Gospel Story Finder

I had an experience in the mission field that is very memorable to me. A man came to me after Church—he was twice my age, a very unhappy person—and told me that he had committed a grave sin before he joined the Church, that his wife would not forgive him, would not divorce him, and constantly reminded him that he was a worthless person. He said, “I’ve come to think of myself as she thinks I am. How can I be whole again and pure of heart, clean in my thoughts?” I said, “What have you tried to do for this problem?” He said, “I’ve fought it. I’ve fought it.” I told him there must be a better way than to fight sin. We knelt in prayer together, and afterwards I gave him a book to read—As a Man Thinketh in His Heart, So Is He—and then I put my arm around him, gave him a firm handclasp, and told him that he could overcome his problem. And then by inspiration or coincidence I said to him, “How would you like to prepare the Lord’s supper for Sunday School?” (He was a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.) He said, “Do you think I’m worthy to do this?” I said, “No, I don’t think any of us really are. But I think Jesus would be pleased if you would render him this service.” And so he proceeded to set the Lord’s table each Sunday morning. After about six weeks I met him coming up the aisle before Sunday School. I put out my hand to reassure him. He put his hand behind his back and said nothing. I said, “Have I offended you?” He said, “Oh, no. I’ve just washed my hands with soap and hot water, and I can’t shake hands with you or any man until I’ve set the Lord’s table.” That’s the most beautiful reverence I’ve seen in that simple act of setting the Lord’s table. I was so pleased. In another six weeks he came to me after church again and said, “I’m a new man.”
Then I asked him to give a talk in church on some principle of the gospel of Christ that he really believed in and why. I kept thinking about the Savior. Well, serving the Savior in a simple way and thinking about him during the week, this man became a new creature. It was beautiful. And I realized that I’d never used the Savior in my own life in the same way. I don’t mind telling you that I did after that. I had the wonderful thrill of overcoming what I thought was a weakness in me by thinking of the Savior and making him the center of my prayers and my life.

One summer I decided to read the Bible. I was worried that I would find it boring, but I tried to read it every morning.
For several years, a quote from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, had hung on the bulletin board over my desk: “Be strong and of good courage. You are truly royal spirit daughters of Almighty God. You are princesses, destined to become queens. Your own wondrous story has already begun” (“Your Happily Ever After,” Ensign, May 2010, 127). I love this quote and have it memorized.
One day I stumbled on the phrase “be strong and of a good courage” in Deuteronomy 31:6! Recognizing it from President Uchtdorf’s quote, I highlighted the verse. I finished Deuteronomy that day and felt satisfied.
The next morning I began reading Joshua. In chapter 1 it says, “Be strong and of a good courage” (Joshua 1:6). I marked this scripture, noting the coincidence in my scripture journal.
A moment later, I found the phrase “be strong and of a good courage” again in verses 9 and 18! To me, the repetition of this phrase was a connection between the Old Testament and today. It must be important if the Lord’s servants are still giving us the same counsel today.
As I continued to read the Old Testament, I found several more verses with that same phrase. These verses are spread out and keep me eager to read my scriptures in the hope that I might find more.
This simple experience helped me to be diligent about my scripture study. It made the Old Testament interesting to me. And it became my personal goal to always “be strong and of good courage.”

Yolanda Elsie Díaz de Vega of the Jardines Ward, Guadalajara México Reforma Stake, recalls staying up late to study the gospel with her husband after they were baptized in 1979: “It was as though we hungered for the scriptures.” But after seven months as a member of the Church, she felt that she was criticized unfairly by an older member and that she could not go to the next meeting. For four years the Vegas did not go to church—until concern for the blessings their family was missing led them back.

The Vegas have been active for many years now, sharing strength with their family, their ward, and their neighbors. There have been great blessings in learning how to be a better couple and in serving others, Brother Vega says. The gospel “changed our way of thinking, our way of living.” Their children have grown up learning and living the gospel, and now grandchildren are enjoying the same spiritual opportunities through Church activity. “I’m proud of our children because we’ve never had to worry about people knowing we are members of the Church,” Sister Vega says. Their four children respond that they live the way they do because of parental example.

