Gospel Story Finder

Chung walked down a busy street in Taiwan. His friend Jiro was close beside him. People were everywhere! Shoppers looked at clothes for sale, kids played games, and people hurried by talking on their phones. Chung held tight to his school bag to make sure he didn’t drop it.
“I can’t believe the school year is almost over!” Chung said loudly so Jiro could hear.
“I know! I’m ready to be done with classes,” Jiro said.
Chung and Jiro passed stands that sold all kinds of foods. Dragon fruit and strawberries. Sizzling dumplings. Peanut ice-cream rolls. Delicious smells were everywhere! But all Chung could think about was how hot and sticky he felt.
“I feel like I’m in an oven!” Chung said.
“Me too,” Jiro said. “Let’s buy some drinks.”
They made their way to a stand selling brightly colored drinks.
Jiro pulled out some money. “Two boba teas, please.”
Chung knew that tea was against the Word of Wisdom. “Actually, could I have a mango juice?” he asked.
Jiro turned to look at Chung. Chung’s stomach squirmed. Did Jiro think he was weird for not getting tea?
The woman handed a cold boba tea to Jiro and a mango juice to Chung. Then the boys walked back into the street toward their homes.
Jiro slurped his drink. “Why didn’t you want tea? It’s so good!”
Chung bit his lip. “Um, I don’t drink tea.”
“Why not?”
Chung thought about how to answer the question. The missionaries had taught him about the Word of Wisdom. In his Primary class he’d learned that keeping the Word of Wisdom helped him have the Holy Ghost with him.
“I believe in God, and He wants me to take care of my body. He asks that we don’t drink tea or coffee or alcohol,” Chung said.
“How do you know that?” Jiro asked.
“I learned about it at church.”
Jiro took another sip of his drink. “That seems silly. It’s just tea! It won’t hurt you.”
Chung’s stomach felt like it was full of jumping frogs. How could he help Jiro understand? Maybe someone at church could help him explain it to Jiro.
“Would you like to come to church with me sometime? I go to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You could learn about God and Jesus Christ.”
Jiro thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“OK,” said Chung. He felt a little sad that Jiro didn’t want to come to church with him. But he was still glad he had shared his testimony.
Later that week at school, Chung’s teacher, Mr. Lin, called for everyone’s attention. “Tomorrow is the last day of class. Because everyone has worked so hard this year, I have a surprise. We will all be having boba tea!”
The whole class cheered. Everyone except Chung. He slid down in his seat. Telling his teacher he didn’t drink tea would be even harder than telling Jiro! Everyone would think that was weird, just like Jiro did.
Jiro raised his hand. “Mr. Lin? Chung doesn’t drink tea. It’s a part of his religion. Could he have a mango juice instead?”
Mr. Lin turned to Chung. “Is that true, Chung?”
Chung nodded.
Mr. Lin smiled. “OK. I’ll order you juice instead.”
After school, Chung and Jiro walked home together. “Thanks for doing that,” Chung said.
Jiro smiled. “You’re my friend. If something is important to you, then it’s important to me.”

While I was on my mission, I met an unknown hero. Living an ordinary life, whose neighbours had no idea whom they were living next to.
We knocked on his door, one of 40 houses in the estate. There was no answer, but we continued knocking. Even when we moved on, I could not get my mind off his house. I did not know why. In one of the last houses, we spoke to a lady who was responsible for the supply of wine in her own church but was finding it hard to keep up with the increase in consumption. As I looked out the window, my mind was drawn to the house at no. 5, so I asked her if she knew who lived there. She told us not to go there. The man living there did not speak to anybody and would often smell of alcohol. I asked if he was angry or violent. She said no, and that he was just a quiet man who kept to himself.
We thanked her for her time and left. Again, I felt drawn to no 5. So, we returned and knocked once more. At first there was no answer. On the second try, the door finally opened, and a gentlemanly looking man greeted us and introduced himself as Bill. We said we had a message we would like to share with him, and he invited us in.
We asked Bill about his life. As we listened, we noticed all the pictures he had on the wall of various aircraft and people. He explained that he was a pilot during World War II. The pictures were mostly of the aircrafts he flew and of him together with his crew. While he talked, we could see that these memories were very special to him.
As we asked more about his service in World War II, he produced a medal, together with a letter from the royal family thanking him for his service. He explained that the medal was for flying the highest number of missions over enemy territory. At that moment, we were taken aback. We suddenly realised that a true hero stood before us. He was such a humble man who only claimed that he had done his duty.
We listened for a couple of hours and were educated about what it was like to be a young pilot. From being shot at most days, to coping with friends dying. All while continuing to serve.
As we asked what happened after the war, and he told us he had returned to his home, but his wife and children were no longer there. It had been hard for her to wait, and her departure hit him hard. He continued to live on his own ever since. He said we were the first real visitors he had in many years.
I asked Bill if he believed in God, and he did. I asked him if he wanted a blessing and he agreed. It was a very tender and responsible moment to give him a blessing that God had not forgotten him, that God understands, and that he will be blessed in the life hereafter.
He thanked us deeply for coming and said we were an answer to his prayers. We hugged, with tears in our eyes, and promised to be back.
As I stood outside his house, I looked around on the estate feeling like I wanted everyone to know what a special neighbour they had. But immediately I got the feeling, “God knows”.
Every year when it is Remembrance Day, I always remember Bill, and the huge sacrifice he made, so that we can all live in peace, and have the freedom we enjoy. I also learned to never judge someone but instead seek to help them.

