she would be gone all day, his eyes sparkled. “Today the Sunshine Club stays home to help Mom.”
“But we always help,” Johnny said, disappointed.
“We do our regular jobs—but I mean special ones.”
So that afternoon the children washed all the windows and the kitchen floor. Then they made some corn bread, heated up some stew, and sneaked out of the kitchen just as Mom came home. She was pleased to see the shiny clean windows and glossy floor and to smell supper on the stove.
“My, how wonderful to have so many mysterious elves around our home,” she remarked at supper. “This stew is delicious, and the corn bread tastes great!”
Thursday morning when the children met, Natalie appeared about to burst. “We’ll collect aluminum cans today and give the money we make to the homeless shelter.” All afternoon they knocked on doors asking for old cans. They searched along roadsides too. A large stack of cans grew in their backyard.
When Dad came home, he volunteered to take the cans to the recycling center.
“Thanks, Dad,” Travis said. The others nodded their thanks too. They all helped load the plastic bags filled with cans into their van. Natalie went into the center with Dad and proudly brought back a check for their efforts. “It’s not much, but every little bit helps,” she said.
On Friday morning, Johnny looked happy. He had finally decided on a project. “Let’s go through our toys and clothes. Richard’s family is having a hard time since his dad was hurt. We could give them some of our things.”
“What a great idea, Johnny,” Susan said. “I’ll write a note, and we can sneak up and deliver the things without them seeing us.”
The children were amazed at the many nice things they found that would be just right for someone in Richard’s family. They decided to give puzzles, a teddy bear, a ball, a baseball mitt, books, and some outgrown clothes that were still as good as new.
Mom came by and added two good blankets and some canned food to the pile.
“Wow,” said Johnny. “This looks great!” The children carted their box to Richard’s home. They left it by the front door with a note that said:
To Richard’s family—
Here is a gift to let you know we care.
The Sunshine Club
The children hurried home. That evening after supper they again sat under the maple tree.
“Boy, am I tired!” Johnny announced.
“But it’s a good kind of tired,” Susan said.
“Yes,” Travis agreed. “And this sure hasn’t been a boring week.”
“The club won’t stop, will it?” Natalie asked.
“Oh, no,” the others chorused.
“That’s good,” Roger asserted. “I already have a lot of new ideas for the Sunshine Club.”