The clouds hung low and white over the small town of Liberty Bell that twenty-sixth day of December 1908. Sarah Moseley made her way from her family’s house at the end of the street toward the boardwalk, where her new dress would get a brief respite from mud-spraying wagon wheels.
Sarah’s family had been laboring under the stressful effects of no income in recent months, but her mother had managed to rummage up sufficient materials from an old attic chest to fashion a beautiful patchwork dress for Sarah. It was the only gift she had received for Christmas the day before, and she was fitly grateful for and proud of it.
As she continued along the street, she turned the collar of her frayed wrap up around her neck to ward off the biting chill of wind and lightly driven snow. Suddenly someone wearing a tattered sheepskin coat stepped out in front of her. He had a tangle of red hair, and a crooked scowl on his face. Toby Wilder! Last week he had asked Sarah for some answers to a test in Miss Cornaby’s class, and Sarah had refused. Now he looked ready for revenge. “I would have passed that test if you had given me those answers,” he growled.
“There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” Sarah said, swallowing hard, “and cheating is wrong.”
Toby glared at her, then pushed her back toward the edge of the boardwalk. “There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” he mimicked. “You think you know all there is to know about what is and what isn’t, don’t you little Miss High-and-Mighty.”
He glanced up and down the street through the haze of falling snow. No one was in sight. Shoving her roughly off the boardwalk, he laughed derisively and swaggered away as she pulled herself up from the street mire. Her eyes filled with tears as she wiped at the icy ooze on her new Christmas dress and headed for the store.
The bell above the door jangled as Sarah stepped into John Walton’s Mercantile Store. The man behind the counter looked at her with concern.
“What happened, Sarah?” he asked.
“Toby Wilder,” she sighed.
Mr. Walton nodded. “That’s not the first time he’s done something like that. Warm yourself by the stove there.” When Sarah hesitated, he added kindly, “Go on, child. There’s no sense in all that warmth going to waste, now, is there?”
“I guess not,” Sarah responded. “It’s just that you’ve given us so much these past few months, all our food and such, that I just don’t feel right about taking the only spot in front of your stove.”
“Sarah Moseley,” Mr. Walton declared, “since when did I keep anybody away from my potbellied stove?”
Sarah smiled in gratitude and stepped in front of the stove. Mr. Walton came out from behind the counter and pulled up a chair in front of Sarah. He sat down and spoke privately. “After that boxcar explosion at the depot last September, it’s a wonder your father is still alive. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s up and about.” He pushed a wisp of damp hair from Sarah’s eye. “Your father is a good man,” Mr. Walton continued. “He’ll pay me back when he’s able. Now give me that shopping list I know you have.” Sarah obliged him. “Besides,” he added as he stood with a little grunt, “it’s Christmas time, isn’t it?”
Sarah’s face wrinkled with curiosity. “What do you mean, Mr. Walton?”
“Christ gave His life for you and me, Sarah, not to mention for those that crucified Him. It seems the least I can do is give a can of beans and”—he checked Sarah’s list—“a box of baking soda and the like to people I love. Of course, that’s easy. The trick is giving to, or doing something for, someone you don’t like. Now there’s the real test. The problem is that I like everybody.” He laughed. “Well, almost everybody.”
Sarah watched Mr. Walton climb the ladder behind the counter. A ray of winter sun made his face radiant. “Why is it so important to be nice to people who are mean to you?” she asked.
Mr. Walton reached for a box of baking soda on a high shelf, then looked down at the girl below him. “Maybe because the Savior was. Maybe because it’s part of forgiving. It’s the same thing, wouldn’t you say?” He climbed down the ladder and began placing the few gathered items in a sack on the counter. He pushed the groceries across the counter to Sarah. “I have an idea that charity is what Christmas is all about. And forgiveness. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Walton,” Sarah answered, thoughtful.
It wasn’t until Sarah was outside again that she noticed something extra in her sack. A large candy stick. She puzzled over it a moment, then smiled at Mr. Walton’s kindness.
No sooner had Sarah started down the boardwalk in the direction of home than she spied Toby Wilder just ahead, leaning against a pole. His back was to her, and he was looking toward the sun as if he were aching for a little warmth on an otherwise bleak, unfriendly day.
Bracing herself, Sarah stepped up to him. “Toby?”
Toby whirled around. When he saw who it was, he growled, “What’s the matter, Sarah. Didn’t you get wet enough the first time?”
Sarah handed him the candy stick. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Toby didn’t answer. He just stood there gaping.
Sarah glanced back in the direction of the mercantile store, where she could see Mr. Walton looking out the window, waving. She waved back, then turned and continued down the boardwalk toward home.

An opportunity arose once to teach my son Hank how to make more empowered choices. One evening I pulled an audible and told him I was replacing our usual Little Caesars pizza with a healthier option of an English muffin topped with tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella.

He responded, “Well, I can choose for myself, and I decide not to taste your pizza.”

With some motherly teaching—or, as some would say, motherly persuasion—I said he could make that choice only after he took a bite of my alternate selection. And yes, he did end up liking my pizza.