I knew the changes my life needed.
I should be studying my scriptures deeply. I should be exercising regularly. I should participate in hobbies I once loved. These were all things that would improve my spiritual, physical, and mental health. I knew that—that’s what I was taught from a young age.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to do them.
Why? Because the changes required a major shift in my lifestyle, and I couldn’t sustain them.
I’d try and fail. Things would go well for a week or two, and then I would fall back into old habits. So, I decided to take a more gradual approach—one step at a time, “line upon line” (2 Nephi 28:30). With that in mind, I focused on truths of slow, sustainable goal setting:
Routine is vital to me, and I noticed my mornings and nights felt rushed and unproductive. I was often tired and didn’t accomplish everything I needed to. To make a change, I started with an important, foundational habit that set up a good pattern for me to continue changing.
For me, the foundational step was my bedtime. I set a goal to read scriptures at night and to go to bed earlier. Over the course of several weeks, I shifted my bedtime by one hour per week. I made a conscious effort to stick to this plan and be consistent.
My efforts weren’t perfect every night, but over time, I began to notice a significant improvement. I shifted my bedtime by several hours, and with that, I was able to get more sleep than ever before. And once I was better rested, it was easier to incorporate scripture study.
This method of changing my habits did wonders for me, so I started using it in other areas of my life. I started working on things like my temple attendance, exercise and nutrition, and hobbies. One good habit can lead to forming more good habits. Figuring out what foundational habit you want to create can help you start on the path to healthy change.
Breaking my goals down into steps made them seem smaller and more manageable. For one week, I would focus on a small aspect of my goal and discuss my progress with my husband. The following week, I would add another small aspect. If I stopped, I knew I had added too much too quickly, so I would go back to the previous step that I had already mastered.
Repentance is change, and like all change, repentance is a process. Making these small changes every week helped me experience the joy of repentance. I felt supported and empowered by Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, which improved my quality of life drastically.
My motivation for change has increased with these principles. I have implemented many small changes, but over time, the impact of small acts has been large. Becoming better and increasing motivation will be a lifelong pursuit, not a one-time event.

As a junior high school teacher with eight children, I needed to provide at least GHC 5.00 as pocket money to each child every school day. None of the days were for rest in my family, including Sundays. My wife needed to work hard with the children to make ends meet. She sold mashed kenkey (ice kenkey), water, cocoa drinks, or farm produce I brought from the farm I owned aside my teaching job.
After my family’s baptism, the missionaries taught us the importance of Sabbath day observance. We found it difficult and inconvenient to observe the Sabbath due to the high financial challenges we faced. The missionaries taught us to our understanding from scriptures such as Mosiah 13:16–19 and Exodus 20:8–11. Reading such scriptures overturned events of the family. We prayed for the Lord to help us keep His day holy by providing for our needs from Monday to Saturday.
While offering a prayer in our family home evening one Monday, I declared that henceforth there should be no more sales on Sundays. My children jubilated with the hope that Heavenly Father would provide. The Lord indeed answered my prayers. Each of these children have now completed various levels in their education, and four of them are returned missionaries with university education.
Thus, the Savior will bless His people who obey and keep the Sabbath day holy.