Carla reached into the hat and took out a small paper. Quickly she unfolded it.
“Lane eight, heat one,” she read. Great!
She looked around the room, her eyes inadvertently landing on the starting block that loomed majestically over the end lane. That was her favorite position, and for this meet she needed all the advantages she could get. She had to win this one!
Carole, the girls’ team coach, walked over. “Which lane and heat?” she asked.
“Eight, heat one,” Carla answered.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you’d loosen up. I’ve never seen you so tense. You can’t win like that. Any problems?”
“No,” Carla said too quickly, and then added, “It’s just that this race means a lot to me. It’s my last chance. The Western Division Trials only come every four years, and next time around I’ll be too old.”
“But it means a lot to the girls in the other seven lanes, too. Remember that.”
“Wow! What encouragement!” Carla tried to joke.
“All anyone can do is try her hardest, but if you don’t loosen up, you won’t stand a chance. You’re wasting good energy!”
Carla laughed as Carole walked away, but she knew that what Carole said was true. However, it didn’t change how she felt. This was more than a race, more than just a question of proving herself.
For five years she had been preparing for this one race, and finally it was here. Now was her chance to prove herself or find out if her five years had been wasted.
The hollow mechanical echoes of the huge natatorium seemed deafening. Carla kicked her foot into the water as over the loud speaker a deep voice boomed, “Attention, swimmers.” And the room hushed to a murmur. “The girls’ 200-meter breaststroke qualifying heat number one will be next. Swimmers, report to your lanes.”
Carla took a deep breath. It was now or never!
“Good luck.” She jumped at the voice from behind.
“Oh, Dave,” she said. “You scared me!”
“Sorry! I just wanted to wish you luck.” He smiled, and for the first time all morning she felt almost at ease.
“Thanks.”
Quickly Carla hurried to her lane, removed her sweatshirt, and started shaking her arms, trying to loosen the tense muscles. There would be four qualifying heats, and to make the final round she had to have one of the eight fastest times. In this heat she would be racing time, not the other swimmers, so she couldn’t judge too much on her position.
“Judges ready?” the starter shouted, and 16 hands popped up at the ends of the pool. “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Carla climbed onto the block and curled her toes around the edge. “Get set.” She stooped precisely, her arms back as if she were about to take off in flight.
“Bang!” the starting gun fired, and Carla threw her arms forward, pushed with her feet, and strained each muscle to get every inch she could out of the dive. Her arms and legs slapped the water to keep her on top as she landed, and then in a precise, four-count rhythm she started stroking.
It was a good start that put her out in front, but she knew her turns were weak. She had to make time in the stroke. Her arms pulled at the water as if it were something that could be conquered, and her legs pushed powerfully as she spurted down the lane.
At the end of the fourth lap she still had the lead, but the girl in lane three was barely behind. Carla pushed a little harder, even though she knew she had to save something for the last two laps. Two more laps and lane three passed her by half a body length and lanes one and six were too close for any assurances.
She made the next to the last turn and then gave just a little more. Lane one slowed, lane six spurted, and lane three began to pull out even farther. The last turn. Carla’s muscles ached, but she wasn’t yet aware of it. Forcefully she now gave it everything she had. Lane three had pulled out too soon and was now lagging, lane one slowed even more, but six was suddenly a contender. Carla pulled wide and hard as she drew three more strokes then slapped the bank with both hands. Six had come on fast, but her spurt wasn’t soon enough. Carla finished first.
Her teammates gathered around the starting block and pulled her out of the pool.
“Good work!” Dave grinned.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “Do you know the time yet?” She was panting for breath, but she was too excited to stop and catch it.
“Two minutes, forty-seven and two-tenths seconds! You’re sure to qualify with a time like that.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
