Gospel Story Finder

The jeweler
Holds out the black velvet cloth,
And thousands of diamonds
Of every size,
Glitter and gleam and hold my eyes.
Then I see
The jeweler’s careful clockwork,
As the celestial bodies circle
Their appointed paths
With unfailing precision and unending beauty.
There are some
Who say there is no God,
But I know there is
a Heavenly Jeweler
For I have seen His gems.

Before Yondonjamts was baptized and confirmed, he prayed constantly that his father would join the Church too. He was very thankful when his father decided to be baptized. After his baptism and confirmation, Yondonjamts knew it was important for him to prepare to become a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood. It was also important for his father to receive the priesthood. This young man prayed often that his father would receive the priesthood, and he did. Everyone in the family agrees that Yondonjamts is a faithful young man who knows the importance of prayer.

“This [upper state New York] is where the First Vision occurred. This is the pivotal thing of our story. Every claim that we make concerning divine authority, every truth that we offer concerning the validity of this work, all find their roots in the First Vision of the boy prophet. This was the great curtain-raiser on the dispensation of the fulness of times, when God promised that He would restore all the power, the gifts, the blessings of all previous dispensations in one great summing up, as it were, and we are right here where it occurred. And, I repeat, my beloved brethren and sisters, that becomes the hinge pin on which this whole cause turns.”6

I served in the Texas Houston South Mission as a Spanish-speaking elder. One day my companion and I were knocking on doors, trying to find somebody to teach. We came to a house with a huge hole in the worn, wooden porch.
An older woman answered the door and invited us in. I’m not sure if she really knew who we were and what we were doing, but she was very polite. We began teaching her the first lesson, and things seemed to be going fine. Soon it was my turn to teach about Joseph Smith and the First Vision. I watched as the woman’s facial expressions seemed to show growing confusion. It was obvious she was not really following what I was trying to explain to her.
After asking a few questions about what we had gone over so far and about how much of it she was understanding, I felt myself becoming frustrated that she wasn’t getting the concept of the First Vision. It had been a long day, and the last thing a missionary wants is for somebody not to understand what he so badly wants people to know is true.
In the split second I felt my emotions starting to slip toward anger, a small passage from my patriarchal blessing came to my mind. It was a section about my future family that advised me to teach my future children the concepts of the gospel. As that paragraph went through my head, I knew the Spirit was telling me to teach this humble woman in the same way I would teach a child.
I began teaching her with a more simple and loving approach. I imagined my own children sitting around the living room looking up at me, their father, as I taught them about the Prophet Joseph Smith. It was amazing to see the change on her face. Her eyebrows soon lifted, and her eyes began to shine. Her confused look became one of interest and wonder. As I related the story of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appearing to Joseph Smith, tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. The Spirit filled the room, and my frustration turned into great joy.
I will never forget this experience. Now I can’t wait to teach the same principles to my children someday and feel that great joy again.

