Gospel Story Finder

There once was a little girl named Misha who “wore” freckles. She didn’t wear them because she liked them, but because they happened to come with the rest of her face.
She tried washing them off. She tried covering them with her mom’s skin-color makeup. She tried wearing big glasses, low hats, and high collars. But nothing would remove her freckles or even hide them.
Her mother said, “Don’t worry about them.” Her dad said, “I think they’re cute.” And her grandpa said, “Your freckles are my favorite thing about you.” Of course, he had freckles too.
None of Misha’s friends had freckles. Rhoda wore glasses and had big, beautiful, black eyes. Lauren wore ribbons in her curly, fuzzy hair and could stand on her hands for a twenty-five count. Jennifer wore striped shoelaces and was very short.
One afternoon the girls were sitting on the ground in Lauren’s backyard, playing archeologists. While they were looking for arrowheads and potsherds in the sand, Jennifer announced, “I have a new secret. Look.” She showed them a piece of paper.
“What is it?” Lauren asked as she stopped digging and looked up.
“A secret wishing spell. I copied it from a book about tricks and things.” All four girls leaned close together, squinting at the writing on the crumpled piece of paper.
Wishing Spell
Put your pajama top on backward.
Let a caterpillar walk up and down your leg until you get goose bumps.
Jump over a gray hair three times.
Put your pajama top on frontward.
Turn off the light.
If you do these things fast enough, you will hear the Wish Genie ring a bell. He will grant your wish.
“Aw, I don’t believe it,” scoffed Rhoda. “You can’t really think that thing is real.”
“All that stuff is just pretend,” chimed in Lauren.
“Let me see it,” said Misha. She tried to keep her voice from sounding excited.
Jennifer gave the paper to Misha. “What are you going to wish for?” she asked.
“I don’t want to tell you,” answered Misha, “but I’ll tell you if it works.” With the paper squeezed tightly in her hand, Misha ran home. What if it works? she couldn’t help thinking. What if a genie comes and zaps my freckles?
All afternoon Misha scrambled and searched through leaves and bushes. Finally, under a rock, she found a yellow caterpillar with black stripes. With a sigh of relief, she scooped it into a jar and put the jar under her bed.
Then she went looking for Grandpa and found him reading the newspaper. His hair was gray from ear to ear. “Grandpa, may I please have one of your gray hairs?”
He stopped reading and looked at her. “Do you mind if I ask you what for?” He was always polite.
“I’m sorry, but it’s a secret right now. Maybe I’ll tell you later.” He squeezed his eyes and twisted his mouth and pulled out a gray hair. “Thanks, Grandpa,” said Misha. She ran upstairs and put that under her bed too.
That evening, Misha felt nervous and excited. For once, she didn’t argue with her mother about bedtime. She ran upstairs, slipped inside her room, and closed the door.
She quickly changed into her pajamas, being careful to put the top on backwards. Then she placed the caterpillar and gray hair carefully in the middle of the floor. She went over the steps again to be sure she could remember: Get goose bumps from the caterpillar, jump over the gray hair three times, put her pajama top on frontward, turn off the light, and listen for the genie to ring the bell. She was ready.
Misha carefully put the caterpillar on her foot, and it began to crawl slowly up her leg—creepy-crawly, ickly-tickly. Goose bumps popped out all over her! She put the caterpillar back in the jar and jumped once, twice, three times over the gray hair. She quickly pulled the pajama top off and put it back on frontward. She flicked off the light switch, and flung herself into bed as the room went dark. Finished!
Silence. Silence and darkness. She strained her ears, listening for the ringing of a bell. The beating of her heart thudded in her ears. Her head began to hurt from listening so hard. But there was no ringing, no tinkling, no buzzing—no bell.
Gradually the thudding grew quieter as her heart slowed down. She could hear dishes rattling downstairs as her mother washed them. Daddy was listening to the news on the television. But in her room, all was quiet.
Her eyes were used to the dark now, and she could see the shape of her bed. The moon was just a sliver between her curtains. She looked around. There was no Wish Genie granting magic wishes, and there never would be. Not tonight, not ever.
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks as she slipped between the sheets on her bed. She put her head on the pillow and began to cry hard.
There was a tap-tap on the door, and then Grandpa’s voice. “Do you mind if I come in?” He was always polite.
As Grandpa sat on the bed, Misha sat up and put her arms around him and began to cry even harder. When she finally stopped, Grandpa turned on the night lamp. He was very quiet as she told him the whole story.
“Granddaughter,” he said slowly, “everyone in the whole world would like to change something about himself or herself. A magic make-over is not the way to be happy. Happiness comes from accepting yourself the way you are—the way God chose to make you—with the things you like—and with the things you don’t like so much.
“Think about your friends. Do you like them just because of the way they look?”
Misha thought about Rhoda with her glasses, and Jennifer with her short legs, and Lauren with her fuzzy hair. The way they looked really didn’t matter at all. She liked them just the way they were.
Grandpa said, “You know something else? Your freckles are part of what makes you the special, one-of-a-kind person you are. You wouldn’t be you without them. Besides”—he grinned—“I have a special reason for liking those pretty little freckles. They make me feel that you belong to me, and I love you very much.”
Misha felt better than she had in a long time. She hugged her grandpa tight. “I love you, too,” she said.
She snuggled back down between the sheets as Grandpa kissed her good night. She closed her eyes and smiled a great, big, freckle-dotted smile.