John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction. To make certain he was always at work by 8:00 A.M., Brother Moyle would start walking about 2:00 on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5:00 P.M. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight. Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple.
Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee. With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee.
When against all medical likelihood the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration “Holiness to the Lord.” (See “Two Traditions of John Rowe Moyle,” in Biographies and Reminiscences, ed. Gene A. Sessions, 1974, 202–3.)

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University symbol in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.

I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”

“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.

“You really think you’re something special, don’t you? You are cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”

“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”

“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”

“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”

She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”

“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.

“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”

I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?

Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”

“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”

“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”

He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?

Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”

I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”

She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?

After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.

But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in reality. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?

Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.

That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful adhesive bandage on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle hand against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.

I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!

The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.

On a cold winter day several years ago, I visited one of the branches in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. It was fast Sunday, and we warmed ourselves in the glow of the testimonies borne in the poorly heated, rented space where we were meeting.
I especially recall the testimony of one sister whose inspired face I can still see in my mind. She was a single mother. She and her one-year-old child lived in the dormitory of the factory where she worked. Economic conditions were not good. Her wages were low and paid irregularly. Despair and then eventual hope in God brought her to the gospel.
Not long after her baptism, she was preparing food for herself and her child when a young woman who lived in the same building said: “I know things are difficult for you. Like me, you are a single mother, earning low wages, with no place of your own to live. There is little hope of a good future for yourself and your child. Like me, you have a gray, dull life. Like me, you fear for your child and the uncertainty of tomorrow. But why are you always smiling and your eyes always shining? Why does joy light up your face?”
The questions made this sister stop and think about the changes that had occurred since her baptism. As she gained faith in Jesus Christ, the fear that had corroded her life had disappeared. The path back to the Father that opened before her had permitted her to have hope, which had led her to baptism and developed within her a certainty of a tranquil and happy future for her small family. By receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, she had received a firm testimony. The false values of the world gradually gave way to the higher values of the gospel, and these higher values became a firm foundation for both thought and deed. She realized that it was precisely these changes that had given her a new outlook on the world. Long-awaited joy and peace had come into her life.

Thirty-three years ago, as a young boy, I received the ordinance of baptism. The baptizer was my father, Samuel E. Otuonye, who had just found the new faith and embraced it with the greatest joy. Though we had no full-time missionaries posted in our area then, as the Church was relatively new, I saw my father proselyting from home-to-home sharing the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. As a farmer, he would gather us, his children, for a service to those he was sharing the gospel with. The Church was very far from us, and my father would use his motorcycle to carry the investigators three to four times every Sunday to church and bring them back in the same manner.
During our family home evening or family council, he would always emphasize that all his sons would serve a full-time mission eventually. It was very easy for me and my other siblings to make the decision to serve a mission when it was time. We are all happy today for the good example of my father as we were growing.
In April of 2000, I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission. It became the greatest opportunity for me to show my love, share my beliefs and invite others to join me to come unto Christ. Four of my siblings have also served in various missions.
I then realized that there are many yet on earth who are kept away from the truth because they know not where to find it. (See Doctrine and Covenants 123:12). Because of this, I join my voice to encourage the stake presidents, the bishops, and the parents and guardians to prepare all our young men to serve a full-time mission and the young women, if they so desire. This period of 24 and 18 months, respectively, provides a time of great devotion to them. They deny themselves of worldliness and only focus on the Lord’s errand.
My wife, Kate, and I are both in the medical field. After our marriage, we looked at our circumstances and began to think of how to share our blessings with others. We both worked in the state hospital as a medical doctor and a laboratory scientist. We realized that it would not give us the full opportunity that we needed to share our love with others. After much consideration, we established our own hospital, Ensign Hospital, which has become a great avenue to show our love to others.
As a leader in the Church and a medical practitioner I often encounter those who are in pain, those who are depressed, some who suffer with substance abuse, some who are near the point of suicide, accident victims, etc. It offers a great opportunity for me as I help to restore life. During my one-on-one visits with patients, after giving medical attention, I restore hope to them by sharing my belief and how my family and I have been blessed. Several times, I have pulled out my family picture and shared the joy we feel together. Many develop an interest and listen to the missionaries and are brought to the waters of baptism.
Sharing the gospel alone may not be very productive. Rather, it is our lives and those of our family members, the joy that radiates within us, the unity and how we live our lives that becomes the nonverbal message that we share to those around us. This has the greatest impact in their lives.
Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Whenever we show Christlike love toward our neighbor, we preach the gospel even if we do not voice a single word.
“Love for others is the eloquent expression of the second great commandment to love our neighbor; it shows the refining process of the Holy Spirit working within our own souls. By demonstrating Christ’s love to others, we may cause those who see our good works to ‘glorify [our] Father which is in heaven.’
“We do this expecting nothing in return.
“Our hope, of course, is that they will accept our love and our message, though how they react is not within our control. …
“Through Christlike love to others, we preach the glorious, life-transforming properties of Christ’s gospel and we participate significantly in the fulfilling of His great commission.”
Brothers and sisters, there is no hard and fast rule on how and where the gospel of Jesus Christ should be shared. Sharing can be done directly or indirectly as you bear your testimony of the divine help of the Lord, during your discussions with friends.
Because I have lived almost all my years within my environment, my life has become a testimony to those who know me as I have been growing. Many are now coming to me to express their feelings after I invite them to join the Church. One of their questions in responding to my invitation is often “Will your Church take me to America if I join?”
I will then answer with my usual joke, “We better write in front of our Church gate ‘express visa to America after baptism’”.
I then tell them no, but what they will get is the everlasting gospel that brings peace and restores hope. I explain that they will learn about the plan of happiness and that their family will experience a great unity of love.
I bear witness and testimony that my family and I have been blessed tremendously beyond measure, we have a living prophet, God lives, Jesus is the Christ, and this is His Church.