April was here at last. The all-night study sessions and final exams were over and most of our belongings packed into a closet in the old house we had lived in for the past year. Tearful see-you-in-Septembers echoed through the empty rooms as we locked the front door. My roommate, Lanell, and I lugged our bursting suitcases through the slushy snow and into the yellow Renault.
“What a dumb time for a snowstorm,” Lanell grumbled, slamming the car door shut.
“Oh well, we’ll soon be winging our way to Europe,” I consoled, reminding her of our exciting summer plans. We had schemed all year for this two-month vacation, and because we were trying to save money by driving to Chicago and flying from there, it looked as though this sudden spring snowstorm might threaten our plans.
I switched on the radio. Another weather bulletin, this time with bad news. “All interstates in Utah are closed,” the deejay stated blandly. “Students are advised to remain in Provo until further notice.”
“No way,” I declared. “A little snow won’t stop this Canadian!”
I pulled out the road map, and Lanell and I discussed all the alternative routes. We finally chose one that went south of Provo and then east into Colorado. Since it wasn’t an interstate and didn’t seem to be too mountainous, we reasoned that it would be open and fairly safe.
We headed out as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the gray storm clouds and disappeared over the top of the western range of mountains. It was a bad time to leave, I knew, but we were anxious to be on our way.
I drove cautiously on the snow-packed highway and wasn’t too alarmed when snow began falling. We soon noticed, however, that the highway was ascending into the mountains. Lanell checked the map and to our dismay found, in tiny print, the mountain pass we thought we wouldn’t have to cross. To make matters worse, the storm had increased in fury, the snowflakes splattering so thickly on the windshield that the wipers could barely keep up. As the wind howled through the canyon, I realized that conditions were perfect for a blizzard. We considered returning to Provo for the night but were encouraged by the steady stream of cars creeping toward us on the highway.
“They made it over the pass so we will too,” we told each other.
“And the other side probably won’t be so icy,” I said, trying to sound confident. Inside, I was beginning to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into.
The road was now glare ice and we were steadily climbing. I grasped the wheel lightly as I’d learned to do on icy roads, but as the minutes passed, I felt a knot growing in my stomach and perspiration dampened my ski jacket. I wanted to turn back now but could find nowhere to do so safely. And what would Lanell think if “this Canadian” turned back? On the other hand, what would the downhill side be like, and would I have the nerve to drive it? I mentally tightened my grip on the wheel, silently begging the Lord to help us. If ever I needed a guardian angel, it was now.
Somehow, we reached the summit and I nearly shouted for joy at what I saw in the bright yellow beam of the headlights. Parked across the road, blocking the traffic, was a pickup truck, and standing beside it, a stocky man in a cowboy hat, coveralls, and a heavy parka. He was waving a flashlight, signaling for the cars to turn around and go back.
“The road’s closed. You kids would never make it down the other side,” he said, prying my hands off the steering wheel and kindly suggesting that he turn the car around for me.
As we headed back in the direction we had come, we alternately laughed and cried and prayed. We now knew the truth about all the cars that supposedly had made it over the mountain. All those cars had simply turned around and were coming back as we were now doing. How foolish we had been to ignore the weather warnings and how foolish were those in the approaching cars. Now that the storm had abated somewhat, we could see the ribbon of their lights for miles as we drove carefully down the mountain.
“Bet they’re thinking the same thing we did,” Lanell said with a grin. I grinned back, but silently I wondered, How many times do we make decisions without knowing the whole picture? How many times do we ignore the warnings? And how many times do we continue to tread dangerous paths just because it appears as if everyone is doing it?
We reached Provo late that night, and though I was shaken by the experience, I was grateful for the many insights it had given me. That Utah mountain pass and the angel in the cowboy hat who said it’s never too late to turn around, and who offered to help, will remain forever in my memory.

