Gospel Story Finder

Tears fell as I prayed for peace when my youngest son filled out his missionary application. I really wanted him to go on a mission. I did. I kept trying to convince myself of this.
I love my Savior and was genuinely thrilled for my son’s opportunity to share the joy we can find through Jesus Christ. Yet deep down I was afraid of him leaving. I knew that he would never truly come home again after his mission. Even if he lived at home, it wouldn’t be the same.
My friends told me the empty-nester stage was wonderful. My husband and I were excited and looking forward to the freedom and opportunities we hadn’t had while we were raising our children.
With this newfound freedom, I threw myself into a myriad of activities. I traveled with my husband, learned to play the organ for my calling, played with my grandchildren, and did temple and family history work.
I found excitement and adventure. I found self-improvement. I found wonderful things.
Yet there was always something missing. Something still wasn’t there. When my son left, he took a big chunk of my heart that I couldn’t seem to fill.
About a year after my son left, I had a temper tantrum to compete with all the temper tantrums my children threw when they were young. My husband looked at me and said, “Michelle, you need to serve.” I signed up for a service opportunity.
Still, my heart ached. I had a hard time throwing myself into service or any of the other ventures that beckoned. With all my children gone, I felt like my life would never be quite whole again.
One night when I prayed for help, the Spirit informed me that I was experiencing the void that comes from loss—loss of purpose. I thought I had dealt with that particular sadness by filling my life with all those wonderful activities.
As I sought for answers, I found this statement from the Prophet Joseph Smith’s history: “When we lose [something or someone] upon whom we have set our hearts it should be a caution unto us. … Our affections should be placed upon God and his work more intensely than upon our fellow beings.”1
A jolt of light pierced the dark cloud over my heart. I had tried to fill my deep cavity of sorrow with things, activities, and experiences—serving, loving, pursuing talents. All good things, but they didn’t fill my gaping hole. They didn’t heal the way I needed healing.
I realized that type of peace and fulfillment can only come through our Savior, Jesus Christ. Jesus taught, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). It is only through Him that we find joy and wholeness and peace and contentment. Psalm 16:11 says, “Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy.”
Life didn’t instantly change. My heart didn’t instantly heal. But I knew where my focus had to be for it to happen.
My prayers shifted. I started asking Heavenly Father to help me build a stronger relationship with my Savior. When I would get discouraged, I would consciously remind myself that Jesus Christ was there for me, and through the grace of His atoning power, He would help me. My scripture study became more focused on building a relationship with Him. It took time, but I persisted in directing my emotions, my energy, and my thoughts toward Jesus Christ.
As I did, the heavy darkness began to lift. I found greater enjoyment in the little acts of service and love each day. Light and hope brightened my path and filled the void in my heart. Putting the Savior first gave deeper meaning and enjoyment to every aspect of my life, from serving to spending time with family, from traveling to developing my talents. Everything became richer with Christ at the center.
Everyone’s journey through the changing times in life is unique. However, the solution to our sorrows is to respond to Christ’s call when He says, “Come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I shall heal [you]” (3 Nephi 18:32). It is only through Him that we will find true healing, peace, love, and joy.

Seminary students in the combined early-morning classes of the Gilmer First, Second, and Third wards, Gilmer Texas Stake, accepted the challenge to think, speak, dress, and act like a missionary every day for a week.
The challenge was issued by the full-time missionaries. And the students were challenged to mark and place a Book of Mormon with one of their friends during the week. Commitment sheets were distributed and signed. At first, some of the students were hesitant to commit themselves for fear of the reaction of nonmember friends. Instead, their friends ended up encouraging them.
One student reported about the experience, “I felt at first that I would be embarrassed, but after I started, I found I really didn’t mind.”
Another student, an athlete who at first was concerned about his image at school, wrote, “I first thought this was nonsense, but listening to the missionaries changed my mind. I wanted to aid them in the work of the Lord.”
One of the seminary instructors said, “For the first time, many of them realized the influence they can exert on their friends. It did them good to see they can be positive influences if they want to be.”
The project did not go unnoticed by school faculty. Other students began dressing up when the LDS youth did.
The feelings were best summarized by Samantha Bowers. She said, “The feeling of love and togetherness I have had for everyone this week has been so special. It is a feeling and experience I will never forget.”