After two years of custodial work, another ward was added to our building, making a total of four. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we had Relief Society, with the officers arriving as early as 8:30 A.M. The Relief Society room, foyer, kitchen, south steps, nursery, and rest rooms had to be ready. While Relief Society was in session, we cleaned the rest of the classrooms, the chapel and the cultural hall.

Then at 3:00 the Primary officers began to arrive. The relief society room, nurseries, kitchen and rest rooms had to be checked and cleaned if needed. When Primary was over we picked up, swept, straightened chairs, and cleaned backboards to get ready for activity night. This went for about a year; then two wards moved out of the building. It seemed like we were on vacation!

After my family and I moved to a new state, I prayed constantly to find friends with whom I could talk about the gospel. As I prayed, I felt comforted, and a few months later I made some incredible friends. I can count on their support, and they have helped me to develop an even greater love for the gospel. I know that friends are important and they can make it easier for us to live the gospel.
Sarah P., 16, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

I lay there, feeling disgusted with my family’s lack of consideration for my feelings. I had told them that I didn’t want those young men coming into our home and talking about God. I was bitter about religion and had pushed God out of my life. I blamed him for striking me with multiple sclerosis at age thirty-three and then taking my father a few years later, when I needed him most.
When two young men offered to talk to my family about their religion, I wanted nothing to do with them. But I was unable to walk out of the room, so I pretended to be asleep as they taught my family about Christ and a book called the Book of Mormon. When they finished, one young man said a prayer, and then my mother gave them permission to return in a few days. As soon as they left, I told her that I wanted no part of religion, and if my family wanted to hear such nonsense, then I wanted to remain in my bedroom while the young men were there.
The missionaries returned three days later. Despite my request, my family left me propped up in a chair in the living room. Once again I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. The young men came in, asked if they could begin with a word of prayer, then started to teach. Although I tried, it was very hard to shut their words out of my bitter world. They talked about where we came from, why we are on earth, what happens when we die, and where we will go after this life. They also mentioned three kingdoms—not the heaven and hell I’d heard about all my life.
The entire discussion fascinated me. And at the same time, it made sense—I knew it was true. Even in my bitter and unforgiving state, I could tell right from wrong, truth from fiction.
I opened my eyes and began to ask questions. Each time the missionaries answered, their faces seemed to glow as they taught me what they knew concerning life and death. I began asking them every question I ever had about religion.
Before they left, they placed a Book of Mormon on my lap. I wanted so much to read it, but because the multiple sclerosis had stolen most of my vision, I had to wait impatiently for my niece to find time to read it to me.
When the missionaries returned a few days later, I was excited about what I had read, but I had a very important question. The missionaries were Caucasian. I wondered if all members of the Church were white and how they felt about black people joining. The missionaries explained that it was Christ’s church and all were welcome. When they said that three black families were active in the ward, I couldn’t wait to be baptized.
A year after my baptism, after much prayer and a lot of effort on the part of faithful ward members, I was able to go to the Atlanta Temple to receive my endowment. Doctors advised me not to make the five-hour trip, but I knew I had to try.
Eleven years ago, when the doctors diagnosed me with multiple sclerosis, they gave me two years to live. Today, I am still alive, although I am totally paralyzed from the neck down. But now that I have the gospel, I am no longer bitter about my illness or my father’s death. I look forward to God’s promise of eternal life if I faithfully endure to the end.