Marcella frowned as she tried to wiggle her toes in her shoes. The shoes were too small and they hurt, but she knew she shouldn’t complain. At six years old, she knew there was no money for new ones.
The past year had been hard for the Nelson family. In May, Marcella’s tiny baby sister had died of pneumonia. And just six weeks later, her father, Eric, had been killed in an accident at work. How she missed her gentle father.
Now Marcella’s mother was struggling to support her two young daughters with her sewing. Even though she was a skilled seamstress, there wasn’t enough money. The kitchen cupboards in their small home were practically bare. No, bigger shoes just weren’t an option right now.
“Time for breakfast,” Mother called. Marcella struggled not to limp in the tight shoes as she walked to the table.
“Oh, honey.” Her mother knelt at her side. “Those shoes are too small for you, aren’t they?” Marcella could hear the worry in her mother’s voice.
“A little.” Marcella tried to sound unconcerned. “It’s all right.”
“You’re trying to be brave,” Mother said gently. “But I can see they hurt. I will try to get you some new ones soon.”
“I want new shoes too!” piped up little Arvella.
Their mother picked Arvella up in a big hug. “You know your shoes are just fine,” she said. Arvella’s shoes were hand-me-downs from Marcella. They were worn, but at least they fit properly.
Arvella stuck her bottom lip out. “I want new shoes too,” she repeated obstinately. Marcella and her mother smiled at each other. Arvella didn’t understand their difficult position, and somehow her innocence made them feel better. They talked and laughed as they ate breakfast and cleaned up.
Suddenly Mother became serious again. “Girls,” she said slowly, “we need to go to town today. I have $2.50.”
Marcella couldn’t believe it! That was a lot of money in Utah in 1905. “That’s great!” she exclaimed. She imagined the food they could buy to stock their empty shelves. Maybe she could even get new shoes!
Marcella’s smile faded when she saw the tears in her mother’s eyes. “We owe $2.50 for tithing,” she said softly. Then she gathered her girls around her. “I know we are almost out of food. I know that you need new shoes so badly, Marcella. But if we want the Lord to bless us, we must keep His commandments.”
Then she pulled out her worn Bible and turned to Malachi. She read to the girls the Lord’s promise that if they paid tithing, the windows of heaven would open to them.
“What does it mean that the windows of heaven will open?” Arvella asked.
“It means that Heavenly Father will bless us,” Mother said. “It says that we will receive such a great blessing that there won’t be room enough to receive it. I know that we need the Lord’s blessing now more than ever. I believe His promise.”
“I believe it too,” Marcella said.
“Me too,” Arvella chimed in.
“Oh, you are good girls.” Mother pulled them close. “Let’s pray together, and then I am going to take this money straight to the bishop.”
The girls and Mother knelt. Mother asked Heavenly Father for a way to get more food for her little family and shoes for Marcella. After the prayer, they all wiped tears from their eyes. Then, with a smile, Mother said, “Let’s go pay our tithing, girls!”
They walked the short distance to the bishop’s house and gave him the tithing. Although her feet hurt, Marcella enjoyed the walk and the good feeling in her heart. She knew Heavenly Father would bless them.
As they approached their home, they saw Uncle Silas and Aunt Maud pulling up. Both girls ran to Uncle Silas, and he swung them high into the air.
“Hello, Sarah,” Aunt Maud said, giving Mother a quick hug. “We just came to see how you and the girls are doing.”
“Well,” Arvella said seriously, “Marcella’s shoes are too small, but we paid our tithing and it will be fine.”
“Arvella!” Her mother gave her a stern look. “We’re fine, Maud. How is your family?”
They all went into the house and chatted pleasantly. Marcella quickly took off her tight shoes and put them away. She noticed her aunt and uncle looking around the house carefully. Aunt Maud even opened a cupboard as she visited. Too soon, their visitors had to leave.
Later that afternoon, Marcella was surprised to hear a delivery cart outside. It stopped at their home, and a delivery boy came to the door. “A delivery for Sarah Nelson,” he said.
“That’s my mother,” Marcella said.
“But I didn’t order anything,” Mother objected.
Suddenly Uncle Silas appeared in the doorway next to the boy. “It’s for you, Sarah,” he said gently. “You can put everything here on the table,” he directed the delivery boy.
The boy brought in bags of food. The girls danced around the table in delight. They hugged Uncle Silas, who quickly excused himself to go home. There was so much food! Sugar, beans, flour and cornmeal, cured meats and dried fruit—the cupboards would be full! Last of all, the delivery boy brought a small package wrapped in brown paper to the table.
After the delivery boy left, the girls approached the small package. What could be inside? First Marcella and then Arvella shook it. Then Marcella carefully pulled back the paper. Into her lap fell not one, but two pairs of shoes! Marcella picked up the largest pair and put them on. They fit perfectly, and she happily wiggled her toes in complete comfort.
Then she saw Arvella’s face. Her sister had picked up the second pair of shoes and was staring at them in delight. She looked at her mother in wonder. “I thought you said I didn’t need shoes, Mama,” she said questioningly.
“Your old shoes would do,” her mother said through her tears. “But when Heavenly Father opens the windows of heaven, you never know what might pour down.”

