Gospel Story Finder

Their house is also on the border of Idaho and Washington. They live just to the east of the border line, so officially they’re Idahoans. But when they look out their house’s west windows, they see Washington. “It really looks neat when the power goes out over there,” Amy said. “We had a storm, and their power didn’t come on and ours did. Their side was pitch dark.”

Rebeccah Davis, 15, has also learned keeping your word is one of the most important parts of a job. She is working after school, baby-sitting. Her commitment to her employer has meant no school sports, fewer get-togethers with friends, and less time for herself.
“The lady I work for counts on me. Since I agreed to do it I need to be dedicated,” says Rebeccah. And because of that dedication, she’s noticed improvements in herself.
“At first I was one of those baby-sitters who sat and watched TV and let the kids do whatever they wanted. But then I started to care for the kids, and I have become a more responsible person. I play with them, take care of them.”

C. Scott Grow witnesses Elder Neal A. Maxwell’s spiritual refinement.

The Primary girls of the Vernal Fifth Ward, Vernal Utah Ashley Stake, created a beautiful and original design for tissue box holders to be placed in the temple where needed. They stitched plastic canvas with white yarn, making sure that the boxes were perfect. They donated many hours to this gift for the house of the Lord.
The girls also tied a beautiful white baby quilt to be used for the baby crib in the temple nursery, where children wait to be sealed to their parents. Amy Lefevre said, “I’m happy and excited because I know I’m making something important and special for the temple.”
The ward Primary leaders also decided to use a penny bank to collect money for the temple. A counselor in the bishopric designed and built a bank that looked like the proposed temple, with a window in the bank so that the children could see their money grow. They donated $350, mostly in pennies, for their gift of love.

The story of the doughnut and how it got its hole is legendary. One version suggests that it was Hanson Gregory, a well-known sea captain, who suggested the idea to his mother one day in 1847 when she was frying dough cakes in a small New England town.
Hanson noticed that the centers of her cakes always seemed doughy and undercooked, so he suggested that she cut out their middles before she started to fry them. She laughed at the childlike suggestion but tried it out anyway. The very first result was so excellent—the whole doughnut ring being uniformly cooked and of a light, spongy texture—that she never went back to the old way. Her method soon became famous and was copied widely until it spread throughout the United States and, eventually, to other lands.

Oliver and Albert, Friends Forever, by Jean Van Leeuwen, illustrated by Ann Schweninger. Albert is the new boy at school. He can’t kick or catch, so his classmates don’t want him on their kickball team. But Oliver discovers that Albert is good at other things and that two people don’t have to be exactly the same to be friends.

On May 28, 2016, 16-year-old Beau Richey and his friend Austin were at a family ranch in Colorado. Beau and Austin climbed into their all-terrain vehicles with great anticipation for a day of adventure. They had not gone far when they encountered precarious conditions, at which point tragedy struck. The vehicle Beau was driving flipped over suddenly, pinning Beau under 400 pounds (180 kg) of steel. When Beau’s friend Austin got to him, he saw Beau struggling for his life. With every bit of his strength, he tried to pull the vehicle off his friend. It wouldn’t budge. He prayed for Beau and then frantically went for help. Emergency personnel finally arrived, but a few hours later Beau died. He was released from this mortal life.
His heartbroken parents arrived. As they stood in the small hospital with Beau’s dearest friend and family members, a police officer entered the room and handed Beau’s cell phone to his mother. As she took the phone, an audible alarm sounded. She opened the phone and saw Beau’s daily alarm. She read aloud the message her fun-loving, highly adventurous teenage son had set to read every day. It said, “Remember to put Jesus Christ at the center of your life today.”
Beau’s focus on his Redeemer does not lessen his loved ones’ sorrow in his absence. However, it gives great hope and meaning to Beau’s life and life choices. It allows his family and friends to look beyond only the grief of his early death to the joyful realities of the next life. What a tender mercy for Beau’s parents to see through their son’s eyes the thing he most prized.