Kiva: A Pueblo Indian ceremonial structure that is usually round and partly underground.
“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But, of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here, you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No, I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire. “She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma thought carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room, the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to quit, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped With joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was your duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

Most of those who work in the storehouse are recipients of commodities. There are a minimum number of full-time staff members. One example of what happens when the spirit of this program permeates the activity is that of a thirty-two-year-old man who came to the storehouse. He was unable to read or write or even to speak. He was deeply disturbed. He was accepted by the other workers with love and understanding and was trained to accomplish a simple task. He learned to become a stock boy, stocking the shelves with commodities. Because he could not read, the staff placed pictures on the boxes so that he could match pictures and properly stack the cartons on the shelves. Through their patience and love, this young man has gained the ability to keep the shelves properly stocked with the proper commodities. Part of his compensation is provided in food which he takes to his parents and other members of his family to help provide for their needs. The happiness and fulfillment shown by this handicapped person as he receives the food to take home is truly an inspiration to all others.

A few weeks ago, I was hurried and frazzled, with too many to-dos on my list. I had hoped to go to the temple that day but felt I was just too busy. As soon as that thought of being too busy for temple service crossed my mind, it awakened me to what I most needed to do. I left my office to walk over to the Salt Lake Temple, wondering when I was going to recapture the time I was losing. Thankfully, the Lord is patient and merciful and taught me a beautiful lesson that day.
As I sat down in the session room, a young sister leaned over and reverently whispered, “I’m really nervous. This is only my second time in the temple. Could you please help me?” How could she ever have known that those words were exactly what I needed to hear? She didn’t know, but Heavenly Father knew. He had observed my greatest need. I needed to serve. He prompted this humble young sister to serve me by inviting me to serve her. I assure you that I was the one who benefited most.

Peter Brooks and Donald Willis were both five years old. They had always been next-door neighbors and number-one buddies. With Donald’s Dalmation, Pokey, at their side, the tireless twosome kept law and order on the “prairies” of the corner vacant lot.
“What those two don’t think up!” Donald’s mom laughed one day as she and Peter’s mom watched the boys zoom past.
“They’re two of a kind,” Peter’s mom agreed. “They always have big plans!”
One day the two pals decided to spend an afternoon exploring new territory—Donald’s garage.
“Just be careful,” Donald’s mom cautioned.
“OK!” the eager boys yelled as they scrambled to raise the heavy garage door.
Inside, Peter and Donald found piles of wonderful stuff: garden supplies, old lumber, carpentry tools, broken appliances. Why, even the walls were covered with fan belts, bicycle tires and chains, camping gear, and kites. But the greatest find of the afternoon was perched high on a dusty shelf. It was a violin case.
Peter steadied a stepladder while Donald climbed carefully up—Mother had said to be careful—and lifted the case down from the shelf.
“Wow!” exclaimed Peter, opening it and removing the instrument. “Look at this old, scratched-up violin.”
With its worn body, loose tuning pegs, and cracked bow, the violin seemed useless to the five-year-olds.
“Hey, look! It doesn’t have strings anymore,” Donald said, giggling. “It can’t even make music.”
The boys’ imagination went right to work. Perching himself high on top of the stepladder, Donald became an orchestra conductor while, below, Peter moved the broken bow across the imaginary strings of the violin.
“I have a better idea,” Donald said. “Let’s chop up this old piece of junk with my dad’s hatchet.”
“Are you sure it’s OK?” Peter asked.
“I—I think so,” Donald stammered.
Without thinking further, the boys took the hatchet from the workbench, and soon the woodchips were flying. Chopping with a hatchet was great fun, but the boys grew silent when they saw the old violin in splinters at their feet.
“Boy, I don’t feel very good,” Peter confided as he looked at the remains of the violin.
“Me either,” Donald said softly.
Just then the garage door swung open, and Donald’s mother walked in. “Hey, you two,” she said, “what’s all the racket out here?”
Looking down, she saw what was left of the violin, and her smile faded. “That was my mother’s violin!” she wailed. “I was going to have it refinished for you one day, Donald. It was one of my greatest treasures.”
Looking very sad, she took Donald by the hand and walked back to the house.
Peter watched with a big knot in his throat. His eyes stung with tears. Donald’s in big trouble, he thought. And it’s my fault too!
Telling his own mom and dad about the violin didn’t make Peter feel any better. “Repenting is more than just feeling bad about the mistake you’ve made,” his dad explained. “When you repent, Peter, you must do all that you can to right the wrong.”
Peter thought about that. I can’t bring the violin back, he decided, but I can tell Mrs. Willis how sorry I am. And I could earn some money to help buy her a new violin. He figured that a new violin would cost at least a dollar.
Peter set out to earn the dollar. He emptied garbage cans, washed dishes, cleaned bathrooms, and dusted. With every dime he earned, Peter felt happier.
After two weeks of hard work, Peter had enough money to pay his tithing and to give Mrs. Willis a dollar.
Peter’s mother helped him write a special note to Mrs. Willis: “I’m sorry for wrecking your treasure. I like you very much, and I’m going to be kinder and think before I do things. I earned this dollar so that you can buy a new violin.” He slid the money into an envelope with the note and left it on the Willises’ doorstep.
“Do you think Mrs. Willis will ever forgive Donald and me for chopping up her violin?” Peter asked his mother that night.
“I hope that she will,” Mother said, smiling gently. “You have done all that you can do right now to make it right.”
The next morning Peter was surprised to find a letter for him on the kitchen table. It said:
Dear Peter,
I got your note and the money. You must have worked very hard to earn a dollar. I realize how sorry you are for your part in destroying my mother’s violin, and I forgive you. I want you to know that I love you very much.
Your friend,
Mrs. Willis
Peter had never before felt such joy or relief. He knew that he had truly repented and that he had learned an important lesson from the precious violin.