Let me illustrate with a sacred experience which brought these guidelines together in blessing the lives of those in need.

While serving as a bishop, one cold winter day I visited an elderly couple who lived in a two-room duplex. The modest home was heated by a small coal-burning Heatrola. As I approached the home, I met the 82-year-old husband, his aged body bent in the driving snow as he gathered a few pieces of wet coal from his exposed supply of fuel. I helped him with his burden but made a solemn resolve to do more.

I prayed and pondered, seeking a solution. Step by step the inspiration came. In the ward was an unemployed carpenter. He had no fuel for his furnace but was too proud to receive the stoker slack he needed to keep his house warm. I suggested to the carpenter a way he could work for the help he received. Would he build a coal shed for a couple in need? “Of course,” he replied.

Now where were we to obtain the materials? I approached the proprietors of a local lumberyard from whom we frequently purchased products. I remember saying to the men, “How would the two of you like to paint a bright spot on your souls this winter day?” Not knowing exactly what I meant, they agreed readily. They were invited to donate the lumber and hardware for the coal shed.

Within days the project was completed. I was invited to inspect the outcome. The coal shed was simply beautiful in its sleek covering of battleship-gray paint. The carpenter, who was a high priest, testified that he had actually felt inspired as he labored on this modest shed.

My older friend, with obvious appreciation, stroked the wall of the sturdy structure. He pointed out to me the wide door, the shiny hinges, and then opened to my view the supply of dry coal which filled the shed. In a voice filled with emotion, he said in words I shall ever treasure, “Bishop, take a look at the finest coal shed a man ever had.” Its beauty was only surpassed by the pride in the builder’s heart. And the elderly recipient labored each day at the ward chapel, dusting the benches, vacuuming the carpet runners, arranging the hymnbooks. He, too, worked for that which he had received.

Once again, the welfare plan of the Lord had blessed the lives of His children.

Some years ago in the Church News there appeared a most interesting article about a young man who made his decision to trust in the ways of the Lord.
“President Spencer W. Kimball is a constant inspiration to the Church. This is not only so through what he says, but likewise by what he does. When addressing the Stockholm Area Conference he revealed the secret of this success. Said he: ‘As I was out alone, milking the cows, or putting up the hay, I had time to think. I mulled it over in my mind and made this decision: ‘I, Spencer Kimball, will never taste any form of liquor. I, Spencer Kimball, will never touch tobacco. I will never drink coffee, nor will I ever touch tea—not because I can explain why I shouldn’t, except that the Lord said not to.’ He said those things were an abomination. There are many other things that are, too, that are not in the Word of Wisdom. But I made up my mind.

‘That’s the point I am trying to make. I made up my mind then, as a little boy; ‘I will never touch those things.’ And so, having made up my mind, it was easy to follow it, and I did not yield. There were many temptations that came along, but I did not even analyze it; I did not stop and measure it and say, ‘Well, shall I or shall I not?’ I always said to myself: ‘But I made up my mind I would not. Therefore, I do not.

“‘I want to just say that I will soon go into another year and that I have never tasted tea, nor coffee, nor tobacco, nor liquor of any kind, nor drugs. Now that may sound very presumptuous and boasting to you, but I am only trying to make this point: that if every boy and girl—as he or she begins to grow a little more mature and becomes a little more independent of his friends and his family and all—if every boy and girl would make up his or her mind, I will not yield, then no matter what the temptation is: I made up my mind. That’s settled’” (Church News, Oct. 4, 1975, 16).