Growing up, I believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ with all my heart, and I did everything I could to live righteously. And I wanted and expected my family to live righteously as well. The knowledge of the gospel gave me more joy than anything else in my life, especially knowing that I could be with my family for eternity.
So you can imagine how confused and hurt I was when my older brother started growing more and more distant from the gospel and also from my family and me. Ultimately, he left the Church altogether.
For a while, it felt like my world had exploded. I had so many questions:
How could he leave?
How could he not want all the blessings that living the gospel brings?
Doesn’t he want to be with our family forever?
At the beginning, I was angry with my brother. When I would hear my friends talk about how protective their older brothers were and how close their family was, I would feel devastated that my brother and I hadn’t talked for a long time. My dream of being together with my entire family in heaven seemed to be slipping away.
I would often look at the seemingly “perfect” families at church and feel like my family was doing something wrong. If we were righteous enough, wouldn’t my brother come back to the Church? But no matter what we did, my brother still wouldn’t come back.
I prayed to Heavenly Father about my brother all the time. I felt so angry and hurt. I would ask things like, “Why is this happening?” “Can’t you help him know the truth?” “Please change something!”
I did this for a while, and nothing changed. I didn’t understand why God wasn’t doing anything. But then, one day, something finally clicked. I realized there was something I could do.
I could love.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught:
“When you truly desire to bless and lift up those around you—then the power of the pure love of Christ can work in your heart and life.
“As you become fluent in [the language of the love of Christ] and use it in your interactions with others, they will recognize something in you that may awaken in them a long-hidden feeling to search for the right way on the journey back to their heavenly home. After all, the language of love is their true native language too.”1
Things started to change when I showed my brother my love for him instead of trying to change him. I started to pray for him out of love rather than anger. I could see that his heart was beginning to soften—not necessarily toward the gospel, but toward my family and me. And I realized that my heart needed to soften toward him too (see Mosiah 5:7). I began to see his goodness again, and I started to accept and respect his decisions, even though they were different from mine. I know those changes to my heart and mind could have only been made through the healing power of Jesus Christ.
Heavenly Father really does answer our prayers for others, even if it is not always in the way we expect him to. But just as Heavenly Father heard Alma the Elder’s prayers for his son, He hears our prayers for those we love (see Mosiah 27:14). And even though we might have to have a lot of patience and hope, our continuous prayers and faith for others really do have a mighty influence on them—and us. Much more than we might ever know.
My brother hasn’t come back to the Church, and I don’t think he plans to anytime soon. But I’ve learned that he has his own agency and that even if he chooses differently than I do, I can love and respect him anyway. We have a better relationship than we’ve had in years because of the love we show each other. I don’t always agree with his choices or his opinions, but by doing my best to understand him better, I’ve been able to get a glimpse of just how much Heavenly Father loves and knows each of His children.
The key to keeping families together and reaching each other’s hearts isn’t condemning each other’s choices; ultimately it’s love—the pure love of Christ. I can never force my brother to return to the gospel, but I can love him and help him know that he is always welcome.
I still pray and fast for my brother, and yet I’ve realized that his choices are his own. Our journey back to Heavenly Father is an individual one between each of us and Him. But we can turn to Heavenly Father and the Savior for help in supporting one another on our individual journeys and loving one another all the same.
I don’t know what will happen in the end when it comes to my eternal family, and sometimes I feel a little heartbroken when I think about it. But I take comfort in the words of President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency:
“Trust in the Lord. …
“[This] applies to unanswered questions about sealings in the next life or desired readjustments because of events or transgressions in mortality. There is so much we do not know that our only sure reliance is to trust in the Lord and His love for His children.”2
And that’s what I choose to do—to trust in the Lord and to share His love—no matter what.