As one of 15 prophets, seers, and revelators sustained yesterday by our worldwide Church, I want to share with you one of my experiences sustaining the prophet and embracing his words. It was for me much like the prophet Jacob, who recounted, “I had heard the voice of the Lord speaking unto me in very word.”

Last October my wife, Melanie, and I were in Bangkok, Thailand, as I was preparing to dedicate what would be the Church’s 185th temple. For me, the assignment was both surreal and humbling. This was the first temple on the Southeast Asia peninsula. It was masterfully designed—a six-story, nine-spired structure, “fitly framed” to be a house of the Lord. For months I had contemplated the dedication. What had settled in my soul and mind was that the country and the temple had been cradled in the arms of prophets and apostles. President Thomas S. Monson had announced the temple and President Nelson the dedication.

I had prepared the dedicatory prayer months earlier. Those sacred words had been translated into 12 languages. We were ready. Or so I thought.

The night before the dedication, I was awakened from my sleep with an unsettled, urgent feeling about the dedicatory prayer. I tried to set aside the prompting, thinking the prayer was in place. But the Spirit would not leave me alone. I sensed certain words were missing, and by divine design they came to me in revelation, and I inserted these words in the prayer near the end: “May we think celestial, letting Thy Spirit prevail in our lives, and strive to be peacemakers always.” The Lord was reminding me to heed the words of our living prophet: “Think celestial,” “let the Spirit prevail,” “strive to be peacemakers.” Words of the prophet matter to the Lord and to us.

Early in the year 1884 the beautiful Mormon temple in Logan, Utah, was almost ready to be dedicated. …
While the temple was being built, Bishop Henry Ballard, who had worked on the temple from its beginning, prayed earnestly that in some way he would receive names of ancestors who had lived in far-off England.
On the day before the dedication of the temple and while several of Bishop Ballards’s daughters were playing … two strange men suddenly approached!!!
One of the men gave the oldest girl a folded newspaper saying …
“Give this to your father and to no one else, go quickly and don’t lose it.”
The girl hurried to take the paper …
… to her father.
It was the Newberry Weekly News, printed in his hometown in England just three days before. One full page was filled with birth and death dates of people buried in the Newberry Cemetery.
The temple president said, “Bishop Ballard you are authorized to do work for these people, you received the record through messengers of the Lord.”