“July 1839.—President Joseph Smith had taken the sick into his house and door-yard until his house was like an hospital and he had attended upon them until he was taken sick himself and confined to his bed several days.
“July 22, 1839.—Joseph arose from his bed of sickness, and the power of God rested upon him. He commenced in his own house and door-yard, commanding the sick, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole, and they were healed according to his word. He then continued to travel from house to house from tent to tent upon the bank of the river, healing the sick as he went until he arrived at the upper stonehouse, where he crossed the river in a boat, accompanied by several of the Quorum of the Twelve, and landed in Montrose.
“He walked into the cabin where I was lying sick, and commanded me, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. I arose and was healed, and followed him and the brethren of the Twelve into the house of Elijah Fordham, who was supposed to be dying, by his family and friends. Joseph stepped to his bedside, took him by the hand and commanded him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. His voice was as the voice of God. Brother Fordham instantly leaped from his bed, called for his clothing and followed us into the street.
“We then went into the house of Joseph B. Noble, who also lay very sick, and he was healed in the same manner; and when, by the power of God granted unto him, Joseph had healed all the sick, he recrossed the river and returned to his home. This was a day never to be forgotten.
“During my further stay in Montrose I attended meetings and administered to the sick when I was well myself.”7

Moving was a challenge for Mary, too, but she met it with independence and tenacity. Once when they moved, “I took her to Germany, dropped her off in Frankfurt with the two boys, and then I had to fly on to Berlin for a temporary assignment,” says Elder Hales. “Mary got the boys into school, learned to find her way around the busy autobahn, and eventually learned to speak German. This was typical. She has always made it work.”

Painting the house was the biggest job. It was a project that lasted two months, two of the best months of summer, and involved everyone in the family. When we—I had six brothers and sisters—became old enough and careful enough we would be given the honor of doing the actual painting. This honor was bestowed with great ceremony. The night before the painting started, a large bonfire was built and then with the entire family watching my father would tap the shoulders of the honored person with a paintbrush.
“I knight you into the royal order of the paintbrush of the Madison family,” he said in his deepest and most ceremonious voice.
Afterward we celebrated with a banquet of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade root beer, and cake. A feast, of course, fit for a king. Toasts were made with the root beer and songs were sung, all directed to the new knight. It was great fun. The knights being initiated into King Arthur’s round table probably felt no more honored than we did when we became knighted into the royal order of the paintbrush.
Unfortunately for me, the year I became old enough to paint was the summer I became interested in baseball. The day painting started was also the day my team had its first practice game.
My mother wouldn’t let me get out of painting to go to the game.
“The house and the family are more important than anything else,” she said.
I knew my team wouldn’t have a chance without me, so while everyone was busy working, I painted my way to a far corner of the house and made a run for it. I reached a row of trees growing on the edge of our property and waited. I watched for a few minutes. No one was following me, so I hurried to the game.
It was the second inning. The other team, the North Side Wolves, had scored four runs. No problem. My team didn’t have anything to worry about. It was my turn to bat.
I stepped up to the plate, ready to hit the first home run of what was going to be an illustrious career of home runs. The pitcher hunkered down, spit, fleered his lips back, and gave me his fiercest scowl.
I just scowled back at him, swung my bat a couple of times for practice, and then to strike terror into the hearts of the outfielders, I casually pointed my bat at the church which was more than half a mile away. Several of them backed up. The pitcher, his face stone hard, swung his arms over his head, beginning the windup.
Just then a dark shadow came over me.
“Must be a cloud passing in front of the sun,” I thought, concentrating on the pitcher. Then I noticed the pitcher had stopped his windup and was backing up.
It was George, my oldest brother. George is big, six foot four, and he has this mean look on his face, the kind of look you see on a mad zoo gorilla. George makes most guys my age a little edgy, but not me. I knew what my mother would do to him if he hurt me.
“Let’s go,” George said. George never says more than he has to.
“After I hit a couple of homers,” I replied casually. I knew everyone there would be impressed with my bravery.
“Hey, let’s play ball!” the pitcher yelled.
George looked at him again and then tightened a hand into a fist. The pitcher dropped the ball and backed up several steps. His face was pale, just like he’d looked death in the face.
George looked at me, shook his head, and then reached for me. I sat down on home plate.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
George shook his head again.
“Dumb.”
He reached down, grabbed my leg, and started for home, dragging me behind him.
He let me walk part of the way after I promised to go along peacefully.
My mother was waiting at the house with my paintbrush and a bucket of paint.
“You do your work here,” she said, “before you do anything else.”