“What time does your heat start?”
“We’re next.”
“I’ll wish you luck, but to tell the truth, I don’t think you need any. There’s not a soul here who can beat you.”
The other girls on the team began to crowd around. Ann put a towel over Carla’s head and pulled it back and forth.
“Way to go!” she shouted. “What a time! Hope I do as well.”
“You will.”
Carla pulled the towel down to her shoulders, grabbed her sweatshirt, and ran into the locker room. She had two more events, freestyle and the team relay, but they weren’t for another hour. She lay down on the bench and waited uneasily for the results. Finally the loud speaker clicked on. Carla jumped up and ran out to the pool.
“The eight best times for the girls’ 200-meter breaststroke are Kathy Winn 2:46.6, Leslie Jacobs 2:47.1, Carla James 2:47.2 …”
Carla didn’t hear anymore! She had made it.
That night Dave came over after dinner.
“Thought you might like to go for a little ride,” he said.
“Sounds great.”
They got in the car and rode awhile without saying anything. Then finally Dave spoke.
“Are you a little more relaxed now?”
“Yes.” She paused before she went on. “You know for some reason those time trials are more frightening than the final race!”
“You’re not upset about not qualifying in the freestyle?”
“Not too much. I’m weak in freestyle. I was hoping to qualify, but at least the relay team qualified, and two out of three isn’t bad.”
“I agree.” Dave laughed.
“But I will be upset if I don’t win that race tomorrow!”
“Be careful! You can’t let the whole world ride on one race.”
“My whole world already does.”
“Oh?” Dave feigned hurt.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Besides, I feel good about tomorrow. I’ve trained harder than any of the others, and I’ve been at it longer. I deserve to win.”
“This doesn’t sound like you, Carla.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to explain it! It’s not that I mean to be conceited. It’s just that … well, like Kathy Winn. She’s only been competing for three years, and you and I both know that she jumps in and out of training like a hopscotch pro!”
“But she had half a second on you this morning.”
“But I’ve got faith. I’ve done everything just the way I should. That’s got to mean something.”
Dave smiled at Carla, his soft brown eyes full of concern. “I hope you’re right. But after hearing your philosophy, I’d better get you home before you break curfew tonight.”
“Me and my big mouth!” Carla laughed. “And how do you feel about your races tomorrow?”
“I don’t! That’s one of my secrets. If I win, I win; if I don’t, I don’t.”
“Even with a race as important as tomorrow’s? I just don’t think it’s that easy.”
“It is, though. All I can do is try my best. If that doesn’t work, then I at least have the satisfaction of knowing I did all I could.”
The little blue Pinto pulled into Carla’s driveway.
“End of sermon!” Dave laughed.
“Thanks for coming by,” Carla said as they walked to the door. “I really appreciate the talk.”
“Well, just think about it. And now, fair lady, I bid adieu!” Dave made a sweeping bow, his tall, thin body almost graceful.
“See you in the morning, goof!” Carla laughed.
“All right. I’ll pick you up at 7:00.” And Dave left.
By 10:30 the next morning, Carla’s relay team had failed to qualify for the Western Division Trials by just four-tenths of a second. Dave had qualified in the 400-meter backstroke and missed the 200-meter freestyle by three-tenths of a second, but his relay team had qualified, with him as the advantage-giving backstroker.
Of all things, Carla’s race was the next to the last, and she had drawn lane four. She hated that middle spot. Then to top it off, by the time the race was announced Carla was so nervous that the entire natatorium seemed to have taken on an electrical charge. Try as she might, she couldn’t lose the thought; this was her last chance to win a spot in the division trials.
She shook her arms and legs impatiently as she quickly scanned the gallery for her parents and then the decks for Dave. He wasn’t hard to find. His tall, browned body and sun-blonde hair stood out. He waved and she nodded back.
“Judges ready?” the starter began. “Swimmers, take your mark.” Carla climbed onto the block. “Get set.” Bang!
Her start was stiff, which lost her some time, but that could be overcome. Kathy Winn in lane six, Leslie Jacobs beside her in lane three, and a girl in lane eight were all ahead of Carla. In her mind she counted a rhythm, pushing a little harder than she should at the beginning. One, two, three, four.