Dawn could feel that it had snowed during the night even before she pushed the drapes aside to see Gramercy Avenue hung with a new, perfect whiteness. And her anticipation eased only when the icy floor on her bare feet reminded her to start dressing. Putting on everything she could find laying around her room—two blouses, a sweater, two pairs of pants, her brother’s jacket, a scarf, and gloves—Dawn ran down the hall and through the front door, stopping on the porch momentarily to listen to the stillness. She breathed in the sterile, cold air and marveled at the sparkle of the snow-covered street and houses. Then she stepped high through the snow to avoid blurring her footsteps. The maple tree branches hung down, weighted with heavy snow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb the rest of the tree, she licked the pure snow from the tip of one of its branches.
“Hey you! Stop eating that tree!” shouted a deep voice.
Dawn turned and watched Mr. Wallace walk carefully in her footsteps so as not to further disturb the white blanket. He was carrying a snow shovel. The elderly man’s uncovered hair blended with the white snow, but his red face made a marked contrast.
“What’re you going to do with that shovel?” Dawn asked.
“Now, just what do you think?” he replied, scowling good-humoredly at her.
“You wreck everything,” she teased back. “You rake all the autumn leaves into the gutter and take all the snow off the sidewalks.”
He pointed his leather-gloved finger at her. “At least I don’t eat up all the maple trees.”
Suddenly they heard a door open, and Mr. Wallace rolled his black eyes heavenward. “It’s my wife,” he whispered and quickly ducked behind a snow-laden bridal wreath bush. Dawn watched Mrs. Wallace come out onto the porch. She looked around, waved at Dawn, and went back into the house.
“Is she gone?” Mr. Wallace asked hoarsely as he reappeared from behind the bush.
“Yes, but why are you hiding from her?”
“If she caught me out here, she’d skin me,” he said, wiping his gloved hand across his forehead as though he were perspiring. Great puffs of steam punctuated each word.
“Why?” Dawn pursued, tightening her scarf under her chin.
Mr. Wallace came closer and leaned toward her. His great black eyes reminded her of the coal eyes of a snowman. They seemed to laugh even when his face was serious. “She thinks I’m sick,” he half whispered to Dawn.
“Are you sick?” Dawn asked in disbelief. Mr. Wallace was such fun to be with that she didn’t want to even think about anything ever being wrong with him.
He straightened up abruptly. “Do I look sick?”
“You look like always. But Mother says you are getting old.”
“What,” he croaked, “why, I’m only a hundred and seventy-eight.” He laughed and touched Dawn’s cheeks. “Go tell your mother I’m bringing some deer meat over.” He put his hand on Dawn’s back and gently pushed her toward her house.
Dawn was soon sitting on a chair by the stove with her feet on the opened door of the oven. Her mother stood at the counter mixing batter for waffles. “I want to give Mr. Wallace a Christmas present,” Dawn said, holding her hands out to the warm oven.
“What do you want to give him?” asked her mother.
“Something beautiful, like first snowstorms and piles of autumn leaves and maple trees in the spring.”
“We could give him an old leftover moon or something,” her mother suggested, catching her daughter’s playful spirit.
Dawn smiled at her mother and pushed a wisp of hair off her flushed forehead. A drop of melted snow trickled down onto her nose and dropped off the tip. She stared into the oven, thinking about Mr. Wallace and Christmas.
Three days later Dawn awoke to the dripping sound of melting snow outside. The sunlight pierced her drapes to make wet-looking, dreary shadows on the wall. It will be gone by Christmas, she thought, lying still in her bed to prolong the moment of seeing it. Finally she got up, put on her robe, and walked slowly down the hall and into the kitchen where it was still cold. Her mother, wearing a flowered robe like Dawn’s, was taking the frying pan out of the cupboard.
“Good morning,” Dawn said, yawning. “The snow’s melting.”
“I know,” her mother said, so quietly that Dawn had a quick feeling of uneasiness.
“Is something wrong?” she asked as she reached out to touch her mother’s arm.
Her mother turned and looked searchingly at her for a moment. Then she put her arms around Dawn and said evenly, “He died this morning.”
Dawn knew Mother meant Mr. Wallace and shivered in the cold kitchen. She wanted to ask, “When? How? Are you sure?” Anything to know it wasn’t true. But it was true without her accepting it.
“He shoveled the walks only three days ago,” Dawn said feebly. “Everybody’s walks,” she said more desperately. “Farleys’ and Jane’s and Mrs. Boyle’s, the whole block!” she almost shouted.
They were both silent with their own thoughts for a short while. Then Mother said, “Life and death can be beautiful, Dawn, like first snowstorms and piles of autumn leaves and maple trees in spring.” She looked deep into Dawn’s eyes. “Aren’t you willing to accept that?”
Dawn wasn’t sure. She needed more time to think about it, but her mother’s eyes were questioning and Dawn realized she was waiting for an answer. After a few moments of silence it came to her that Mother was right. Finally Dawn nodded her head. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, giving her mother a quick hug. “There is a kind of beauty to death as well as to life.” And for now that was enough.

Isn’t it too bad that it usually takes trials for us to learn to really appreciate others? I have always loved my family very much, but not until I became totally dependent on them did I realize how completely lost I would be without them.
In the fall of 1981 it was discovered that I have a disease called neurofibromatosis. This is the same disease that afflicted the Elephant Man. It causes benign tumors to grow, and it was found on my spinal cord and in my brain. Since the first tumors were discovered I have had three major operations, lost a great deal of my balance and coordination, had my lungs collapse three times, and had increased difficulties with digestion. Worst of all, the right side of my face and my vocal cords have become paralyzed, and I have become deaf.
How have I survived? Through the love and support of my family. I am 17 and the youngest of three children. I have a brother who is 21 and a sister who is 24.
Without my family I would never have survived, for they are my most faithful teachers, dearest friends, and treasured loved ones. When God placed me on this earth, he must have said, “That girl’s going to need a special family,” because he made sure to put me in the best one.