The last night of pageant, Saturday night, rain poured down as if the sky knew of our sadness at the coming departure. And we shared one last beautiful experience.
As everyone came in from their proselyting and the rain poured on down, we readied ourselves for prayer. Rain was not a new thing to pageant; in fact, it had developed a kind of mystique in connection with the performances. It was legend that many times during the thirty-four years of the pageant, rain had drenched the countryside and yet not touched the Hill Cumorah. Many times it had rained just before a performance and begun again just afterward, leaving New York weathermen scratching their heads or chuckling about “those Mormons.” As was the custom, the visiting General Authority was to say the prayer.
As Elder Delbert L. Stapley gave the prayer, he asked that the rain would stop, that we could perform and touch the hearts of the spirits that were there. As soon as he’d spoken those words, the rain stopped and within a few minutes a light breeze swept across the hill to dry the muddy slopes. The whole cast went up the mountain, determined to make this the best performance.
It flew by without a hitch, and before we knew it, we were all assembled together for the last after-pageant meeting, knowing that it was all over and that the love that had developed would exist only as a memory. After the pageant theme song, “I Am a Child of God,” was sung and the closing prayer was said, a reverent hush filled the night. Then slowly, faintly, all 560 brothers and sisters vocally embraced each other in the soft melody of “God Be With You Till We Meet Again.” As I tried to hold back the tears, I remembered the calm words an elder had spoken in the Sacred Grove. With head bowed, he had said, “Friends in the gospel never meet for the last time. …”

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter and work like a man to help support the seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.

Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 p.m.

I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought: “My mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair.” Then I thought, “I will do them.”

I washed the dishes, did the silverware, the glassware. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. When I was finished, I thought the kitchen was immaculate. It took about three hours.

Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like, “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

As the mourning doves cooed, most of her tribe awakened happy for this day. But Little Twist’s lips trembled as she leaned against the wall and pulled at the bark and grass thatching that layered the dome-shaped hut.

“I won’t go today,” she muttered defiantly to herself. “I’d rather be alone, even though it is a feast.” She reached down and tried to rub the ache out of her twisted foot.

Squanto, the Pilgrims’ friend, had brought the message: All Wampanoag Indians were invited to the Plymouth village for a big feast. Chief Massasoit had accepted the invitation for the tribe. She especially remembered that day because her father, one of the tribal leaders, had stroked her loose black hair as he said, “Even you, Little Twist, she who hides from strangers, shall go. We shall show our friendship for our white friends.”

The morning sun warmed her skin, but even the colorful autumn beauty failed to warm her spirits. Standing, Little Twist briskly brushed the dust from her soft deerskin skirt, causing the bottom fringes to dance and swing about her legs.

Looking up, she saw Spotted Fawn walking past the red maples toward the creek. Spotted Fawn was small and graceful, the image of her name. Oh, how Little Twist hated her own name! It never let her forget her deformity for a minute. It was bad enough that she could never join the other children in their games—they weren’t unkind about it, but they ignored her and left her alone.

Why can’t I have a new name, she wondered, one that describes something good about me instead of calling attention to my foot? She tugged at her wampum belt. The touch of the polished beads made her feel better as her fingers traced the intricate pattern. With great patience she had carved the white and purple shells into beads, then strung them carefully under Grandmother’s instruction. When the belt was finished, she was proud of it, and Grandmother had even said that it was the best wampum belt in the village.