Laps one, two, and three passed with the swimmers seemingly in a precision drill, then Kathy began to pull ahead of Leslie, lane three began to lag, and then one of her own teammates, Ann, in lane seven passed Carla.
Carla had to finish first or second to qualify, and she had to gain at least the third spot now or she’d be in no position to pull ahead in the last lap. She pushed a little harder, but the tense muscles were showing.
However, after lap six she had managed to pull into the third spot just behind Kathy and Ann. Leslie was close behind and gaining. Carla made the last turn and let go with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. She finished third.
Carla’s eyes stung as she climbed out of the pool. Her muscles felt like jelly, and there was a sickly hollow spot where her stomach should have been. Her teammates buzzed excitedly around Ann, and she knew what she should do, but she just couldn’t bring herself to congratulate Ann.
“It can’t be!” she kept thinking. “It just can’t be. I’ve worked so hard for this. It isn’t fair!”
As fast as she could, she made it to the locker room, and, half-stunned, she dressed and left without even drying her hair. She caught the bus at Second Street and sat down with a sigh of relief at having managed to avoid Dave and her teammates. By the time the bus stopped, however, she felt very foolish. But it was too late now. Slowly she walked the two blocks home, but she didn’t go in. She sat on the step to think, even though she felt as if there was nothing to think about anymore. It was just a habit by now. Everything was over. Five years wasted, five years of exercise, practice, and training. She wished she had waited for Dave. He would understand, but by now he’d be at the banquet. He was a winner, and winners had to be there.
Suddenly a small, blue car screeched into the driveway. Carla sat up and smiled as she recognized it. Then she frowned as Dave slammed the door and jumped disgustedly out of the car.
He walked over to her, gruffly handed her her sweatshirt, and then spoke in a harsh whisper-voice. “Here, you forgot this.”
His soft brown eyes had turned hard, and his face looked sad. She’d never seen him like this, and it scared her. Then fright turned to scorn. She wanted understanding, not this. What kind of friend was he anyway?
“Thanks, but I don’t need it anymore.”
“Going to run out, huh?” Even his face was different.
“I’m not running out. I’ve wasted five years trying for something that in less than three minutes slipped through my grasp. I’m not running out. It ran out on me!”
“Wasted? Carla, I watched you last summer teaching those underprivileged kids from the east side how to swim—the look on your face! It was then I knew you were more than just a girl on the team. This summer I watched you teach those mentally retarded kids not to be afraid of water, and it made me feel good just to think you were my girl. I watched you save a little boy’s life out at the lake, and I watched you teach your own sisters to race. You call that a waste? You’ve got the talent. It’s you running out, Carla, and all because of one race. I thought you were bigger than that.”
Dave threw the sweatshirt down and stalked away.
“But I explained it last night. I deserved this win. I earned it!”
“Life doesn’t work like that,” he said without looking back. The car door slammed, and he drove off.
Carla sat, stunned, as hate slowly melted to despair, then pity, then scorn, and finally thoughts mellowed as tears gushed wildly and she realized how wrong she had been.
Now the tears came, not because of her own wounded pride, but because she suddenly realized how immature she had been. And now besides a race, she’d probably lost a friend, too.
“Why is it that things are so easy to see when it’s too late,” she whispered. Then slowly a blue Pinto came to a stop in front of the house.
Dave walked to the porch, his eyes soft, his walk slow and deliberate. He picked up the sweatshirt, folded it, and sat down next to Carla. Silently they sat, not needing to speak. But Carla felt a relief that showed in a whisper of a smile.
Finally Dave spoke. “The banquet hasn’t started yet.”
“I can be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll give you six,” he said, “but I expect you to be my partner at the winners’ table.”
An arrow of pride struck at Carla’s heart, but she hesitated only for a moment. “I can make it in four.”
“Then get ready,” he said, but she had already gone in.