I was one of 12 high school students selected from Fairfield College in Hamilton, New Zealand, to participate in a program called Project K. The first part involved a three-week wilderness adventure, including canoeing, exploring caves, rock climbing, mountain biking, and sleeping and cooking our meals in all sorts of conditions. We spent most of our days in torrential rain and cold.
Sometimes spirits were low, and there were tears of frustration. We learned about teamwork and endurance. We encouraged each other through the challenges that came to us every day. One person chose to go home—it was just too much.
Halfway through the adventure, we got to write a letter home. As I wrote my letter, the tears welled up as I expressed my love and appreciation to my family. I realized just how much I missed the simple things in life like family prayers, scripture reading, family home evening, seminary, and attending church. I was saddened because I couldn’t picture my baby sister’s face in my mind.
I was thankful that I’d brought my pocket-sized Book of Mormon with me. I would sit inside my bivouac and read by flashlight. Everyone was pretty tired after each day, and they’d just go to sleep. After a day or so, more of my companions became curious about what I was reading. They became interested when I told them about the stripling warriors, Nephi and Laban, Ammon, and especially Nephi and his broken bow. Everyone could relate to the challenges of the wilderness.
By the end of our adventure, every night before sleeping, all 12 of us would huddle under my bivouac and listen as I read from the Book of Mormon. I know that the prophets of old were able to speak to us all on those cold, dark, rainy nights. I know that I gained strength to endure the difficult challenges during that time. I never felt the need to cry or to quit. I owe that to prayer and my pocket-sized Book of Mormon.

For my family and me, the cold winter of 1944 was a time of fear and uncertainty. With my father far away on the western front, my mother struggled to keep her four children fed and warm as war threatened our home in Czechoslovakia.
Each day the danger grew closer. Finally, my mother decided to flee to her parents’ home in eastern Germany. Somehow, she managed to get all of us on one of the last refugee trains heading west. Nearby explosions, worried faces, and empty stomachs reminded everyone on the train that we were traveling through a war zone.
One night after our train had stopped for supplies, my mother hurried off to search for food. When she returned, to her horror, the train carrying us children was gone!
Fraught with worry, she turned to God in desperate prayer and then frantically began searching the dark train station. She ran from track to track and from train to train. She knew that if her train departed before she found it, she might never see us again.
On a dark night in a grim railroad station many years ago, my mother faced a choice. She could sit and bemoan the tragedy of having lost her children, or she could put her faith and hope into action. I am grateful that her faith overcame her fear and that her hope overcame her despair.
Finally, in a remote area of the station, she found our train. There, at last, we were reunited. That night, and during many stormy days and nights to come, my mother’s example of putting faith into action sustained us as we hoped and worked for a brighter future.

by Ruth M. Challis
Ten minutes to the east of Cedar City, Utah, is Coal Creek Canyon, hillsides covered with pines, sprinkled with yellow-green aspens in the spring, and enjoyed by everyone in the area. Cleaning the canyon has recently become one of the “in” things to do for the 90 young men and women of the Cedar City Seventh Ward. The young people eagerly looked forward to organizing a service project for picking up litter along the sides of the road and began preparing for this event early in the year.
Committees were organized, planning meetings held, and arrangements made for the project. Trucks had to be found to pick up the litter, plastic bags bought to put it in, men scheduled to drive the trucks, cars assigned to carry the volunteers to the mouth of the canyon, and people appointed to supervise the groups. Charts were drawn of the canyon, and plans made for assigning so many volunteers per mile.
On the appointed June day, cars carrying the young people headed for the mouth of the canyon. The volunteers were divided into groups and let out of the cars every mile with large plastic garbage bags. People scrambled along the sides of the road picking up cans, paper, garbage, even a dead lamb. Ten truck loads of litter were hauled out to Woods Ranch, eleven miles up the canyon. At the end of the cleanup, the food committee was ready with chicken, dutch oven potatoes, salads, rolls, root beer, and cake for dessert for the weary volunteers.
In addition to cleaning up, the young people talked with tourists driving through the canyon and explained that they were members of the Church. One group of girls talked with some bicyclists who asked many questions about the gospel.
The project was a huge success, and plans are underway again for project cleanup!