We all have a special story about how we got here, either to school or to work. Please forgive for my being personal, it is only to illustrate a point. For several years as we traveled between the Pacific and the U.S., we would always stop here at BYU-Hawaii and each time we had that special feeling you had about this place. For a many years, we longed for that time that we could join BYU-Hawaii ohana. After several applications I almost gave up. Then one day, about three months before we were released as mission president, we had a call from President Alton Wade and he said, "I understand that you are considering coming to BYU-Hawaii. We do not have a job lined up for you, but you need to trust me. We will find something for you to do." I was so ecstatic that I said to President Wade, "I will do anything you want me to do." I had extensive experience in toilet cleaning. So we came July 1, 1992, and, sure enough, we had a job as foreign student advisor replacing a gentleman who just got too ill to continue working. This also became a fulfillment of a special blessing I had 30 years earlier that I would be [an] instrument in teaching the youth of the church internationally. Yes, I believe it was a divine appointment.

My companion and I later learned that Brother and Sister Diaz were both working for minimum wage at a local textile mill and sending half of their earnings to Guayaquil to help support their families. When we suggested that we eat less often at their house so we wouldn’t be a financial burden on them, Niza exclaimed, “Oh, no, Elder Norman!” She explained that since they got baptized and started paying tithing, somehow their freezer seemed to stay full of chicken and fish, even though she frequently fed the missionaries.

In Doctrine and Covenants 123:12 we learn, “There are many yet on the earth … who are only kept from the truth because they know not where to find it.” Through Hugo and Niza’s missionary efforts as members and later as stake missionaries, many came to know the truth of the gospel.
When we, like Hugo and Niza, seek diligently for the truth and then eagerly share the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ, we will see a multitude of blessings in our lives and in the many lives we touch.

A woman in our community with cancer needed an operation but didn’t have enough money for it. Some of her friends sent out flyers reading, “Will you please help save a life?” to ask for donations. When my little brother, Ben, who is six, read one of the flyers, he got all the money he had and put it in an envelope to give to the woman.
I said, “Why don’t you give just part of your money? Then you would still have some for yourself.”
“Which is more important, keeping some of my money or helping to save a life?” he asked. That really impressed me, and I decided to donate some money, too.
My parents kept saying how good Benjamin was because he gave all the money he had. This made me a little jealous of him because, although I didn’t give all the money I had, I donated more money than Ben!
Then I remembered a scripture story about a poor woman who had only a little money. She gave it all to care for the poor. Some rich people came and gave lots of gold. They were proud of how much money they had given to the poor. But Jesus Christ said that the poor woman had given the most because she gave all she had. (See Mark 12:41–44.)
I was sorry for being jealous of my brother. I felt good knowing we could help raise the money for the operation. Most of all, I was glad my little brother helped me learn an important lesson about giving.