I learned in school that some children have a disease called cancer and that the medicine they take can make them lose their hair. I was sad for them because not only are they sick, but other kids might make fun of them too. I found out that I could donate some of my own long hair to these children. My ballet school is very strict and wouldn’t let me dance in their recital with short hair. I worked hard all year so I could dance in the recital, but I didn’t care. I donated my hair because I knew Jesus would say that people are more important than anything else.

Eye Care 4 Kids CEO Joseph Carbone fits Israel M. for new glasses.
The nonprofit foundation Eye Care 4 Kids offers free eye exams and discounts on glasses and contacts to children who wouldn’t otherwise have access to it. The foundation has eight clinics in Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, does vision screenings in California, and has made several international outreach trips.
Siblings Anel M., 16, and Israel M., 12, have received eye exams, glasses, and contacts from the clinic. Donations to the Light the World Giving Machines help make that possible.
“Every single time we’ve been in, they’ve always been really friendly,” Anel says. “When we’ve been to other places, the glasses are really pricey, and right here they’re affordable. My family isn’t the type of family that has a lot of money, and these are necessities.”
Anel M. gets fitted for glasses.
“The glasses have really helped me,” Israel says. “I couldn’t really see that good, and I can finally see the mountains and the sky.”

It was one of those general conferences where some of the speakers reported the growth of the Church, and I was involved in the excitement of temples, visitors’ centers, more missionaries going into more countries every month, the member-missionary program expanding in wider circles …
And then a little voice inside me asked, “What about your neighbors?”
Just as quickly another voice replied, “My neighbors are hopeless.”
I honestly felt that way—especially that same night when I caught the three neighbor boys, ages twelve, ten, and eight, doing some mischief in our yard. That made me angry.
Just a week after the Millers (I’ve changed the names) had moved in, Bonnie, my six-year-old, came in crying from a welt on her forehead. “Jerry hit me with a rock.”
Kathy, my ten-year-old, was indignant. “Mama, Jerry Miller threw a big rock at Bonnie because she was holding their cat. When she started to cry, Mrs. Miller came out and Jerry said we were calling him mean names. She told us not to bother her family and stay in our own yard.”
“We didn’t call anyone mean names, mama,” added my serious eight-year-old, Cynthia.
My five children had always had their differences with other children in the neighborhood, but we mothers just separated them until they calmed down; an hour later they were usually playing together again. But Mrs. Miller’s invariable attitude was to defend her own children no matter what they had done.
After the incident when I caught the boys in our yard, I marched the boys home to their mother and scolded all of them: “If any more rocks are thrown into my yard, if my little ones are bullied or threatened, or if one of you peeks into my windows, I’ll call the police. And if you’d control your children, Mrs. Miller, instead of everybody else’s, maybe this neighborhood would have some peace again!”
Shaking, I returned home. But the next day as the anger disappeared, I knew I’d done the wrong thing. “If ever a family needed the example of a good Latter-day Saint neighbor,” I thought, “this one does. Could I possibly have set a worse example? And look what it did to me. I never want to feel such anger again.” I prayed aloud, “What should I do, Heavenly Father? What would your Son do?”
As I asked, the answer came clearly to my mind: “Show forth great love.”
As I thought about it, the challenge became exciting, and I went straight to the kitchen. While I baked and frosted a chocolate cake, the children and I talked about the Millers and how we had treated them as well as how they had treated us. We discussed the Savior’s example of doing good to others.
When the cake was finished, I carried it to the neighbors. Mrs. Miller wasn’t there, so I handed it to the oldest boy and told the three boys “I baked this cake especially for you.” Their faces showed both shock and pleasure. “I feel bad that I became angry, but do you know who really feels bad? Your mother. She loves you boys very much and it hurts her when you do things you shouldn’t. Could we try harder to get along and be good neighbors to each other?”
“Alright,” mumbled Tom, embarrassed, “we will.”
As I turned to leave, all three spoke simultaneously, “Thanks for the cake, Mrs. Brown!”
During the next month the results of this gesture were unbelievable. No more rock-throwing. My two littlest girls didn’t once run into the house afraid of the Miller boys’ threats. And all three boys cheerfully called, “Hello, Mrs. Brown,” whenever they saw me.
But I was still deeply ashamed of having become angry. I didn’t see Mrs. Miller and I didn’t try to seek her out—even when Cynthia and Bonnie told me at lunch: “Bonnie wouldn’t let Jerry Miller play with her racing car because he kept pulling off the wheels, and when Jerry started to cry Mrs. Miller came outside. She wasn’t upset with Bonnie. Instead she told Jerry, ‘If Bonnie was wrecking your car, you wouldn’t let her play with it, either.’ Then she told him to go inside and think about it for a while.”
I still wish I’d gone back to show love to Mrs. Miller herself. They moved a month later, and I’ve never known where they went. But I do know I’ll never forget the lesson of one chocolate cake.

When Elder Brook P. Hales was eight or nine, he was in a fast and testimony meeting where his father was presiding as bishop. His father invited the congregation to bear testimonies, and nearly everyone present bore testimony. “It was perhaps the first time I felt the Spirit bearing witness to me of the truthfulness of the gospel,” Elder Hales recalls.
He has felt that witness many times since, particularly while serving as secretary to the First Presidency since 2008. When President Thomas S. Monson was sustained as prophet and President of the Church, and again when President Russell M. Nelson was sustained, he witnessed “the mantle of prophet fall on each of these men, and I knew without a doubt that they had been chosen and called to be the President of the Church for their particular time.”
Elder Hales was called as a General Authority Seventy on May 17, 2018, and sustained on October 6, 2018. He will continue as secretary to the First Presidency.