Marianne pulled her sweater around her as she walked home from church. She loved autumn. The air was cool and crisp, the trees had turned a beautiful orange and yellow, and the layer of snow on the top of the mountains reflected the sunlight.
Her older brother walked ahead; her mom was still in the meetinghouse library. Marianne knew that when she got home, her dad would be sitting in the family room, reading the newspaper, as he had every Sunday for as long as she could remember.
She sighed and looked down at the paper cup in her hand. Jesus often taught the gospel by talking about seeds. Today her CTR teacher had helped her and her classmates plant seeds and told them about Alma’s teachings about faith. Marianne knew that every time she looked at her little plant, she would remember that Jesus wanted her to plant His words in her heart and to always choose the right.
Right now, though, she was thinking about some different seeds—missionary seeds she had learned about a couple of weeks ago at the Primary activity. The Primary president had talked about the ones we plant when we talk to people who are not members of the Church.
Her father was not a member of the Church, and she wanted to help him gain a testimony. She thought about the things she did and said when she was with him. Sometimes she forgot to obey quickly, and sometimes she and her big brother fought. But she was trying her best to be a good example, and she prayed for her father all the time. Today she wondered if maybe there was something more she could be doing. She decided to ask her mom about it.
Right after school the next day, Marianne put on her warmest sweatshirt and went out in the front yard to help her mom plant tulip bulbs. The sun warmed her back, but her face and hands felt the bite of fall. Her mom hummed as she dug the holes, and Marianne put in the bulbs and covered them with the dark, cool dirt.
“I’m glad you came out to help me,” Mom said, smiling. “When these come up in the spring, they will be twice as beautiful because we planted them together.”
Marianne smiled back, then cleared her throat. “Mom, remember our Primary activity a few weeks ago?”
“The missionary activity?”
“Yes. We talked about setting a good example for our nonmember friends and about sharing our testimonies.”
“Those are good things to do.”
“Well, I wondered if there is something else I should be doing … you know, with Dad, so he can be a member too.”
Mom thought for a minute. “I think we’re doing all we can.”
“Well, then, when is he going to get baptized?”
“We just have to be patient, Marianne. Sometimes it takes a little time.”
Marianne felt confused. She had a strong testimony that the Church was true. If she could tell him and show him, why didn’t her dad see how right it was? She wrinkled her nose and looked at her mother for an explanation.
Mom smiled at her. “Marianne, go in my room and get my scriptures. We’ll see if we can find an answer there.”
It only took a minute to get the scriptures. Marianne sat on the porch step and handed the worn brown books to her mother.
Brushing the dirt off her hands, Mom carefully turned the pages. She handed the book to Marianne and said, “Read aloud from Matthew 13:3–8 [Matt. 13:3–8].”
“‘And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow;
“‘And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up:
“‘Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:
“‘And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away.
“‘And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:
“‘But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit. …’”
“What do you think this parable is saying?” Mom asked.
“Well, it says that not all the seeds that were planted grew. Some didn’t have good soil, weeds choked some, and some were eaten by birds.” She paused a second, then, with a troubled look, asked, “Do you mean that you don’t think our seeds will grow? You don’t think that Dad will ever join the Church?” Tears started to gather in her eyes.
“No, Marianne. I do believe that your dad will join the Church. I just don’t know when. You see, the seeds we plant are very important, but so is the soil. The heart has to be ready to receive. Your dad has to do that for himself; no one can do it for him or force him.”
“But Dad is the best!”
“Yes, he is. He’s a great man.” Mom thought a minute as she returned to the flower bed, dug in the ground, and placed a tulip bulb in the hole. “Look at these bulbs we’re planting. They aren’t going to grow now. No matter how we care for them, these tulip bulbs have to lie in the soil all winter long if they are to be ready to grow in the spring. Do you understand?”
Marianne was silent for a moment. “I guess so. We have to set a good example, share our testimonies, and love Dad. Then we have to wait until the seeds are ready to grow, right?”
“Yes, that is right. And while we’re waiting, we continue to support him as the head of our home.”
“And we can still pray.”
“Yes, sweetheart, we always pray. Does that help you?”
“Yes. I feel much better.”
“Good. It looks like we’re just about done here. Let’s finish up and go fix a nice dinner to welcome Dad home from work.”
As Marianne was putting the last things on the table, Dad drove in the driveway. She ran to give him a hug. “Hi, Dad!”
“Hi, sweet pea. What have my two best girls been doing?”
The “two best girls” shared a look of understanding before Marianne took Dad’s hand, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said, “Oh, just planting some seeds.”