Our daughter, Kathryn, is serving as the Primary president in her ward in Salt Lake City. My wife and I attended her ward last Sunday to observe the Primary sacrament meeting presentation, “I’ll Follow Him in Faith.” I was thrilled to hear the children recite scriptures and stories coupled with songs focused on faith in Christ.
After the meeting I asked her about her calling. She said that initially the calling weighed her down. Much time was spent going over problems. Then the presidency decided to emphasize love, faith, and prayer. Suddenly spiritual impressions came to mind about a particular child or family. Friction was replaced with love. She tells me that as they acted upon promptings from the Spirit, Primary reflected a reverence and peace, and real gospel learning was taking place.

I continued attending church, and I pondered often what I learned there. I also read the Book of Mormon. One day I accepted the invitation to ask God if what I was learning was true. As I prayed, something strong touched my heart, and I thought, This is the right way. I already believe in God. It’s time to follow Him.
As I continued to pray and attend meetings, the Spirit continued to guide me. Finally I told the elders I wanted to hear the discussions. I wanted to follow God and return to His presence one day. I was baptized on 21 June 1993.

I want a cookie,” Emily said as Mom took cookies from the oven.
“Wait until they cool,” said Mom.
But Emily didn’t wait. She ate a hot cookie and burned her tongue.
“I want to play with it now,” she said while Dad glued a wheel back on her toy truck.
“Wait until the glue dries,” Dad said.
But Emily didn’t wait. She raced the truck across the rug, and the wheel came off again.
“I want to open my presents,” she said as Mom put bows on brightly wrapped boxes.
“Wait until your birthday tomorrow,” Mom said.
But Emily didn’t wait. As soon as Mom left the room, she opened her presents. Then she had no boxes to open on her birthday.
“Why didn’t you wait?” Dad asked.
“I hate to wait,” Emily said. “But now I wish I had.”
The next day, Dad took her to a garden shop. He picked out onion sets and seeds for peas and beans. “You may choose some seeds, too,” he told Emily.
“I love carrots,” she said, so Dad got a package of carrot seeds.
Emily helped Dad plant the onions, peas, and beans in the garden. Then she planted a row of carrots by herself. “We can have my carrots for dinner tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but you will have to wait a long time for your seeds to grow into carrots.”
Emily didn’t wait. Every day, she dug up a few seeds to see if they had grown into carrots. “My seeds aren’t growing,” she told Dad.
“How do you know,” asked Dad.
“I looked at them,” said Emily.
“If you dig up your seeds, they won’t ever grow. You’ll have to learn to wait.”
“I hate to wait,” Emily said. “But I love carrots, so I’ll try.”
Emily tried hard all summer. She didn’t dig up any more carrot seeds, even when the green tops popped up along the row. But she did weed the garden while she waited. And she swam and ran and played. She even learned to wait for other things—for homemade Popsicles to freeze in the freezer, for her turn to ride on the back of a camel at the zoo, and for lots of other things. She even learned to wait to talk to Mom or Dad when they were on the telephone.
While Emily waited, the plants grew in the garden. When it was time, she helped to pick pea pods, and yellow beans, and tall green onions. At last it was time for the carrots.
Dad showed her how to loosen the dirt around the carrots and then how to hold the green tops and pull out the carrots one by one. Emily filled her basket with long, fat carrots. Then she ran to the house to show Mom. “Look how big they grew!”
“Yes they did,” Mom said, “and so did you!”
“Did I get taller?” Emily asked.
“You grew taller and wiser.”
“Wiser?” Emily asked.
“Waiting made you wiser.”
“Waiting made me want to eat carrots,” Emily said, “so I’m going to eat one right now!”
“Wait until I wash one,” Mom said.
But Emily didn’t wait. She took a big carrot and washed it herself. “Now I will eat the best carrot I have ever eaten,” she said. And she did.