The first of these callings came when I was a deacon. I attended with my family the branch of the Church in Frankfurt, Germany. We were blessed with many wonderful people in our little branch. One was our branch president, Brother Landschulz. I admired him a great deal, even though he always seemed to be rather serious, very official, and most of the time dressed in a dark suit. I remember as a young man joking with my friends how old-fashioned our branch president appeared.
It makes me laugh to think about this now because it is very possible that the youth of the Church today view me in a very similar way.
One Sunday, President Landschulz asked if he could speak with me. My first thought was, “What did I do wrong?” My mind raced over the many things I might have done that could have inspired this branch-president-to-deacon talk.
President Landschulz invited me into a small classroom—our chapel did not have an office for the branch president—and there he extended a call to me to serve as deacons quorum president.
“This is an important position,” he said, and then he took his time and described why. He explained what he and the Lord expected of me and how I could receive help.
I don’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember well how I felt. A sacred, divine Spirit filled my heart as he spoke. I could feel that this was the Savior’s Church. And I felt that the calling he had extended was inspired by the Holy Ghost. I remember walking out of that tiny classroom feeling quite a bit taller than before.
It has been nearly 60 years since that day, and I still treasure these feelings of trust and love.
As I was thinking back on this experience, I tried to remember just how many deacons there were in our branch at the time. To my best recollection, I believe there were two. However, this may be a huge exaggeration.
But it really didn’t matter whether there was one deacon or a dozen. I felt honored, and I wanted to serve to the best of my ability and not disappoint either my branch president or the Lord.
I realize now that the branch president could have merely gone through the motions when he called me to this position. He could have simply told me in the hallway or during our priesthood meeting that I was the new deacons quorum president.
Instead, he spent time with me and helped me understand not only the what of my assignment and new responsibility but, much more important, the why.
That is something I will never forget.
The point of this story is not merely to describe how to extend callings in the Church (although this was a wonderful lesson on the proper way to do it). It is an example to me of the motivating power of priesthood leadership that awakens the spirit and inspires action.

“Many summers my family went to Cedar City and stayed on my uncle’s farm. There was no electricity or water in the house, so we carried buckets of water into the house from outside. I experienced farm life as it really was in those days. Now my assignment is with the people in that very same area. It is special to go there—it’s like going home. Some of the people there remember my uncle and aunt and other families I knew.

A newly baptized member told me what she felt when she received that gift. This was a faithful Christian woman who had spent her life in service to others. She knew and loved the Lord, and she had felt the manifestations of His Spirit. When she received the added light of the restored gospel, she was baptized and the elders placed their hands upon her head and gave her the gift of the Holy Ghost. She recalled, “I felt the influence of the Holy Ghost settle upon me with greater intensity than I had ever felt before. He was like an old friend who had guided me in the past but now had come to stay.”