“Ready … set …”
I heard Mom’s voice prompting the Cub Scouts as I peeked in from the doorway of the cultural hall. The ten boys in her Bear den were matched into pairs, standing back to back with their elbows linked. I could sense energy and tension pent up in their nine-year-old bodies.
Dad spied me in the doorway. “Hi, Temberly!” He started walking toward me, and I blushed because everyone was looking in my direction to see who was interrupting their fun. Even though the boys were two years younger than me, I still felt embarrassed. Dad wrapped his arm around my shoulder and gave me a quick sideways hug.
“Go!” Mom shouted, and the boys began pushing and straining against each other. I figured out right away what they were trying to do. Each boy was pushing against his opponent, trying to force him to cross a masking-tape line about ten feet away. Whoever crossed the line, lost. Little did I know, I’d have my own serious wrestling match that very afternoon.
Dad walked back closer to the group. “That’s it, keep pushing, don’t give up!” he yelled several times, coaching the red-faced Bears. I noticed that Sister Brandt wasn’t there. She was the assistant den leader, but she’d had a baby last week. I assumed Mom must have asked Dad to help her out. He was smiling widely, obviously enjoying helping with the boys.
Eventually there were five winners and five losers. My brother, Warren, was one of the losers. He was unhappy, but Dad mixed up the pairs of boys and told them all to try again. This time some of the losers became winners, including Warren.
I could tell that Dad was trying hard to make sure that everyone had a fun time. He wasn’t a member of the Church—yet—but I loved him, anyway. He had watched Mom, Warren and me get baptized last year after being taught by the missionaries.
Because it had been a long day of testing at school, I didn’t want to hang around. Mom was busy explaining the next game, so I turned to Dad and asked, “May I walk home?”
He seemed concerned. “Now?”
“I want to get started on my homework. And I’m really hungry, too.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being at the house by yourself,” Dad fussed, hoping I’d change my mind.
“I promise I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“Well, all right. We should be done here in about twenty minutes. But ring the foyer phone once for us so that we know you got into the house OK. Do you know the number?”
“It’s on the ward phone list. Thanks!” I said excitedly, feeling suddenly a little older and more confident in taking responsibility for myself. I turned and walked through the silent foyer and out the double doors. Our house was less than a block away, and I jogged all the way there.
At home, I followed up on my promises to lock the door and ring the phone at the meetinghouse. I was really thirsty at the moment, and something cold and wet sounded good. I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
That’s when I saw them. The lighting inside seemed to draw my attention to the six cans of beer, right beside the milk jug. At that moment, I was faced with a fierce temptation, an inner wrestling match: my gospel standards versus sinful desires. I just stood there and stared at the appealing-looking cans. I wondered what beer tasted like. My dry mouth needed quenching. It would be easy to open one, try a sip, then throw it away when I was done. Who kept count of how many cans were in the fridge, anyway? No one would ever know.
Who was I kidding? I knew who would know what I’d done. Me. More importantly, Heavenly Father and the Savior would know. That’s too many of us, I decided. I slammed the refrigerator door shut and repeated the words from My Gospel Standards we had been memorizing in Primary, “I will not partake of things that are harmful to me.” Trembling, I went to my room and lay on the bed.
Temptation, my powerful opponent, had tried to push me to step over a line my spirit knew I shouldn’t cross. I sat up and opened the blinds in the window above my bed and let the late afternoon sunshine fill the room. Deep inside, I felt as bright and glowing as the sun’s rays coming through the windowpanes. I was the winner!
After dinner, Mom loaded the dishwasher and Dad and Warren watched baseball on TV. I had gone back to my bedroom to finish my math homework. I decided it was time to ask Dad to help me.
“Dad?” I leaned my head out of the doorway.
“Am I in demand?” He tilted his head to the side to hear my answer.
“I need a greater brain than mine,” I replied, trying to sound exasperated. I watched him stand up, stare at the screen a few more seconds as a batter struck out, then walk down the hall toward me. My smile waned as I saw him carrying a beer can in his hand. He set it down on my desk. I could smell the beer, and I wished he had left it in the other room. We worked together until the fifteen math problems were solved.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re very welcome, Tembers.” I liked his nickname for me. “Is there anything else you need my intelligence for, before I finish watching the ballgame?”
The moment had presented itself, just as I’d hoped. “Dad, why do you drink beer?”
“Where did that question come from?” He looked surprised and embarrassed.
I took a deep breath and confessed, “This afternoon when I was home by myself, I was tempted to drink some and it scared me.”
He eyed me seriously, “But … you didn’t?”
“No.” I looked straight into his eyes and saw relief on his face.
“I’m proud of you, Temberly,” Dad said sincerely. “You made a wise choice today. I knew that as you and Warren grew older, this would be an issue we’d need to discuss. I didn’t realize it would come up so soon.”
“Oh, Dad, I don’t like having that stuff in our house. I know you don’t drink a lot—just when you’re watching ballgames. But when will Warren be tempted to try it? …”
“Tembers, you can be pointedly honest sometimes.” Dad ran his hand through his dark hair. “I suppose, deep down inside, I already knew you felt this way. I’d appreciate your love and patience with me as I try to find the willpower to quit.”
I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and rubbed it dry on my jeans. I felt the Holy Ghost strengthen me, and I found the courage to say, “Today, I heard you tell the Cub Scouts to ‘keep pushing and not give up.’ Can I keep pushing you about this?”
“Yes, Coach,” he said, squeezing my hand before he left the room. I was startled when he suddenly leaned his head back in the doorway and said, “Don’t ever give up.” He winked.
I smiled to myself. Dad hadn’t exactly promised to stop, but somehow I knew he was a lot closer to it. And that hope made me feel like a winner … again.