Mother was studying the calendar in the kitchen when Carly came home from school. “I can’t believe I’ve done this, Carly,” she said, still staring at the calendar.
“Done what?” Carly asked, dropping her school bag on the kitchen chair. It was two days before Thanksgiving, but the kitchen already smelled spicy and good. “Did you forget to invite someone?”
“No—it’s the special dinner at the rest home tomorrow afternoon that’s the problem. I scheduled Jason’s dental appointment for the same time. Aunt Hattie will be awfully disappointed if I don’t come.”
“Can’t you just change the dental appointment?”
“No, it was hard to get, and he’s already in pain with that tooth.” Mother sat down at the table and rested her hands in her chin. “We can’t bring Aunt Hattie over here anymore since she is so feeble, but I thought that at least I could go over there and have dinner with her.” Suddenly her mother sat up straight and looked at her hopefully. “Aunt Hattie has always liked you,” she said.
Carly sat down too. She knew what her mother was thinking. “But, Mom, she’s so old! She can’t hear very well, and sometimes I can’t understand what she says. She doesn’t make much sense anymore.”
“I know,” her mother said sadly. “But she’s my grandma’s only sister. She always brought me lemon drops when I was a little girl.”
“Lemon drops—ugh!”
Her mother shrugged. Then the hopeful look returned to her face. “If you went, she wouldn’t be sitting there all alone eating her turkey. …”
Carly picked up a slice of apple and ate it. “When she eats, the food sometimes dribbles out, or she spills it onto her chin or down her dress.”
“Well, I know, but we all do that at certain stages of our lives. You used to do it.”
Carly sighed. “All right. I guess I can. How will I get there?”
“I can drop you off on the way to the dentist and pick you up when we’re through. Thank you, Carly.”
“How long?”
“An hour or so.”
Carly sighed again. She didn’t mind too much going to the rest home with her mother, but to be there all alone with all those old people would be creepy.
The next afternoon, her mother stopped the car in front of the old stone building, and Carly plodded up the steps and opened the big wooden doors. The smell of fresh pine cleaner struck her nostrils, but as she tramped down the long hall to the dining room, she could smell turkey and sage dressing. Old people, most of them looking lonely, sat at the round tables in the large room. A few had family members with them. She spotted Aunt Hattie’s snow-white hair and slouched over to her. “Hi, Aunt Hattie.”
Aunt Hattie turned her head slowly and looked at her. “Hello, dear,” she finally said.
“Mother had to take Jason to the dentist, so I came to eat with you.”
“And who would your mother be, dear?”
Carly was taken aback for a minute. “Helen, your niece.”
“Oh yes. Dear Helen, Zella’s girl. Well, sit down, dear. Now, you’re …”
“Carly, Helen’s daughter.” Carly pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Of course,” Aunt Hattie said. She leaned back in her wheelchair and thoughtfully fingered the lace on the collar of her housecoat.
Soon a young man in a blue medical smock brought them each a plate with turkey, dressing, potatoes, and green beans. In the center of the table was a cardboard turkey with lollipops for its tail. Something about the turkey made Carly feel very sad. She didn’t know what to say to Aunt Hattie, and they ate in silence. Aunt Hattie dribbled a little gravy on her flowered housecoat, but generally she managed fine. Carly preferred not to watch her eat.
When the young man brought pumpkin pie, Carly looked at the wall clock. She’d been here only twenty minutes. What would they do the rest of the time? She looked around the room at the gray and white heads, some bent over their plates, some lying back in reclining wheelchairs.
At that moment, a man walked briskly into the room. To Carly, he looked pretty old but nothing like the people at the tables. He sat down at the piano in the corner of the dining room and began to play. At first he played old-time tunes that Carly didn’t know. As he played, Aunt Hattie sat up straighter and a little light came into her eyes. She smiled at Carly and her wrinkled fingers began to tap on the wooden table. Carly remembered that her mother had told her that Aunt Hattie loved music and had always sung in the ward choir.
Then the tunes began to sound more familiar, and Carly realized he was playing hymns. Suddenly Aunt Hattie began to sing “How Firm a Foundation.” Her voice was quavery but sweet and clear.
At first Carly felt embarrassed and looked around the room to see how people were reacting, but no one seemed to be paying any attention at all. Maybe Aunt Hattie did this a lot. Next she sang all the verses of “Count Your Blessings.” The piano player played all the songs in a lilting, cheerful way.
After that came “The Spirit of God.” Carly had learned the words to that song in Primary. Without really thinking about it, she opened her mouth and began to sing with Aunt Hattie. Aunt Hattie smiled, and her pale blue eyes were shining.
Then the man started playing Primary songs: “‘Give,’ Said the Little Stream” and “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” Carly leaned back in her chair and sang out nice and loud. No one cared. She thought about how she didn’t feel silly singing here.
Outside, a soft snow began to fall. The setting sun gave a pink glow to it and to the sky. Aunt Hattie laid her hand on Carly’s hand. It felt as though a warm leaf had blown onto her hand. Carly felt warm and cozy. They sang and sang.
The man stopped playing at the same moment that Carly saw her mother come into the room. She wished he’d keep on for a while—she knew that her mother would sing with them. As he walked by their table, he turned to Carly and said, “I play here on Wednesdays at dinnertime. Come back.” He stopped, plucked a red lollipop out of the turkey’s tail, handed it to Carly, and walked on.
When Carly got up to leave, she leaned over and gave Aunt Hattie a quick kiss on the cheek. Aunt Hattie squeezed her hand and smiled. “Helen’s girl,” she said softly.
In the car, Jason lay moaning in the backseat. “Was it awful?” her mother asked Carly.
“Yes,” Jason said, thinking the question was meant for him.
“No, not really,” Carly said thoughtfully.
“Did she dribble her food?”
“Well, anybody can spill a little gravy on her shirt.”
“Of course.” Her mother gave her a quick smile.”
“Would you be able to bring me over here next Wednesday—maybe leave me here while you do some errands or something?”
“You want to come back? By yourself?”
“Well, yeah. … Just to sing with Aunt Hattie for a while. We know a lot of the same songs. Maybe you could sing with us, too, sometime.”
Mother reached over and squeezed her hand in the same warm way Aunt Hattie had.

In the April 2003 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson shared a story that occurred while he was still working as a heart surgeon. Please note that he was not a member of the Twelve Apostles at the time of this incident; he was simply a faithful member of the Church who had made and kept his covenants. The event happened in the pioneering days of heart surgery, and a man came with hope that Dr. Nelson could repair his heart and save his live.