In the distance the men of the tribe had gathered. As Little Twist watched them, she noticed that Running Fox, her brother, was helping prepare for the feast with the Pilgrims. She smiled as she saw her father dressed in his new deerskin clothes for the occasion. He truly looked like a tribal leader, and Little Twist was proud as she remembered how she had helped her mother prepare the skins and stitch them together.

“Daughter, why aren’t you helping Grandmother?” Little Twist’s mother interrupted her happier thoughts. “Must I always coax you?”

Her mother’s reprimand hurt, adding to the hurt that she already felt. She could not hold it inside any longer. “I will stay here,” Little Twist told her mother. “I cannot endure the stares that will come when they hear my name and see that I am crippled. It is hard enough to bear the stares of my own people.” With desperation in her eyes, she asked, “Cannot I have a new name? Then maybe people won’t stare at me so.”

“A new name must be earned,” Mother chided her gently. “We will talk about it later. Right now we must think of other things. Please go and help your grandmother.”

Little Twist limped over to where Grandmother stood waiting. Baskets of multicolored Indian maize, green beans, and golden squash lay on the ground next to her feet. “Ah, little one,” she said, “it is time to carry the three sisters to the feast.”

Little Twist couldn’t help but smile back as she gave her usual reply: “Corn, beans, and squash are funny sisters.”

Grandmother’s eyes twinkled, but she just nodded and slowly bent to pick up one basket. “It will be good to give thanks for them and for all the harvest with our new friends.” She squinted against the glaring sun, then walked toward the white man’s village.

Reluctantly Little Twist picked up the other two baskets and shuffled after her. Upon reaching the feast site, she put down her burden where it was sure to be found, then returned to the edge of the clearing and let the dimness of the forest hide her. Resting against a cool boulder, she massaged her tired foot.

The crisp breezes brought her fragrant odors of roasted wild turkey, duck, venison, and other succulent dishes, and hunger rose inside her. Even so, she would rather be hungry than join the feast.

Suddenly Running Fox was standing next to the boulder. Little Twist smiled, always surprised at how her brother found her secret places.

“Our hunters shot five deer for the feast,” he bragged, kneeling next to her and massaging her still-throbbing foot. “Come, little sister. It is time to eat. Afterward you can watch me win the race.”

“I want to stay here,” she told Running Fox. “And races are no fun for me. But I wish you luck.”

“Thank you for your kind wish, Little Twist. But you must come. Father sent me for you. He says that it would be rude for you to stay away.” Standing, Running Fox carefully helped his sister to her feet and steered her to a place where she could feel relatively unnoticed. She flashed him a grateful smile when he brought her a plate of food before leaving to compete in his race.

As the hours passed, Little Twist watched many games and competitions. Finally she began searching for her mother. Approaching the Pilgrims’ cabins, she found her among the women who were laughing together while putting away the leftover food. Their happiness sounded like a flock of songbirds clustering in a berry bush, and Little Twist forgot her foot for a while as she enjoyed their gaiety.

Soon a number of women gathered in a circle at one side of the clearing. Grandmother and Mother and Little Twist went over to see what was happening.

Within the circle, a white woman stood holding an iron kettle. Several fur pieces, moccasins, and shelled necklaces had been placed before her in offering for a trade. The white woman examined them carefully but seemed dissatisfied.

Seeing how long her mother gazed at the iron kettle, Little Twist pulled closer to her and whispered, “A kettle like that would be useful.”

Her mother nodded, then shrugged. “I brought nothing to trade. To interest the white woman one must present something of value, for surely that kettle will not go cheaply.”

Little Twist had only one thing of real value—her wampum belt. But how could she give up her treasured work? And even if she were to offer it in trade, she’d have to walk into the circle, exposing her limp. Pressing her lips firmly together, she unconsciously tried to hide her bad foot behind her good one as she waited to see if anyone’s offer would be accepted.