May I share these introspective thoughts of an individual that found the path to happiness: “I am truly, deeply loved of the Lord. He will do all that I permit him to do for my happiness. The key to unlock that power is myself. While others will counsel, suggest, exhort, and urge, the Lord has given me the responsibility and the agency to make the basic decisions for my happiness and eternal progress. As I read and ponder the scriptures and with deep faith earnestly seek my Father in prayer, peace envelops my being. With sincere repentance and obedience to the commandments of God, coupled with genuine concern for and service to others, fear is purged from my heart. I am conditioned to receive and to interpret divine aid given to mark my path with clarity. No friend, bishop, stake president, or General Authority can do this for me. It is my divine right to do it for myself. I have learned to be at peace and to be happy. I know I will have a rewarding, productive, meaningful life.”
This individual is not a robot enslaved by adversity, nor need we be as we wisely use our free agency to follow the teachings of the Savior.

This story happened in Germany.
Emma put the last sleeping bag into the camper van. Her family was driving to Italy for a holiday weekend. They were all so excited!
She got into her seat with a blanket and some snacks. Her brother, Max, sat next to her.
“Everyone ready?” Dad asked.
“Yes!” Emma and Max said.
They drove past buildings and trees. The roads were very busy. After a few hours, it was so crowded that all the cars stopped.
Emma looked out the window at the people in the cars next to them. Some looked bored. Others looked upset.
A man behind them got out of his car. He walked over and knocked on Dad’s window.
Dad rolled down his window. “Hi. Can I help you?”
The man pointed to their van. “One of your tires is flat.”
“Oh no!” Dad said. He got out to look and talk to the man.
Dad got back in the van. “We have two choices. We can stop at the next rest area. Or we can drive carefully to the closest camper site. Let’s pray about it.”
Mom said the prayer. She asked Heavenly Father to help them know what they should do.
They were all quiet. Emma listened closely to hear the Holy Ghost. “I think we should drive to the campsite,” she said.
“Me too,” said Dad.
When they got there, Mom and Dad called someone for help. A few hours later, a worker came to look at the tire.
“It’ll be hard to find a tire that fits,” he said. “We’ll order a new one, but all the shops are closed for the holiday. We can’t get the tire until Tuesday.”
Emma frowned. Tuesday was far away—and what if the tire was late? She was excited to go to Italy. But now they might not get there!
“Let’s pray again,” Emma said.
“Great idea,” Mom said. “Just remember that even if we’re not blessed with a tire, Heavenly Father always hears our prayers. We can still have a great trip.”
Emma nodded. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “thank Thee for keeping us safe on our trip. If possible, please help us find the right tire for our camper.”
The next morning, the worker came back. He was rolling a big tire toward them.
“Looks like we’ll make it to Italy after all!” Dad said. Emma and Max cheered.
“How did you find a new tire so fast?” Max asked the worker.
“I asked some other people here if they had a spare tire that would fit,” the worker said. “And someone did!”
The worker put the new tire on. They were ready to go! Emma said a silent prayer of thanks. Their family trip hadn’t gone the way they planned, but Heavenly Father had heard their prayers.
How did Heavenly Father answer Emma’s prayer?
Illustrations by Greg Paprocki

Returning to my experiences as a young man, I remember one crossing of the Rocky Mountains. After passing a “Beware: Falling Rocks” sign, my father noticed pebbles and small stones landing on the pavement in front of us. He quickly slowed the car to a near stop just as a basketball-sized boulder whizzed by us. Dad waited for the rock slide to cease before continuing. My father’s constant attention and immediate action ensured that our family safely reached our final destination.