President Nelson said, "Extensive evaluation revealed that he had two faulty valves. While one could be helped surgically, the other could not. Thus, an operation was not advised. He received this news with deep disappointment."

This faithful man then said, "Dr. Nelson, I have prayed for help and have been directed to you. The Lord will not reveal to me how to repair that second valve, but He can reveal it to you. Your mind is so prepared. If you will operate upon me, the Lord will make it known to you what to do. Please perform the operation that I need, and pray for the help that you need."

Dr. Nelson finally agreed to do the operation and said:

"In preparing for that fateful day, I prayed over and over again, but still did not know what to do for his leaking tricuspid valve. Even as the operation commenced, my assistant asked, 'What are you going to do for that?

"I said, 'I do not know.'"

President Nelson continued:

"We began the operation. After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. 'The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.'

"But how? We could not apply a belt as one would use to tighten the waist of oversized trousers. We could not squeeze with a strap as one would cinch a saddle on a horse. Then a picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed--to make a pleat here and a tuck there--to accomplish the desired objective. I still remember that mental image--complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, 'It's a miracle.'

"I responded, 'It's an answer to prayer.'"[12]

I was shopping for school clothes with my nine-year-old son when our conversation turned from lighthearted chitchat to a more serious question. “Mom, why do they have to put that stuff in all the store windows?”
“That stuff” he was referring to was immodest pictures displayed in the windows of just about every shop we passed. Although pictures like these had always been there, I hadn’t paid much attention to them before. But the fact that my oldest son was starting to take notice awakened a new awareness in me. Over the next weeks, I began to see these images everywhere: on television, at the grocery store, at restaurants, in advertisements that came in the mail. I couldn’t get away from them. Some images were so explicit that I began to feel perplexed, and a feeling of alarm began to grow in my heart. How was I supposed to protect my family from the traps of pornography?
Every general conference we hear warnings about its devastating effects, and we have been acquainted with its victims. We had taken all of the precautions at home with our computer and the media we allowed there, but clearly, unless our children were quarantined, there seemed to be no way to completely avoid seeing unwanted images that might lead to further curiosity. Could my son’s innocent gaze at the grocery store turn into a lifetime struggle with pornography? My anxiety over this issue grew, and I began to feel a sense of helplessness and vulnerability in protecting my children.
Detail from Tree of Life, by Kazuto Uota
Then one day while I was reading in the Book of Mormon, I unexpectedly found reassurance in 1 Nephi 15. Nephi is explaining Lehi’s vision of the tree of life to Laman and Lemuel when they ask the meaning of the river of water. Nephi answers in verse 27: “And I said unto them that the water which my father saw was filthiness; and so much was his mind swallowed up in other things that he beheld not the filthiness of the water” (emphasis added). Lehi’s mind was focused on the tree of life and getting his family to it to partake of its fruit! He didn’t even see the filthiness because of this focus.
That was the answer! Keeping inappropriate media out of our home was a start, but a more direct and conscious effort to teach our children the gospel is what would ultimately be their best defense against anything that could lead them away.
Because of this experience with the scriptures, my husband and I decided to redouble our efforts in teaching our children and thus keep our eyes on the love of God instead of the filthiness in the world. We have felt impressed to focus on three different areas*:
1. Increasing our own personal scripture study and decreasing the “noise” around us. Like Lehi, our minds must be filled with positive things in order to hear the promptings of the Spirit and to keep us focused on anchoring our family in the gospel. My husband and I try to regularly spend time talking about the spiritual needs of each individual in the family and how we can meet those needs and create a home where the Spirit can thrive.
2. Making family scripture study more meaningful. Although it takes a lot of effort just to gather the family together daily to read scriptures, we are trying to have more discussion when we read the scriptures. We have a wide range of ages with our children, so we read scriptures with the younger kids later in the day and the oldest kids early in the morning when the little ones are asleep so there is less distraction and more opportunity for discussion. We have found that almost daily there is discussion of current events that relates to the scriptures we are reading.
Most mornings are far from idyllic, but with perseverance we are finding that the kids really are listening and participating, even though sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get everyone together.
3. Doing missionary work. When we bear testimony, the Spirit testifies that what we are saying is true, and our testimonies grow. We are trying to make missionary work a family affair. We talk about sharing the gospel, and we regularly invite friends to our home. We also take every opportunity to have the missionaries and investigators over for gospel discussion. We have had wonderful experiences with new members of the Church and investigators in our home, and it has made an impression on our children as they reflect on their own testimonies and hear those of the missionaries.
I am so grateful for the Book of Mormon and the miraculous way a single verse of scripture has given me reassurance and a clear direction for our family. The scriptures can truly replace fear and helplessness with power and peace.