Unexpectedly Spotted Fawn stepped forward. She carefully stretched her own wampum belt across the grass, displaying her beaded artwork for appraisal.

While everyone else admired the white and purple beads glistening in the sunlight, Little Twist saw that the beading was not as evenly tied as hers. The pattern was a bit unbalanced, and the beads were irregular because the seashells hadn’t been carved small and round enough.

“Ah, little one, what do you think?” Grandmother whispered in her ear.

Little Twist turned and saw Grandmother’s eyes dancing and sparkling as they challenged her. Drawing in her breath for courage, the girl’s fingers shook as she untied her belt, hobbled forward, and placed it next to Spotted Fawn’s.

Silently the white woman studied Little Twist’s belt. Then she reexamined all the trade offers one by one. Finally she made up her mind. With a warm smile she extended the iron kettle to Little Twist and picked up her beautiful wampum belt to complete the trade.

Little Twist was proud and happy as she turned to give the kettle to her mother.

Her mother was equally proud and happy. She stepped into the circle and announced, “My daughter has earned a new name. No more shall she be called Little Twist. Now she shall be known as Seashell.”

For three days the Wampanoags stayed and feasted with the Pilgrims. And during that time the people forgot Little Twist and her crippled foot. Instead, they spoke to and about Seashell, the tribe’s best wampum maker.

Mary Fielding, who later married Joseph’s brother Hyrum, visited the Prophet after a severe illness in the summer of 1837 had nearly taken his life. At that time antagonism against him had reached almost overwhelming proportions. She records:
“He feels himself to be but a poor creature and can do nothing but what God enables him to do. He seems very happy. He told us something of his feelings during his sickness. He said when he [was] too weak to pray himself the enemy strove against him. The struggle sometimes became so great that he had to call upon his wife or some friend to pray that the good spirit might conquer. He was blessed at times with such glorious visions as made him quite forget that his body was afflicted. On the Sunday night before mentioned when to all appearance he seemed to be so near his end, good Brother Carter … and some others met together in the House of the Lord where they fasted and prayed for him nearly all night. Brother Carter saw in a vision a grave open to receive him [the Prophet] … but saw the earth fall in of its own accord and fill up the grave with no person in. From this [time] he began rapidly to recover and in three or four days after was able to be out in the air. Those who love him of course rejoice abundantly. He says he shall yet stand in his place and accomplish the work God has given him to do however much many seek his removal.”30

Youth in South Bend, Indiana, know how to put in a hard day’s work. They spent part of their youth conference planting flowers, painting buildings, and pulling weeds for two charity organizations in their area. They had a lot of work to do at the beginning of the day, but the youth came through—despite the intense heat and humidity.
“The service projects were really fun. There was a lot to do, but with everyone’s help we successfully finished it all,” says 15-year-old Kristen Woolf.
This group may be small in numbers—about 65 in all—but they know how to make a big difference.

Sometimes we may be a little fearful of sharing our testimonies, perhaps because we do not wish to offend or to be criticized. President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, tells of a time when he faced the choice of bearing testimony or remaining silent. On an airplane flight, an off-duty flight attendant sat next to him reading a copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. President Monson discovered that she was not a member of the Church. He recalls:
“I wondered silently, Should I be forward and say more about the Church? The words of the Apostle Peter crossed my mind: ‘Be ready always to give an answer to every [one] that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you’ [1 Pet. 3:15]. I decided that now was the time for me to share my testimony with her.”
This woman later joined the Church and thanked President Monson for sharing his testimony (see Ensign, May 1995, page 50).