When Mom went to girls camp, and Dad had to be out of town for a few days, I jumped at the chance to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. They’re real special.
The first morning there, I got up early and galloped downstairs. Grandpa was already in the kitchen, setting boxes of cold cereal on the table.
“Mmmm, my favorite!” I said, picking up a box of the kind I liked.
“My favorite is hot oatmeal,” Grandpa said. “But we don’t have it often, now that Grandma’s volunteer work at the hospital is in the mornings.”
Grandpa was getting milk from the refrigerator when Grandma came downstairs. “I was just telling Joey how good your oatmeal is,” Grandpa said.
“Anybody can make oatmeal—even Joey,” Grandma said.
“I don’t like hot oatmeal!” I said real quick, hoping they weren’t going to ask me to make it.
“Oh, come on—let’s try it,” Grandpa said.
Grandma had to go back upstairs for something, so I got a pan for Grandpa. He put a little water in it, then dumped in a lot of oatmeal.
“Shouldn’t you measure it?” I asked.
“Grandma never measures,” he answered.
I stirred while Grandpa watched. He hummed a tune, real happy-like.
The bubbling oatmeal got thicker and lumpier. “Are you sure you didn’t put too much oatmeal in?” I asked Grandpa.
“You set the table, Joey,” he said. “I’ll see to the oatmeal. Boy, are you going to love this!”
I didn’t think I would like it, much less love it, but I put bowls and spoons on the table and sat down to wait.
“How’s that?” Grandpa asked, spooning thick globs of oatmeal from the pan into my bowl, then filling his.
I looked at the thick stuff in my bowl. I stirred and stirred, trying to get the lumps out. No luck. I reached for the milk.
When I started to put the milk back, my sleeve caught on my bowl. Kerplunk! The bowl hit the floor and wobbled across Grandma’s freshly waxed floor, spattering oatmeal as it rolled.
Grandma came back downstairs just then. “Oh, no!” She chased the bowl, trying to catch it before it hit the wall and broke. She stepped into a patch of slippery oatmeal and sat down smack-dab in the mess.
I got to her before Grandpa did. When I tried to help her up, my foot slipped into a slick patch and I went down too.
“I didn’t mean to do it!” I yammered over and over. I was worried that Grandma might be hurt.
Then I saw Grandma’s face. Her glasses were hanging from one ear. She was laughing so hard that tears ran down her face and she couldn’t talk.
Grandpa rushed to help. His feet hit a glob of oatmeal, and he came sailing across the floor.
We sat in the middle of the oatmeal and laughed so hard that we were too weak to get up. Finally we got ourselves together enough to clean up the kitchen. Then we ate cold cereal.
The next morning, Grandma made oatmeal. It was smooth and warm. I can’t say that I was crazy about it, but with a little cinnamon and brown sugar on it, it wasn’t bad. By the time Mom and Dad came home, I had learned to like it. And I had learned how to make it—without lumps!
Sometimes I make it at home. It’s funny how the taste for good stuff grows on you.
Grandpa says it’s like life. “You have upsets along the way, but if you keep your sense of humor and keep trying, the lumps smooth out. And it keeps getting better!”

Barbara Ann rode her tricycle up and down the sidewalk. When she saw the bus, she pedaled hard to beat it to the corner. The bus driver waved.
Barbara Ann thought it must be fun to ride a bus with all its interesting people.
One day a pretty lady got off the bus. Her arms were full of packages. One package dropped. Barbara Ann quickly picked it up.
“Thank you,” the lady said. “Can you put it on top of my other packages?” She stooped so Barbara Ann could reach. Barbara Ann and the lady smiled at each other.
One day a mother and baby got off the bus. The baby whimpered. “There, there,” the mother said. “We’ll soon have lunch and a good nap. Then you’ll feel better.”
Sometimes an old man with a cane got off the bus. Once a little boy ran to meet him. “Hi, Gramps!” he called. The man smiled and held out his arms.
Every day a nurse in a white uniform waited on the corner. I’d like to be a nurse when I grow up, Barbara Ann thought, or maybe a doctor.
One day Mother said, “How would you like to ride the bus downtown with me?”
“Oh boy!” cried Barbara Ann.
Barbara Ann and her mother waited at the bus stop. Barbara Ann hopped first on one foot and then on the other, she was so excited.
“Well, hello, young lady,” the bus driver said. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Barbara Ann politely.
Mother put some money in the fare box.
Barbara Ann looked around. There was a man reading a paper. A lady was knitting something with pretty blue yarn. Another lady kept falling asleep. Her head would nod and then suddenly snap back. She opened her eyes wide as if she were trying to stretch them so they wouldn’t keep closing.
A boy carrying a guitar got on the bus and the door went WHOOSH!
Two ladies, their arms full of books, got off by the library. The bus door WHOOSHED them good-bye.
Barbara Ann smiled at everyone. Some of the passengers smiled back. But some of them just sank into a seat without glancing at anyone else. Barbara Ann liked the smiling people best. But maybe the others are tired or have a headache, she decided. Sometimes Mother doesn’t smile when she has a headache. She looked up at her mother. Mother smiled.
The knitting lady stood up and pulled the cord and the bus stopped at the corner. She hurried off the bus. The door went WHOOSH!
Soon lots of people were getting off. And every time the door went WHOOSH!
Mother took Barbara Ann’s hand and pulled the cord. “This is where we get off,” she said.
Mother bought thread and a zipper in one store. In another store she bought some stationery and a pretty pink candle. Then they went to Daddy’s office.
“Hello, Barbara Ann,” said Miss Harris, Daddy’s secretary. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“We rode the bus,” said Barbara Ann.
“You did! Did you like the bus ride?”
Barbara Ann nodded. “Did you know the doors go WHOOSH?”
Miss Harris smiled. “I can’t say I’ve ever noticed. But now that you mention it, you’re right. They do go WHOOSH!”
Daddy came out of his office.
“We rode the bus,” Barbara Ann told Daddy.
“And how did you like it?”
“It was fun,” Barbara Ann replied. “Did you know bus doors go WHOOSH?”
Daddy laughed. “I’ve never really paid any attention to their sound. But I do believe you’re right.”
“We rode the bus today,” Barbara Ann told her brother Bart and her sister Laura that evening. “Did you know bus doors go WHOOSH?”
Bart poked her in the ribs and made her giggle. “WHOOSH!” he said. “WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!”
“There’s so much noise on the school bus that I never noticed,” said Laura.
Barbara Ann smiled. She had learned something no one else seemed to know about. She knew busses were fun. And she knew their doors didn’t bang—they WHOOSHED!