In May of 1847, little Peter Weston Maughan was born to Mary Ann Weston and Peter Maughan, English immigrants living in Wisconsin Territory. Later, in 1850, his parents buried him in a dry-goods box somewhere along the Mormon Trail—a trail described by President Hinckley as “a trail of tragedy, a trail of faith, a trail of devotion, a trail of consecration, even the consecration of life itself” (from an address delivered near Riverton, Wyoming, 15 August 1992, quoted in Dell Van Orden, “‘Second Rescue’ of Handcart Pioneers,” Church News, 22 August 1992, p. 3). He had fallen from the wagon seat and been crushed by the wagon wheels. His mother had already lost her first husband from injuries he sustained in a mob beating in England (see Godfrey, Godfrey, and Derr, Women’s Voices, p. 37–38). (They had opened their home to preaching by Willard Richards and Wilford Woodruff, much to the consternation of their neighbors.) His mother wrote the following in her life history about little Peter:

We buried him on a little hill on the North side of the road. The grave was consecrated and then they laid him to rest. Some one had made a nice headboard, with his name printed on, also his age and date of death. This was all we could do, and many prayers were offered to our heavenly Father, that he might rest in peace and not be disturbed by wolves. We turned away in sorrow and grief.

His parents consecrated his grave to God and then turned their faces again toward Zion. Peter’s small body lies as a testament that he was willing and worthy to make the journey to Zion and that he gave all he had, even his life, for the building up of the kingdom of God.

On Friday morning, Johnny looked happy. He had finally decided on a project. “Let’s go through our toys and clothes. Richard’s family is having a hard time since his dad was hurt. We could give them some of our things.”
“What a great idea, Johnny,” Susan said. “I’ll write a note, and we can sneak up and deliver the things without them seeing us.”
The children were amazed at the many nice things they found that would be just right for someone in Richard’s family. They decided to give puzzles, a teddy bear, a ball, a baseball mitt, books, and some outgrown clothes that were still as good as new.
Mom came by and added two good blankets and some canned food to the pile.
“Wow,” said Johnny. “This looks great!” The children carted their box to Richard’s home. They left it by the front door with a note that said:
To Richard’s family—
Here is a gift to let you know we care.
The Sunshine Club

In the small town in Idaho where I grew up, there was a movie theater that featured an afternoon matinee every Saturday. I would always go with two or three of my friends. The theater would show a short movie about sports and another about current events. The main feature was usually a cowboy movie with lots of action.
One Saturday during intermission, the staff wheeled out a 10-speed bicycle. It was red, it was beautiful, and they were going to give it away to the person in the audience who had the winning ticket stub! Oh, how I wanted that bicycle!
The announcer reached into the container and pulled out a ticket. As he read the number on the ticket, I discovered that I had the winning ticket. Yet I didn’t move or say anything. I was too shy and embarrassed. I did not have enough confidence in myself to stand and let everyone know that I had the winning ticket. He announced the winning number two more times, and each time I held the ticket down so that no one could see it. Finally, the announcer read another number. One of the friends I came to the movie with happened to have the new number. He jumped up, screamed, and ran to the stage to claim his bicycle. That bicycle could have been mine!
As I walked home alone from the movies that Saturday, I thought of the story of the ugly duckling. I was feeling a lot like that little swan. I felt like I was wandering around in the woods trying to hide and that no one liked me. I didn’t realize who I was or what I could become. By the time I arrived home, I knew something had to change. I remember thinking, “It’s time to grow up. That will never happen to me again.”

Even with a strong testimony of the gospel, being the only member in the family is not easy. Although she’s been able to share the gospel with her friends at school, it’s more difficult with her family. “They’re the hardest, especially because I look to my parents as an example. It’s kind of a switch when I try to teach them more about the gospel.”
Not having other members of the Church in her family makes the goal of a temple marriage very important to Amy. She wants to have a family that is strong in the gospel and be able to do all the things she doesn’t get a chance to do now, like family scripture study and family home evening.
Amy keeps trying to share the gospel with her family and hopes her example and activity in the Church will finally have an effect on them. She stays active by praying a lot and drawing strength from Young Women.
A value project Amy has chosen also helps her to come closer to Christ. “This year, I’m really concentrating on getting to know Jesus Christ better,” she says. And the way to know Him better is to be more like Him. So Amy made a list of all the attributes of Christ she could think of, with help from the scriptures. She came up with things like faith, charity, love, and generosity, and she works on trying to be each of the things on her list for a few days at a time.
To others who are in her situation, Amy has some words of advice: “Really, really study,” she emphasizes. “Gain a testimony and an understanding of the gospel for yourself. Don’t rely on others because it is up to you. Always rely on Heavenly Father. He will give you the understanding and the blessings you need.”