Fourteen-year-old Ripsy Bandurian thought she was going to the LDS church with her English teacher in Yerevin, Armenia, to learn English from an American couple. But when she got there, she learned much more than their language.
“When I met the missionaries they said to me, ‘We love you. What is your name?’ That sounded good to me.”
Ripsy and her teacher, Sister Nara, ended up taking the discussions and attending church together. Sister Nara was soon baptized, but Ripsy had to wait for her parents’ permission. In the meantime, she read all the LDS literature she could get her hands on, and translated into Russian the discussions the missionaries were giving. Most of the people she translated for were baptized.
Finally, after more than a year, her parents gave her permission to be baptized. Ripsy says it was one of the happiest days of her life. Since then, she has continued translating in English, Armenian, and Russian. She gets the highest marks in school, is a leader in the local Young Women’s program, and helps her mother, who is a pediatrician, with sick children in the hospital. Ripsy would eventually like to be a doctor too.

“What’s the story?” Ed asked.
“How butter was discovered.”
“You said it was about a frog.”
“So it is. You see, a long time ago, a frog jumped into a bowl of cream that was left by a dairymaid to keep cool at the edge of a stream. All night long he paddled around trying to get out, and when the girl came the next morning to get the cream, it had turned to butter.”
“Was the frog still alive?”
“I don’t remember that, but since there was no cream to spread on the bread, the dairymaid used the butter. She was afraid she’d be scolded for being careless enough to leave the lid off the cream, but everyone said the new spread was better. ‘Betty’s better spread’ they called it and wanted her to make more.”

This story happened in the USA.
“Are we there yet?” Aliya itched her leg where a mosquito had bitten her. They had been hiking over lava rock for so long! Aliya was getting tired.
“Almost,” said her teacher, Auntie Nikki. “And trust me. It will be worth it.”
Aliya wasn’t so sure. They were on a school trip to K?holo, a nature preserve on the Big Island of Hawaii. Aliya was excited to learn about the animals and plants on their island, but she felt nervous. She was new to the island, and she didn’t know very many people yet. All the other kids were older, and they laughed together the whole hike. Aliya walked quietly next to them. She wanted to make a friend, but she didn’t know how.
Finally they reached the cove. As they walked over a sandy hill, the fishponds came into view.
“Welcome to K?holo,” said Auntie Nikki.
Aliya looked around. It was beautiful here! Her teacher was right—the hike had been worth it.
For the next few hours, Aliya and her classmates learned all about the preserve. Aliya loved watching the fish swim through the water.
“The fishponds were made so that some fish can be caught and taken from the pond while others stay and grow big and strong. This way, everything stays in balance, and there are always enough fish,” explained Auntie Nikki.
After lunch, Auntie Nikki called the kids to one of the bigger ponds. “OK, everyone, put on a pair of gloves. We are here to help clean up the ponds.”
“Do we have to?” asked one of Aliya’s classmates.
“Yes! Part of visiting K?holo is working together to help keep it clean. It’s about what we can give,” said Auntie Nikki.
Aliya was excited to help. She put on some gloves and started picking up trash and tree branches from around the pond.
One of her classmates walked up next to her. Aliya had never talked to her before. She was wearing a bright pink shirt.
Aliya felt her heart beating fast. She wanted to say hi, but she was scared. What if the girl thought she was weird?
Then Aliya thought about what Auntie Nikki had said. It’s about what we can give. Aliya took a deep breath and smiled. “Hi,” she said. “I like your shirt.”
The girl smiled. “Thank you! I’m Zoe.”
“My name is Aliya.”
The girls spent the rest of the day talking and laughing as they gathered up pieces of plastic and paper that had been left behind in the ponds. The more Aliya got to know Zoe, the happier she felt. Zoe was so nice.
At the end of the day, the teacher made a fire for the kids to sit around. Aliya’s muscles were sore from cleaning up the ponds.
“Aliya, come here. You have to see this!” Zoe ran toward her, waving her arms for Aliya to follow. Aliya followed Zoe to a bridge that crossed over the ponds.
Under the bridge, a huge turtle sat in the clear water. Smaller turtles swam past.
Aliya smiled. It was beautiful! She and Zoe stood on the bridge, side by side, and Aliya felt peaceful. Cleaning the ponds had been hard, but now these animals could keep living safely in their home.
Aliya looked at Zoe. She had a new friend now too, all because she’d been brave enough to say hello. Aliya said a little prayer in her heart. Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for this beautiful world and for my new friend. Thank Thee for helping me focus on what I could give.
Illustration by Melissa Manwill Kashiwagi