When she was 17, she crossed Lake Ontario to visit her sister in Detroit. On the voyage she met the tall, dark-eyed pilot of the ship, Frederick Granger Williams. Their frequent visits quickly transformed affection into love, and the two were married in late 1815. The Williamses moved around the great Western Reserve of Ohio, USA, before finally settling in Kirtland around 1828. Her husband took up the practice of medicine and became rather well known for his abilities, and Rebecca learned to help him with procedures. Together they had four children.

Some years ago, Constance, a student nurse, was assigned to try and help a woman who had injured her leg in an accident. The woman refused medical help because she had had a negative experience with someone at the hospital. She was afraid and had become something of a recluse. The first time Constance dropped by, the injured woman ordered her out. On the second try, she did let Constance in. By now the woman’s leg was covered with large ulcers, and some of the flesh was rotting. But still she didn’t want to be treated.

Constance made it a matter of prayer, and in a day or two the answer came. She took some foaming hydrogen peroxide with her for the next visit. As this was painless, the old woman let her use it on her leg. Then they talked about more serious treatment at the hospital. Constance assured her the hospital would make her stay as pleasant as possible. In a day or two the woman did get the courage to enter the hospital. When Constance visited her, the woman smiled as she said, “You convinced me.” Then, quite unexpectedly, she asked Constance, “What church do you belong to?” Constance told her she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The woman said: “I knew it. I knew you were sent to me from the first day that I saw you. There was a light in your face that I had noticed in others of your faith. I had to put my trust in you.”

In three months’ time that festering leg was completely healed. Members of the ward where the old woman lived remodeled her house and fixed up her yard. The missionaries met with her, and she was baptized soon after. All of this because she noticed the light in that young student nurse’s face.

It was Thursday night, Mom and Dad’s regular night to work at the Cardston temple. I was in my teens, like you young women. My grandmother, who was living with us, was away, so I would be home alone. As they left, Dad hugged me and said, “Now, Sharon, be in good company.”
I thought, “What is he thinking? Doesn’t he know I’ll be here by myself?” And then I realized—that is exactly what he was thinking.
Standing in holy places is all about being in good company, whether you are alone or with others. It’s being where the Holy Ghost is our companion—alone or in a crowd. When we determine within ourselves that we will control our thoughts and our actions and be the best we can possibly be, the best of life will come to us.