Rob: You usually don’t realize you have a problem until you are in so deep you can no longer see the light. That’s what happened with me. I was curious and justified my involvement with pornography by reminding myself that guys at school were involved with it too, and it didn’t seem like a big problem for them.

Rob: Curiosity turned to interest, and interest developed into a strong habit. Soon I was addicted. I would get home from school, go straight to the computer, and be there for hours. My social life suffered. So did my schoolwork, family ties, and—most important—my spirituality.
At the very time I most needed the promptings of the Spirit in my life, I was less and less able to feel anything. Life became a constant struggle against depression.
My soul hungered, but the only thing I fed it offered no nourishment. I would get down on myself, so I would delve into pornography to feel better. But the pornography would upset me even more.

Rob: Through all those years I attended church, but I was mentally inactive. I kept going to church so I wouldn’t upset my parents. But I knew the lifestyle I was caught up in was wrong. I noticed a change in my own countenance day by day, year by year. I became calloused and hardened. I found myself lying to my parents, my bishop, everyone around me. Inside I was going through personal turmoil and spiritual torment.

Rob: I humbly bowed before the Lord in tears and pled for strength beyond my own. Night after night I prayed, and finally I knew I had to talk to my bishop about it. That was the hardest part—admitting to someone else that I had a problem. I kept thinking I could handle it myself and no one would ever have to know. I wanted it to be something just between God and me. But I finally matured to the point that I realized that was impossible. I approached my bishop and began a long and difficult repentance process.

It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go through the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.

By the time my husband and I graduated, we had been married for a year. Elder Russell M. Nelson (at the time, he was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) came to speak at our graduation. A luncheon followed, and only 16 students were invited to attend. Oddly enough, both my husband I were selected to be there. When the discussion was opened for questions and answers. I raised my hand, looked Elder Nelson in the eye, and expressed my concerns about being both an artist and a mother. I had worked so hard to build my talents in school, and I wanted to continue to work hard and improve, but I also knew that motherhood took precedence. Was there a way to do both? Elder Nelson’s eyes sparkled as he replied, “Absolutely!” He encouraged me to improve upon my talents and to pray to Heavenly Father for help in knowing how I could do both and that with Him, I would be able to do things I once thought impossible. I took that advice to heart.