“Owen, please be good for your babysitter, Marissa, tonight,” Mom said as she put on her coat. “Dad and I won’t be back from our date until after you are asleep, so we will see you in the morning.”
Mom and Dad gave Owen a big hug and left.
Marissa and Owen had fun playing board games and racing Owen’s favorite toy cars. After dinner, Marissa asked, “What game would you like to play before bedtime, Owen?”
“Let’s play hide-and-seek! Ready, set, go!” Owen shouted as he ran to his favorite hiding spot.
“Ready or not, here I come,” Marissa called.
She searched in many different hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, behind the couch. Then the curtains moved, and she saw ten little toes peeking out from under them. “I found you!” she said with a smile as she opened the curtain.
“Let’s play again!” Owen said.
“We can’t play again, Owen. It’s time for bed now. Brush your teeth and put on your pajamas, please.”
“Not yet! I don’t want to go to bed,” Owen said.
“I know, but big boys like you need sleep.”
Owen ran into the living room and picked up one of his cars.
“Come on, Owen,” Marissa said. “It’s time to get ready for bed.”
Owen stomped his foot and started crying. He kept crying as he brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas. After Marissa had read a bedtime story and Owen prayed, he noticed that Marissa looked sad.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.
“You didn’t listen to me when I told you it was bedtime,” Marissa said.
Marissa turned out the light and closed the door to Owen’s bedroom. As he lay in bed, he began to feel sad about not listening to Marissa. He said a prayer again, asking Heavenly Father what he should do. He felt the Holy Ghost tell him to say he was sorry.
Owen went to Marissa. “Marissa, I’m sorry for not obeying you and for making you sad.”
“Thank you for saying sorry,” Marissa said. Then she gave him a big hug and tucked him back into bed.

During the 150th anniversary of the pioneers’ arrival in the Salt Lake Valley, Brother Myron Richins was serving as a stake president in Henefer, Utah. The celebration included a reenactment of the pioneers’ passage through his town.
President Richins was heavily involved with the plans for the celebration, and he attended many meetings with General Authorities and others to discuss the events. He was fully engaged.
Just before the actual celebration, President Richins’s stake was reorganized, and he was released as president. On a subsequent Sunday, he was attending his ward priesthood meeting when the leaders asked for volunteers to help with the celebration. President Richins, along with others, raised his hand and was given instructions to dress in work clothes and to bring his truck and a shovel.
Finally, the morning of the big event came, and President Richins reported to volunteer duty.
Only a few weeks before, he had been an influential contributor to the planning and supervision of this major event. On that day, however, his job was to follow the horses in the parade and clean up after them.
President Richins did so gladly and joyfully.
He understood that one kind of service is not above another.
He knew and put into practice the words of the Savior: “He that is greatest among you shall be your servant.”9

Late in 1928 the family moved to Cardston, where Eldon again worked as school principal. To supplement their meager depression income, he sold insurance and custom-made suits, milked cows, raised chickens and a vegetable garden, and served on the town council. He also served in the Church as Scoutmaster, bishop’s counselor, and bishop of the Cardston First Ward.
While serving there as a second counselor he became a hero among the local youth with a piece of innovative leadership. It seems that few of the deacons were attending priesthood meeting. Concerned, Eldon went to each of them and found that they had only overalls to wear and were ashamed to come to meetings. He told them that if they would come to their priesthood meetings, he would attend in overalls too. They agreed, and deacons quorum attendance rose to almost 100 percent.

Jerry was another guy who helped me shape up properly. He managed the health spa where my brothers and I used to do our weight lifting, and he often joined our workouts.
Jerry was no scrawny high school kid. He was a mountain of muscle. Any weight I could lift barely once, Jerry could easily lift ten times. I hated it and loved it when Jerry worked out with us. I hated it because he wouldn’t let us rest or loaf.
“One more! C’mon, you can do one more rep,” he’d yell when I was ready to rack the weights. “Don’t give up now. You can do it.” Then he’d stand over me as I grunted and strained to produce one more repetition. “Atta boy. I knew you could do it.”
I hated the hard work, but I loved the encouragement and motivation he added to our workouts. Jerry squeezed out the best in me, and I always made my best lifts when he was around.