As my senior year of high school was coming to an end, I knew that yearbooks were going to be available soon. As I considered what I would write to my best friends, the idea came to me that I could write my testimony in every yearbook that I would sign.
But I didn’t know how appropriate it would be to write my testimony. What if they didn’t take it seriously? So I prayed and asked Heavenly Father what I should do. I felt a warm burning inside. I was determined to do it.
When yearbooks came out, I wrote my testimony in the books that were handed to me to sign. One day, after school, my friend Mike’s younger brother, Ben, asked me to sign his yearbook. I barely knew Ben. I considered not writing my testimony in his yearbook since I didn’t really know him, yet I felt impressed to go ahead.
Two days later, as I was walking home from school, I felt restless. I decided I wanted to play basketball. As I was thinking of whom to call, I heard someone walking behind me. I looked back, and it was Ben. He wanted to talk to me. I suggested that we play basketball, and he agreed.
As we began to play, I was joking around and having fun. Suddenly, Ben asked, “Are you a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. No one had ever asked me that before. Many people had asked me if I was Mormon, but nobody had ever known the entire name of the Church. Today I was not thinking about sharing the gospel. My attention was on basketball and having fun. I shrugged and said, “Yes,” and started dribbling the ball.
A bit later, he asked, “Where is the church that you go to?”
Still thinking of basketball, I offhandedly answered him before dribbling by him to score.
A little flustered, Ben asked, “When does church start?” Then it dawned on me that he just might be interested in the Church. I offered to give him a ride the next Sunday. He said that he would like to do that.
After church, Ben and I watched part of a church video at my house before he had to go home.
The following Sunday, my Sunday School teacher was giving us a ride home. Out of the blue, Ben asked, “What does it take to be baptized?”
My teacher slammed on the brakes. I was stunned as well. “You have to have a testimony, I said.” Then I realized how silly it was in light of the fact that Ben already believed.
My Sunday School teacher called the missionaries. They set up a time to meet Ben and teach him the gospel at my house. He accepted the baptismal commitment without hesitation.
Ben was baptized about one month after I had signed his yearbook. He asked me to give one of the talks at his baptism. His parents came to his baptism. It was an exciting experience for me.
I am thankful that the Spirit of the Holy Ghost prompted me to go ahead and share my testimony in Ben’s yearbook. I am thankful for the opportunity to be an instrument in God’s hand in bringing the gospel to one of his beloved children.

Many years ago while serving in the United States Infantry in the South Pacific, my outfit was making a dry run on a seemingly deserted beach in the Admiralty Islands.
When my particular unit went ashore and scattered around on patrol, we came by chance upon a small native village. I will never forget one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen. All of the natives who appeared on the scene had dyed, reddish-orange hair, and every man, woman, and child—in fact, every living creature that I could see: dogs, animals of all sorts—wore a string of large green beads to the end of which were fastened three tiny shells. We learned upon inquiry from a Baptist minister who had labored amongst these natives that these beaded ornaments were used to ward off the bad results of an “evil eye” and bring good luck to the person or animal that wore it.
In this strange little village so far removed from our own culture it was believed that bad luck, sometimes even death, would follow if a mere glance from the evil eye of an enemy fell upon a person or animal. Hence, practically all of the animals and people wore such a string of beads as I have mentioned.