Eight feet dragged downstairs to Mom’s sewing room. “Mom,” said Johnny, as he, Benjamin, Katie, and Miriam opened the door, “we’re bored. What can we do?”
“Go swimming?” Mom answered.
“We did that yesterday,” said Katie.
“Why don’t you ride your bikes?” suggested Mom.
“We did that this morning,” Johnny answered.
Mom smiled. “Then catch some monkeys.”
“What?” Benjamin jumped.
Mom laughed. “I just wanted to see if you were listening.”
“Sure we’re listening,” said Benjamin. “We don’t have anything else to do.”
“OK,” said Mom, “how about having a Popsicle race?”
“A Popsicle race?” Miriam asked.
“You mean, see who can eat one the fastest?” asked Katie. “We always race each other in everything. We want to do something different.”
“Oh, this is different,” Mom said. “Eating the Popsicles is just the first part. The fun part comes when all you have left are the sticks.”
The children frowned. “What do you mean?” asked Benjamin.
“Here’s how it works,” Mom explained. “Everybody gets a Popsicle and goes in a different direction. Then you have to think of an unusual and interesting thing to do with your Popsicle or its stick. It’s a race because you have to be back here within an hour.”
“You mean, we try to do something with a Popsicle or the stick that we’ve never done before?” asked Johnny.
“That’s right.” Mom nodded. “And there’s one more rule. Whatever you do must make someone else happy. Whoever comes up with the best idea wins. How does that sound?”
The children looked at each other for a moment. “I think that it sounds like fun,” Benjamin said.
“Me, too,” Miriam and Johnny agreed.
“Let’s go!” shouted Katie, and eight feet pounded up the stairs toward the freezer.
A few minutes later Mom looked through the window and smiled at four excited children with four brightly colored Popsicles dashing off in four different directions.
Nearly an hour had passed before Benjamin came running downstairs, grinning. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “Anyone else back yet?”
“You’re the first,” Mom answered, looking out the window. “But here comes Johnny, and Katie is right behind him. And I see Miriam down the street.”
Within minutes the children all gathered in the sewing room. The girls were laughing, and Johnny was so excited that he could hardly stand still. “I did it!” he said. “Let me tell first!”
“No!” shouted the girls. “We want to tell!”
“Hush, now,” Mom said. “You can tell your Popsicle stories in the order of your return. Benjamin, that means that you’re first.”
“OK,” said Benjamin, jumping up. “Well, I ate my Popsicle while walking down the sidewalk and trying to think of something to do. When it was gone, I sat down on the curb to think some more. I was sitting across from Mrs. Taylor’s house. I remembered about Mr. Taylor dying last year and about Mom and Dad saying what a hard time Mrs. Taylor’s been having trying to do everything by herself. I wished that I could help her. Then I noticed that her garden patch was full of weeds—and I got my idea. I went over and asked Mrs. Taylor if it was all right, then used my stick as a tool to dig weeds out of her garden!”
Mom hugged Benjamin. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “What a great idea! I know that it made Mrs. Taylor very happy.”
“My turn!” Johnny called, jumping up and down.
“Yes, Johnny,” said Mom. “What did you do with your Popsicle?”
“First I ate it.” Johnny giggled, showing his red tongue. “And I had to think for a while to get an idea too. As I was thinking, somebody called to me. It was Jeffrey—the boy in my class who has to stay in a wheelchair. He was on the porch of his house and asked me to come over. He seemed pretty sad. I thought that if summer vacation gets boring for me, it must really get boring for him: no bike riding, no baseball, no swimming. So when I went over to his house, I knew what I was going to do with my stick. His mom got me a piece of heavy paper and a pin, and I folded a paper airplane. Then I worked the pin through the middle of the Popsicle stick and stuck it into the nose of the airplane to make a propeller. I gave it to Jeffrey, and do you know what? Even though he has some pretty neat toys, he thought the airplane was great.”
“And you’re pretty great, too,” said Mom. “Good job!”
“I came back next,” said Katie. “Does my idea count even if the someone I made happy wasn’t a person?”
“I don’t see why not,” answered Mom.
“OK. Then I can tell you. After I ate my Popsicle, I ran over to Mrs. King’s house. Her yard is full of things for birds, and I wanted to see if there were any hummingbirds at her feeder. There weren’t, but I saw two sparrows having trouble eating from the seed bell that hangs in the tree. There weren’t any branches close enough for them to sit on while they ate, and they were too small to reach the bell from the branch it hung on. So I asked Mrs. King for two pieces of string. I tied a piece to each end of my Popsicle stick and tied the other ends of the strings to a branch. Now the stick hangs next to the seed bell, and it’s a perch for the birds to sit on while they eat!”
“Terrific!” exclaimed Mom. “But I know someone you made happy besides the birds: Mrs. King. Now there will be more birds for her to watch. You did very well.” Mom turned to Miriam. “Now it’s your turn, honey.”
Miriam looked at the floor. “I think I goofed,” she said. “I didn’t come up with a good idea like the others.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mom said. “Please tell us what you did.”
“Well, I didn’t eat my Popsicle,” began Miriam. “I saw Tony on his front porch. I said, ‘Hi,’ but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that he had his tonsils taken out Monday. That really makes your throat hurt. So I gave my Popsicle to him, and I sat by him and told him stories and jokes until I saw everyone else coming back here. When I left, he still didn’t say anything, but he smiled.”
“Miriam,” said Mom, kissing her, “that was a good idea. You made someone just as happy as Benjamin and Johnny and Katie did. In fact, now we have a problem.”
“What?” asked the children.
“I don’t think I can decide which idea was best. They were all wonderful.”
The children looked at each other. They were smiling. “That doesn’t matter, Mom,” answered Benjamin. “I think we each got a prize anyway. We all feel great!”
And eight feet skipped up the stairs and outside to play.