I’d like to tell you of an experience of a faithful Latter-day Saint who is a good friend of mine. I’ll refer to him only as “my friend” for reasons you will understand.
Working as a special agent for the FBI, my friend investigated organized crime groups transporting illegal drugs into the United States.
On one occasion he and another agent approached an apartment where they believed a known drug dealer was distributing cocaine. My friend describes what happened:
“We knocked on the door of the drug dealer. The suspect opened the door and, upon seeing us, tried to block our view. But it was too late; we could see the cocaine on his table.
“A man and a woman who were at the table immediately began removing the cocaine. We had to prevent them from destroying the evidence, so I quickly pushed the drug suspect who was blocking the door to the side. As I pushed him, my eyes met his. Strangely, he did not appear angry or afraid. He was smiling at me.
“His eyes and disarming smile gave me the impression that he was harmless, so I quickly left him and started to move toward the table. The suspect was now behind me. At that instant, I had the distinct, powerful impression come into my mind: ‘Beware of the evil behind the smiling eyes.’
“I immediately turned back toward the suspect. His hand was in his large front pocket. Instinctively I grabbed his hand and pulled it from his pocket. Only then did I see, clutched in his hand, the semiautomatic pistol ready to fire. A flurry of activity followed, and I disarmed the man.”
Later, in another case, the drug dealer was convicted of murder and boasted that he would have also killed my friend had he not turned around at that very moment.

Alex looked around the fabric store. There were tons of colors and cool patterns. He saw a few that would be perfect.
“Hey, Mom,” said Alex, pointing to some fabric with colorful geckos on it. “Do you like these geckos?”
“I like cute, fluffy bunnies better,” Mom said.
Alex laughed. “You know what I mean! Would this be good for the scarves?”
“I think your friends will like it.”
Alex was going to make scarves for his friends. He would use the soccer-ball print for Josh, the rocket-ship print for José, and the gecko print for Mike.
Soon they were heading home with the fabric. As they left the parking lot, Alex saw a man holding up a cardboard sign to ask for help. He knew the man probably didn’t have a job or a home. And he looked really cold! He only had a thin jacket. Alex had a thick winter coat, but he still got cold walking to school in the mornings.
When they got home, Alex’s mom showed him how to lay the fabric out straight and measure how much he needed to make one scarf. He carefully cut the fabric with his scissors. Then he cut slits along the ends to make a fringe. Before long, Alex had six brightly colored scarves. There was also a big pile of extra fabric.
“Can you think of anyone else you want to make presents for?” Mom asked.
“Not really,” Alex said. Then he thought of the man holding the sign. He had an idea.
That week for home evening, Alex taught his whole family how to make scarves. His mom measured them out. His dad cut the fabric. Alex and his sister made the fuzzy fringe. He liked making scarves with the gecko fabric. The geckos seemed to smile at him as he worked.
“Wow,” Alex said when they finished. “We made 14 scarves to share!”
“What do we do now?” his sister asked.
“I think we should put them in the car,” Alex said. “Then when we see someone who looks cold, we can give them one.”
“That’s a great idea,” Dad said.
Mom took a bag out of the closet, and they stacked the cozy scarves inside. “Maybe we can go on a family drive sometime to look for people who need scarves,” she said.
“Can we go right now?” Alex asked.
Mom looked out the window. “I don’t know. It’s kind of cold outside.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
His parents smiled. “I guess you’re right,” Mom said. “Just make sure to bundle up.”
Alex threw on his coat, but he hardly noticed the cold air. He knew his scarves might help someone, and that made him feel warm inside.

Some of my best reading has been done on Sunday, not to mention the piles of studies that I did because I played on Saturday. During my last year at college, I decided, to my own amazement, to abolish Sunday study. And I did—to the last degree. I still played on Saturday, but when Sunday arrived, I could not study, so I didn’t worry about tests and papers. I did just as well in school, and my mind was renewed and refreshed, a vital part of the Sabbath.