My parents took back my credit card, my cell phone, and my car. They ignored me for a few months and would not let me speak to my brothers. My sister also found it difficult to accept me for a while. I moved to Utah for college, where I met a wonderful man and fell in love. My parents would not meet my husband when we were married, but now those tensions are slowly resolving, and I am in hopeful pursuit of my eternal family.

I recently met a young woman in the Philippines whose family became less active in the Church when she was only 7 years old, leaving her alone to walk a dangerous road to church week after week. She told how at age 14 she decided that she would stay true to her covenants so she would be worthy to raise her future family in a home “blessed by the strength of priesthood pow’r.”12 The best way to strengthen a home, current or future, is to keep covenants, promises we’ve made to each other and to God.

Some may say, “But I don’t have time for daily scripture study amid all my other duties in life.” This statement is somewhat reminiscent of the story of two axmen who held a contest to determine who could cut down more trees in a day. At sunrise the contest commenced. Every hour the smaller man wandered off into the forest for 10 minutes or so. Each time he did this, his opponent smiled and nodded, assured that he was forging ahead. The larger man never left his post, never stopped cutting, never took a break.

When the day ended, the larger man was shocked to learn that his opponent, who seemingly wasted so much time, had cut many more trees than he. “How did you do it when you took so many breaks?” he asked.

The winner replied, “Oh, I was sharpening my ax.”

And I have seen it in young fathers trying to provide for their families. In that regard I once terrifyingly saw it in myself. At one point in our married life when financial fears collided with staggering fatigue, I took a psychic blow that was as unanticipated as it was real. With the grace of God and the love of my family, I kept functioning and kept working, but even after all these years I continue to feel a deep sympathy for others more chronically or more deeply afflicted with such gloom than I was. In any case we have all taken courage from those who, in the words of the Prophet Joseph, “search[ed] … and contemplate[d] the darkest abyss” and persevered through it—not the least of whom were Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, and Elder George Albert Smith, the latter being one of the most gentle and Christlike men of our dispensation, who battled recurring depression for some years before later becoming the universally beloved eighth prophet and President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I once worked with a group of railroad men who seemed to pride themselves on the use of profanity. They tried to make an art of it. I recall handing a written instruction to a switchman. It was his job to take care of the matter as instructed, but he thought it inconvenient that he should have to do so at that time. On reading the order, he flew into a tantrum. He was a fifty-year-old man, but he acted like a spoiled child. He threw his cap on the ground and jumped on it and let forth such a string of expletives as to seem to cause the air to turn blue around him. Every third or fourth word was the name of Deity spoken in vain.

I thought, how childish can a grown man be? The very idea of a man acting and speaking like that was totally repugnant. I could never again give him my full respect.