I can vividly recall a sunny Sunday afternoon in July 1959 when Pamela (whom I later married) and I were walking and talking together. I was contemplating becoming a member of the Church. Pamela said, “I can’t remember the missionaries teaching you about tithing.”
“What is tithing?” I asked.
Pamela responded that members give 10 percent of their income in obedience to God’s law and as an expression of their gratitude for all that our Heavenly Father has given them.
There have been a few moments in my life when I felt faint as a result of shock, and this was one of them. “Ten percent!” I echoed. “That’s impossible. There’s no way I could afford to pay tithing.”
Pamela calmly replied, “My father does. He has a wife and four children, and his income is less than yours.” She followed up by mentioning another family I had come to know in the branch, informing me that they lived on less money than I did and that there were six children in the family. This proved to be a useful challenge to me. If they could manage, I thought, then so could I.
Eleven years later, faced with a real test of my commitment to that law, I realized that through the payment of tithing great faith had developed. It was no longer simply a matter of money to me. In response to that test, I followed my faith, and was blessed for it (see Mal. 3:10).

And that’s what’s so amazing about Angel. School is important. But it’s not the only thing in her life. She graduated near the top of her high school class, yet she doubts she could have done it had she not had the gospel’s guiding influence in her life.
“The Church was especially helpful to me during my senior year of high school. I noticed a lot of my schoolmates were easily depressed because of school,” she says. “But I knew if I did my best, Heavenly Father would help me. Usually, my grades were better than I expected.”