A true story from the USA.
We started getting ready for Easter a week early! Dad said the week before Easter is called Holy Week. Mom said there would be a little surprise on the kitchen table each day. Each one would help us remember Jesus Christ. I’m going to write about it all here in my journal!
Mom and Dad read the story of Palm Sunday in the scriptures. When Jesus Christ went to Jerusalem, the people waved palm branches and cried, “Hosanna!”
My sister Lucy held a picture of Jesus riding a donkey. The rest of us waved our paper branches. I felt happy imagining I was welcoming Jesus.
Jesus was upset that people were selling things in the temple, so He threw them out. We picked trash out of the bushes around the church. I’m glad we could help care for God’s house!
Mom read stories that Jesus Christ had told to people. We listened and used the clay to make things from the stories. Lucy made a sheep because Jesus is the Good Shepherd. I made a little oil lamp. It helped me remember to keep my heart full of faith.
Dad told us about how Mary gave Jesus Christ a special oil for His feet. Its smell filled the whole house.
We didn’t have this special oil. Instead, we used cinnamon to make a treat. Mom said that when we smelled the cinnamon as the treat was baking, we should think of what we could give to Jesus.
We lit the candles and sang a song, just like Jesus Christ and His disciples sang at the Last Supper. We ate pita bread and drank grape juice to remember the first sacrament. We also had pomegranates to remind us of Jesus’s blood, and olives for the garden of Gethsemane.
As we ate, thunder rumbled outside. I felt safe and thankful knowing Jesus has already faced the darkest storm.
We read about how Jesus Christ died for us. Then we took the empty flowerpot into the garden and tipped it on its side, like a tomb. We put soil and rocks around it but left the opening uncovered. Mom gave us a figure to represent Jesus’s body. We reverently wrapped it in a white cloth and placed it inside the flowerpot.
Even though it was just a flowerpot, I still felt sad covering the door with a stone.
Mom said that after Jesus Christ died, He set up missionary work in the spirit world. That way people who hadn’t learned His gospel on earth could still learn about Him. In temples, we can be baptized for people who didn’t get baptized before they died.
Lucy and I aren’t old enough to go inside the temple yet, but we helped cut out the printed name cards. Mom and Dad took turns doing temple work for the people on the cards and walking around the grounds with us. Even from the outside, the temple felt a little like heaven.
On Easter morning the stone in front of the flowerpot was gone and the cloth was empty. There was a card that said, He is risen!
I already knew that Jesus Christ is the reason for Easter. After celebrating Holy Week, I feel like I know Him a little better too.

Mark and his mom tromped through the snow to the car. Dad had scraped the frost from the windows and warmed up the car, but he wasn’t coming to church. He was reading on the sofa instead.
“I hate going without Dad,” Mark grumbled as he settled into the front seat beside Mom.
“I’m sad that Dad’s not going with us too,” Mom said as she backed out of the driveway. “But I still love going to church.”
“Well, I do too,” Mark said. “But you know what I mean, right? I wish our family could be more like Doug’s family.”
Doug was Mark’s best friend at church. Doug’s dad went to church every Sunday. He always had a smile and a high-five for Mark.
Mom rounded the corner onto the main road. “I do know what you mean,” she said. “Doug has a wonderful family. And I always thought our family would be more like that. It’s hard that it isn’t. I hope Dad can work out his questions and problems and start coming to church with us again. But that’s for him to figure out. You and I can’t do it for him, and worrying won’t help.”
“What will help?”
Mom paused for a minute before she answered. “Keep loving him. Pray for him. Work on our own testimonies. Try to be happy. Remember what a good dad he is, even if he’s not the same as other people’s dads.”
Mark thought how good it felt to get into their nice, warm car with the windows cleared. “I think I understand,” he said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words all week long.
He thought about them on Tuesday night when Dad sat down to help him with homework.
“You’re working really hard,” Dad said. “You know what? I think you’re going to be really successful all through school. I hope you always remember how important it is to get a good education.”
He thought about her words on Wednesday afternoon when Dad surprised him by picking him up at school. They ate lunch together and watched ice skaters in the park.
“I don’t have to teach a class until later today, and I just wanted to hang out with you,” Dad said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words on Thursday evening when he came home from Webelos and found Dad listening to music while grading papers.
“Isn’t this song amazing?” Dad asked. “It was written by one of my favorite composers.” Mark had to agree that the music was beautiful.
And Mark thought about her words on Saturday morning when Dad took him snowshoeing. They saw intricate ice crystals clinging to tree branches, a rabbit whose fur had turned white for snow camouflage, and crows feasting on winter berries.
“Remember how blessed we are to live in this world, Mark,” Dad whispered as they watched wispy clouds drift overhead.
On Sunday, when it was time for church, Mark saw Dad lying on the couch. He had been praying that Dad would come to church this week, but he stopped and gave Dad a hug before he went out to the car. “I love you, Dad,” he said. “You teach me so many good things. I’m glad you’re my dad.”