His contribution to the Reader’s Digest, where he casts himself as the sailor, reads in part:
“The Right Time at Home:
“One evening in Albany, New York, I asked a sailor what time it was. He pulled out a huge watch and replied, ‘It’s 7:20.’ I knew it was later. ‘Your watch has stopped, hasn’t it?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m still on Mountain Standard Time. I’m from southern Utah. When I joined the Navy, Pa gave me this watch. He said it’d help me remember home.
“‘When my watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rollin’ out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30 I know the whole family’s around a well-spread table, and Dad’s thankin’ God for what’s on it and askin’ Him to watch over me … ,’ he concluded. ‘I can find out what time it is where I am easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in Utah.’”

Laura Jensen of Jerome, Idaho, is proving to be one of the girls to watch at the Idaho A2 State Track championships. As a sophomore, Laura took first place in the South-Central Idaho Cross-Country Conference, in the Cross-State championship, and in the district cross-country championship.
Laura reached one of the goals she set for herself when she won the 3.1 mile state championship race. She crossed the finish line 55 seconds ahead of her nearest competitor.
Laura is an honor student. She attends early-morning seminary and is first counselor in her Laurel class in the Jerome Idaho Third Ward.

Stan Chidester sits in the front room looking at walls covered with his younger brother’s paintings. There are impressionistic watercolors, dramatic abstracts, and intricately executed montages. He looks at the walls, then at his brother sitting calmly in his wheelchair, and says, “Well, he’s 23 and has been into art most of his life. The past few years he’s started to get good. Maybe by the time he’s 24 …” He purposely lets the rest of the sentence trail away.
Brad, the artist, listens to his brother’s humorous critique with a half-smile on his face. Obviously, they know each other very well.
Stan goes on, “I’m his worst critic.” But later the older brother reveals that he has known for a long time how talented his brother truly is. “I have one of the paintings Brad did a long time ago. I was looking at it the other day. I think it’s still my favorite.”
Brad Chidester of Sandy, Utah, has been confined to a wheelchair most of his life with muscular dystrophy. As a child he was the Utah state muscular dystrophy poster child. His artistic abilities were apparent from an early age. Like many little boys, he loved trucks. He was always doodling and vehicles with wheels were his favorite subjects.
His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was 11, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year. Brad’s thoughtfulness as a young boy proved that caring and concern are not limited to the physically able.
In high school, one of Brad’s art teachers introduced him to watercolors. That turned out to be Brad’s medium. “I loved it and just stayed with it,” said Brad. “Then one of the secretaries bought one of my landscapes. That got me really excited. I saw I could do something that could earn a little money.”
Brad went on to be named the Sterling Scholar for Utah (a program for outstanding scholastic achievement) in visual arts. He studied graphic arts and began to have his work accepted for showing in galleries. Although he is still a struggling artist, the demand for his work is growing.
To keep track of ideas and things that interest him, Brad and his family take a camera wherever they go. He has someone take a picture of whatever catches his artistic eye. He has also expanded his style. For a long time, he drew realistically. Over the years, he has branched out. “I always thought anybody could do abstract art,” says Brad. “When you get into it, you realize how hard it is. Now it’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Brad is cared for and supported by his three older brothers and his father. His mother died two years ago. Although he appreciates all his family does for him, when asked what one thing he would change about his life, Brad says, “I’d like to be more independent.” Not an unusual sentiment for someone Brad’s age no matter what their physical condition. Another step Brad is taking for himself is preparing to go to the temple.
Although Brad is a talented artist, he suffers his share of rejection. “I’ve had a lot of rejection letters from galleries,” says Brad. “But you can’t let that bother you. You have to keep going.” It’s obvious that Brad has discovered the secret to developing one’s God-given talents. He says, “If you’re really into something, pursue it to the fullest extent.” For a young man whose physical limitations would give him plenty of excuses not to try, he has taken his own advice. He is a true artist.
Brad remembers his high school days and the things people did for him that helped and the things that hurt. Here are a few of Brad’s suggestions if you meet someone with a handicap.
“Some kids seemed afraid they would hurt my feelings, so they would just avoid me. I liked it when someone tried to get to know me.”
“Some people feel sorry for me and try too hard to be nice. I prefer it when they treat me like a regular person. Don’t be afraid; yet don’t go overboard.”
“It bothers me when kids are asking me questions and their parents shush them. Little kids are great.”
“The best way is when people talk with me. That’s the best way to learn how to act around someone with a handicap. Ask them.”