Nicky rushed through the house, looking for Old Nono. Finally he found him sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. “Hello, Old Nono,” Nicky said as he went up to his great-grandfather and put his arms gently around the old man’s neck to give him a hug. As Nicky bent forward, his backpack slid under his arm and banged into Old Nono’s chest.
“Ooooph!” Surprised, the old man gasped for breath, then smiled at Nicky and laughed his rumbly laugh. “That’s a heavy bag of seeds you have there, Nicky.”
Nicky laughed, too, and let the backpack slide down onto the porch floor. “Sorry.” He bent over to kiss the wrinkled cheek. “Are you ready?”
Old Nono smiled at Nicky through his watery, cloudy, 102-year-old eyes. They were kind eyes, understanding eyes that had seen much during his lifetime. “You bet I’m ready!”
By the time Nicky changed into his work clothes and went back outside, Old Nono was already in the garden with the wooden flats filled with the tomato plants that the two of them had started weeks earlier from seeds. “Why don’t you build your muscles by carrying the water,” Old Nono said, pointing to the metal bucket by the water faucet. He grinned and raised his skinny arms as if he were a muscleman. “My muscles are already too strong.”
As soon as Nicky had carried a bucket of water to the garden, Old Nono started forcing his thick, pointed stick into the soft soil and pulling it to one side to form a hole. Nicky poured water into the hole, then held a six-inch tomato plant in it while Old Nono tamped the soil around the plant’s roots.
When they finished the second row, Old Nono paused. He picked up a handful of the black dirt and slowly straightened up, a faraway look in his eyes. Some of the dirt trickled between his fingers. Nicky looked at Old Nono’s gnarled knuckles, swollen and misshapen by arthritis, and he wondered if old age hurt. Then Nicky looked up into Old Nono’s face and saw that it wasn’t pain that had caused him to stop. It was his memories.
Old Nono had been just a teenager when he’d left his parents in Italy and had come to live in Illinois. It had taken many years of hard work before he’d been able to buy a small vegetable farm just outside Chicago. Last fall Old Nono had taken Nicky to the place where, for almost five decades, Old Nono had had a partnership with the land in raising millions of tomatoes and other vegetables. Now that land was covered with streets and lawns and trees and homes.
Old Nono bent over and patted his handful of black dirt around the last small tomato plant.
“I wish I could grow up to be a truck farmer like you were,” Nicky said with a sigh.
“Things are different now, Nicky. Farming isn’t simple any more.” Old Nono straightened up slowly. “Let’s hurry and clean up here, Nicky, so that we can go tend our magic garden.”
Fifteen minutes later they were upstairs in Old Nono’s room. Except for the door, the closet, and the window, all the walls of Old Nono’s room were covered with bookshelves filled with books that the old, cloudy eyes could no longer read.
“Your mind is a magic garden,” Old Nono often said to Nicky. “It’s a magic garden because anything that you plant there grows either seeds or weeds. Every day you choose which one you plant in your magic garden.”
Old Nono sat down in an overstuffed chair and used his hands to lift his feet onto the ottoman. From the table next to him he took a small framed picture of his wife and held it at an angle a few inches from his eyes. Nicky had never known Old Noni. She had died more than twenty years before Nicky was born, but Nicky could tell from the pictures and the stories that he’d heard about her that she had been a beautiful woman in many ways.
Nicky sat in his chair on the other side of the table and opened up Old Nono’s Bible to the bookmark. The ritual was the same every day, and the first thing was for Nicky to read to Old Nono from the scriptures.
Nicky found the next marked verses, and read aloud: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”*
As Nicky closed the Bible and put it back on the table, Old Nono said quietly, “Isn’t that beautiful, Nicky? That’s one of my favorite passages.”
Nicky nodded, although he wondered if he’d really understood what he’d just read. He decided to think about it later. For now, he’d continue with their ritual. “We finished Huckleberry Finn yesterday, Old Nono. What do you want to read now?”
“That one,” Old Nono said, pointing.
Nicky got the large book, opened it to Chapter One, and started to read: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” Nicky glanced again at the title at the top of the page—David Copperfield—then at Old Nono, who had his eyes closed and a happy smile on his face.
Several weeks and 850 pages later, Nicky said a sad good-bye to his friend David Copperfield, a true hero who had planted many seeds of persistence and integrity in Nicky’s and Old Nono’s magic garden. Their next hero was clever King Odysseus, who shared with them the adventures he faced and the problems he solved while traveling home from the war at Troy.
Throughout the spring, Nicky and Old Nono pulled weeds in the outside garden and supported the growing tomato plants with wooden stakes. By summer the little yellow flowers on them became green tomatoes that grew larger every day. Nicky and Old Nono bet each other a hot fudge sundae on which of two tomatoes that they were especially watching would ripen first.
The day came when Old Nono’s tomato was fully ripe. As soon as Nicky’s baseball practice was over, he hopped on his bike and pedaled hard for home. They were going to pick Old Nono’s tomato, eat it with their lunch, then walk to the ice-cream store, where Nicky would buy the sundaes. But when Nicky pulled into the driveway, his mother was outside waiting for him.
“Nicky,” she said softly, “something has happened to Old Nono. Dad went with him in the ambulance a few minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting here for you.”
Nicky dropped his bike on the lawn and got into the car. As his mother started to back the car out of the driveway, Nicky called out, “Wait!” He got out of the car, ran back to the garden, and tenderly picked Old Nono’s tomato.
The hospital was only three miles away, but the drive seemed to take forever. Maybe it’s nothing serious, Nicky hoped.
At the admittance desk Nicky’s mom asked the emergency room nurse about Old Nono. The nurse glanced at a clipboard, then excused herself to go back into the work area. A few minutes later a young, curly-haired doctor came through the metal swinging doors with Nicky’s dad, whose eyes were red from crying.
“There was nothing more we could do,” the doctor said. “But if it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Mariani seemed to die peacefully.”
Nicky’s mom started to cry, and so did Nicky. Finally, when his tears subsided, Nicky realized that he was still holding Old Nono’s tomato. He took it to the nurse’s desk. “Maybe somebody here would like to have this,” he said, handing her the tomato and trying to smile.
The nurse took the tomato and smiled back kindly.
The morning of the funeral the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky. A farmer’s day, Nicky thought as he walked between the rows of tomatoes—Old Nono’s last crop. Just a few months ago Old Nono had poured a bunch of tiny seeds into the palm of Nicky’s hand. Now those seeds had turned into rows of healthy plants with bushels of beautiful tomatoes on them.
Nicky went to Old Nono’s room to wait while his parents finished getting dressed for the funeral. He walked past the bookshelves, stopping to read some of the familiar titles. Books. Hundreds of books that Old Nono loved. Thousands of seeds for their magic garden. He wondered if Old Nono missed these books. Nicky sat in the overstuffed chair, picked up the picture of Old Noni, and studied her smiling face. Wherever Old Nono is, he decided, he’s with Old Noni, and they are happy together.
He glanced up at the books again as he suddenly understood the real magic of Old Nono’s magic garden. The books were still here in this room, but Old Nono had taken the “seeds” in them with him!
A similar thought came to Nicky in the cemetery as he watched the casket being lowered into the grave. It wasn’t really Old Nono inside that casket; it was just the body that Old Nono had left behind, on old, worn-out body. And that body was being placed into the earth that had been Old Nono’s partner in life.
As the casket settled into the grave, tears clouded Nicky’s eyes, and a dull ache persisted. He was really going to miss Old Nono. But through the pain, some familiar words came into Nicky’s mind: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” When he had read them before, they were only words. Now those words had meaning. “A time to be born, and a time to die …” Other seeds that had been planted in Old Nono’s magic garden came to Nicky’s mind: “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.”**
Suddenly it was all clear to him. Everything has a purpose. Even death has a purpose, and it is not really that scary. When he had been helping Old Nono plant seeds in his magic garden, he had also been planting his own magic garden. And the fruit of his magic garden tasted wonderful.