Dave, 27, had long dreamed of going into advertising. His father was an excellent graphic designer in Los Angeles. Dave would spend hours talking to his father about the business. He would help with pasteups and layouts. He had a natural eye and quickly developed the skills to be a fine designer. When he went to BYU, he tried to find a company willing to hire him, but he had no luck. So he decided to see if he could create his own job.
He contacted a printing shop and found they occasionally needed design work. He visited companies he thought would benefit by his artistic talents. He found school organizations and clubs willing to pay for a flyer or poster. He also found companies needing an artist for advertisements and other business needs. Soon Dave was very busy, and the work he was doing helped his schoolwork, too.
After graduation, Dave went to work for a major advertising agency.

“Is anyone still awake?” The first time I asked, I had received two whispered responses in the affirmative. Now, hours later, the silence answered that I was the last one in the room who couldn’t get to sleep.
It was my first night in the Missionary Training Center (MTC). That day, I had said good-bye to my parents, met my companion and the other new missionaries going to Italy, and been to the first set of classes. I was exhausted, but my mind was spinning with anxiety. “What have I gotten myself into?” I asked myself over and over. I didn’t know if I could really learn to be a missionary. Would I have the courage to fly to a foreign country and talk to strangers about the gospel? Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here. Tears started to roll down my cheeks.
Then I remembered something my mom had told me about her brother Larry. Uncle Larry served his mission in Uruguay and Paraguay in the 1970s. At first he had spent sleepless nights worrying about his inadequacies. When he felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, he would get out of his bed, go into the bathroom, and kneel down to plead with Heavenly Father for peace. Somehow, with the Lord’s help, Uncle Larry made it through and served a faithful mission.
I felt some hope at this thought and crept down the hall to the bathroom. In the dim light, I knelt on the cold tile floor and sobbed. I begged Heavenly Father to grant me a feeling of peace so that I could have the courage to move forward.
I waited. Nothing happened. I waited some more, hearing only the sound of my crying. Finally, there was nothing to do but go back to bed.
In the moment before I fell asleep, the answer came. The Spirit filled my mind with a bright, warm impression of a beautiful place. Suddenly I knew that although I might have a hard time with fear in the beginning, if I pressed forward, I would get to where the Lord meant me to be. The thought filled me with peace, and I fell asleep.
The Spirit had hinted of beautiful things ahead. In hard moments during my stay at the MTC, I closed my eyes and remembered what I had felt. With prayer and hard work, I outlasted my fears.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in Genoa, Italy, with my new companion. In the kitchen of our apartment was a glass door that led to a balcony. I stepped out on the balcony and gazed at the city. I already knew and loved this city. This was the place I had seen in my mind’s eye that night at the MTC. I knew the Lord had led me to this moment, and I was right where I belonged.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”

Like most of the youth on Takaroa, Tetuarere works on the pearl farms. He has to get up as early as 4:30 a.m., and he spends the day diving and swimming, lifting heavy strings of oysters into boats. Others, like young women (right) Hinanui Tehina, 14, and Tapiu Tino, 15, work all day long tying oysters to nylon strings so that others can put them back in the water. That’s how the pearls are grown, and that helps keep the economy alive on Takaroa. “We are needed here,” Tapiu explains. She went to boarding school for a while but found there were a lot of negative influences, so she returned to be with her family, surrounded by those she loves.

Although the first Latter-day Saint missionary arrived in Hungary in 1885, he had little success and left after about three months. The first Hungarian known to join the Church, Mischa Markow, was baptized in Constantinople in 1887. He subsequently served a mission in Europe, but he was later banished from Belgrade and later from Hungary because of his preaching.

I used to feel uncomfortable in interviews, but I eventually realized that my bishop was always willing to help me solve my problems. Trust your bishop; he is a shepherd and the ward is his flock.
Jaime R., age 19, Cochabamba, Bolivia