We sat huddled on the wet lawn in front of the Joseph Smith Monument in Sharon, Vermont, draped in ponchos and plastic garbage bags in a vain attempt to keep dry. We strained to hear the speaker over the sound of the rain, as he explained to us the final activity of the wilderness youth conference we were taking part in.
In a few minutes, we would be sent off to be alone in the woods. We were given a list of things to do, including self-evaluation and scripture reading. The last thing we were to do, however, was what really excited me. Alone in the woods, we were to kneel and pray aloud to our Heavenly Father and ask if the Church was true.
Earlier, the speaker had related to us a story about David O. McKay receiving his patriarchal blessing. President McKay was, at the time, a champion marble player, an activity which, the speaker pointed out, required quite a bit of skill. After the blessing, however, the patriarch told 13-year-old David that he had more important things to do than play marbles. The speaker now gave to us that same wise counsel. “Brothers and sisters,” he pleaded, “please, put away your marbles, and take advantage of this opportunity to find out for yourself if the Church is true.”
It was almost silent as we entered the woods and began to break up into smaller and smaller groups. I think everyone could sense, as I did, the importance of what was about to happen. I pulled my poncho over me and took out the worksheet and program we had been given to write on. To begin my solo experience, I sang all of the songs on the program. After completing the other activities, I came to the prayer.
I was excited to pray, but I was also nervous because I had always thought that I would find out whether or not the Church was true when I was older; I had always put it off. I had felt the Spirit before in fast and testimony meetings and when I received a testimony of the Book of Mormon, but I couldn’t honestly say that I knew the Church was true. What if I prayed and there was just nothing? What if, out here in the woods, kneeling and praying aloud got me nothing but wet?
I decided that I’d never know unless I tried, so I knelt on the soggy leaves and bowed my head in prayer. I spoke in a whisper, fearful that someone might eavesdrop, and I asked very simply to know if I really belonged to God’s true church. I finished my prayer and remained kneeling to await an answer.
At first, I received an impression that I already knew the truth of those things. But I figured that must have been my own thoughts, so I prayed again.
“You already know,” came my answer, along with the warm and calm feeling of the Spirit that enveloped me with peace and joy.
My heart quickened, and I couldn’t hold back the smile that soon covered my face. I realized that through my seminary and personal study, I had built my testimony step by step, precept upon precept, so slowly that I didn’t even realize I had it until I put it to the test.
Now I knew that the Church was true and I could put away, or at least put aside, the less important things in my life and get on with my spiritual growth. I felt so relieved, so content, and so grateful that the Lord had taken the time to let me know personally that the Church was true. Already kneeling, I bowed my head again and gave a prayer of thanks to the Lord for his witness to me that, although I hadn’t recognized it before, I already knew.

The organ music was solemn and low, and a reverent hush fell over the congregation as the pallbearers entered carrying the simple pine box. A few garden flowers had been lovingly placed on top, and nestled among them was an old mandolin, its worn but polished surface gleaming dully in the dim light. The flickering candles made the large room seem gloomier, although sunlight seeped in here and there between the rough-hewn logs.
The organ seemed out of place in this rugged wilderness. There were few luxuries in this early western settlement, and the small organ, brought all the way across the plains on a wagon, was highly treasured.
Amanda watched little puffs of dust rise from the floor as the pallbearers walked slowly down the isle.
“The coffin is so small,” she whispered to her mother.
“Your great-grandfather may not have been very tall in stature, but he was a giant in spirit,” Mother whispered back.
Amanda nodded, and bitter tears stung her dark brown eyes. Grandpa’s death was hard for her to understand. He had been lighthearted, always spreading laughter wherever he went. And music. How he loved music!
“Manda, the world would be a sad and sorry place without music,” he had said to her often. “It’s helped me more times than I can recollect, both before and after I left Denmark.”
“Tell me a story about Denmark, Grandpa. Please?” she used to plead.
“All right, but you know you’ve heard them all before.” His eyes would twinkle as the tale would unfold. “When I was a young lad in Alborg, my family tended sheep in the fields surrounding the town. The country was lush and green in the daytime, but at night everything was veiled in shadows. I had the evening watch alone. Sometimes the sheep were restless, so I always took along my old mandolin. I’d sing a quiet song, and it would settle them down. It would ease my mind a bit too. Tending sheep can be mighty lonely. My mandolin has always been a comfort to me, Manda. I’m glad you have learned to play it. Someday I want you to have it.”
A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing wistfully behind them as the trial disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.
Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day …
Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had raised their voices to sing along.
The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had loomed large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.
The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?
The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.
“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”
Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. Then she looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.
She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”
The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.
Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.
And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …
Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”
Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.