A personal experience illustrates how the Spirit teaches us through our feelings, even those persons who may not be familiar with the process of revelation.

About 11 years ago three elected deputies of the Supreme Soviet visited Salt Lake City. I helped host them on Temple Square. I took them into the North Visitors’ Center to see the paintings and the Christus statue. Then I took them into the Tabernacle, where they heard the Sunday morning Tabernacle Choir broadcast.

Afterward a few of us met with them in a conference room on Temple Square. We told them a little bit about the Church. Then Konstantin Lubenchenko, the senior in the delegation, spoke to us. I made notes of his remarks as they were relayed through an interpreter: "Before I came here I thought the Mormon Church was a very conservative organization of fanatics. But after seeing the beautiful pictures and statue in your visitors’ center and the beautiful setting where the choir sang and hearing the choir and organ, I have a new understanding of your church."

What interested me most was his account of what he felt: "Since I have come to the United States, people have asked me what is my strongest impression in the United States. I can tell you now. It is the singing of your choir. I love organ music and choirs and have gone to hear them many times in my country. As the choir sang, I had a very strong feeling. Although I do not speak English, I felt with my heart that they were sincerely expressing my feelings. My relation with God was expressed in earthly feelings through their singing."

This Soviet lawmaker had a feeling and could describe it well enough for me to realize that he had received a witness from the Spirit.

I told him that I could understand his feelings. I told him his concerns were similar to those of many others, including some I had experienced in my own life. At his age, I was in the university. It was the time of the worst economic depression in the history of the world. Unemployment in this area was about 35 percent, and most of the unemployed were husbands and fathers, since relatively few women worked in the labor force. Very few missionaries were going into the field at that time. We send out as many in a week now as then went during the entire year. I received my bachelor’s degree and planned on somehow attending graduate school. Then the bishop came with what seemed to me a shocking suggestion. He spoke of a mission. I was called to go to England which, at that time, was the most expensive mission in the world. The cost per month was the equivalent of what would be about $500 now.
We discovered that my mother, who had passed away, had established a small savings account to be available for this purpose. I had a savings account in a different place, but the bank in which I had mine had failed. There was then no government insurance program to cover its failure as there is now. My father, a man of great faith and love, supplied the necessary means, with all of the family cooperating at a sacrifice. As I look back upon it, I see all of it as a miracle. Somehow the money was there every month.
The work in the field was not easy. It was difficult and discouraging. But what a wonderful experience it was. In retrospect, I recognize that I was probably a selfish young man when I arrived in Britain. What a blessing it became to set aside my own selfish interests to the greater interests of the work of the Lord. I had the association of tremendous young men and women. They have become treasured friends whom I have known and loved now for more than half a century.
The girl I left came to mean more to me while I was away. Next spring, we shall commemorate our fiftieth wedding anniversary.
How profoundly grateful I am for the experience of that mission. I touched the lives of a few who have, over the years, expressed appreciation. That has been important. But I have never been greatly concerned over the number of baptisms that I had or that other missionaries had. My satisfaction has come from the assurance that I did what the Lord wanted me to do and that I was an instrument in His hands for the accomplishment of His purposes. In the course of that experience, there became riveted into my very being a conviction and knowledge that this is in very deed the true and living work of God, restored through a prophet for the blessing of all who will accept it and live its principles.