A story is told of a woman who was upset that her son was eating too much candy. No matter how much she told him to stop, he continued to satisfy his sweet tooth. Totally frustrated, she decided to take her son to see a wise man whom he respected.
She approached him and said, “Sir, my son eats too much candy. Would you please tell him to stop eating it?”
He listened carefully then said to her son, “Go home and come back in two weeks.”
She took her son and went home, perplexed why he had not asked the boy to stop eating so much candy.
Two weeks later they returned. The wise man looked directly at the boy and said, “Boy, you should stop eating so much candy. It is not good for your health.”
The boy nodded and promised he would.
The boy’s mother asked, “Why didn’t you tell him that two weeks ago?”
The wise man smiled. “Two weeks ago I was still eating too much candy myself.”
This man lived with such integrity that he knew his advice would carry power only if he was following his own counsel.

The first thing that Nathan Wakefield saw after he had climbed into the dimly lit attic of his family’s sod-roof cabin was his father’s old Civil War uniform hanging from a rafter. Nathan felt that he had nothing better to do than to explore the attic. Besides, on this rainy day his best friend, Eddy Fairfax, had taken a steamboat ride up Cedar River with his parents to visit his uncle in Springdale.
Nathan ran his finger along the dusty length of the army carbine that stood in the shadowy corner of the attic, and he thought about “the big sadness,” which is what his father called the Civil War. Then he saw something else—a coat draped across an old chest. It was made of hides and furs, and it looked and felt wonderfully strange. Nathan pushed his hand through its musty softness.
“That was your Grandpa John’s coat,” came his father’s voice from behind him. Nathan turned around with a start and faced his father, who stood on the attic ladder, a smile on his face. “Your great-grandfather made it for him when he was just about your age. It kept him warm on a lot of cold winter nights.” Sensing Nathan’s fascination with the coat, he added, “How would you like to have it, Nathan?”
Nathan’s eyes grew round. “You really mean it, Papa?” he asked happily.
“Coats are for wearing,” Papa returned. “And since you’re the only one in this family who can fit into it …”
So excited was Nathan over the gift of Grandpa John’s unusual coat, that he asked his mother the following morning if he could wear it to school.
She smiled and commented that it did look rather striking on him. And since the weather was still about as cold and wet as Cedar River, she guessed that it would be all right.
Cylus Murphy, a boy who lived nearby and who normally walked to school with Nathan, caught cold that day. Nathan didn’t. Maybe the coat’s magic, Nathan thought on his way home that afternoon. Then he decided that he simply hadn’t caught cold because the big coat had kept him warm and dry.
And the next day when Nathan discovered a gold coin on his way to school, he was sure that the coat had nothing to do with it. However, when Mr. Styker sprang a test on the class after Nathan had slipped into the coat because the classroom stove had been banked for the day—and he had received the highest score—he began to wonder if the unique garment really did produce “good luck” for its wearer.
After a few other good things happened while he was wearing the coat, the eleven-year-old boy was certain that the coat brought good luck.
Nathan’s parents didn’t seem to question their son’s unusually strong attachment to Grandpa John’s coat until they discovered that Nathan believed that his small good fortunes had come because he’d been wearing it.
“I think that you should talk to Nathan about it,” his mother suggested to Papa one day. “That coat is starting to take its toll on his faith in himself—and maybe on his faith in general.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Papa assured her. “But,” he added with gentle wisdom, “sometimes the lessons learned best are the ones we learn through our own experiences.”
The following Saturday morning Nathan’s mother asked him to go to Big Wood Lake and gather reeds for her so that she could make a few baskets to sell at Mr. Rowland’s store in Hasting’s Grove.
“Don’t cut them on the west side of the lake,” his father cautioned. “They are more plentiful there, but there have been reports of wild boars spotted in that area, and they can get as nasty as a hungry bear up a played-out honey tree! You’ll be perfectly safe, however, if you stay on the east side of the lake.”
Frost seemed to hang on the morning like Nathan’s mother’s clothes on a line, so he snuggled into Grandpa John’s big, warm coat and started off toward the lake. He decided that it would be easier to gather reeds on the west side of Big Wood Lake, even though he had been told not to. They really were more numerous there, and he would have time left over to do what he wanted to. Maybe he could talk Papa into coming back to the lake to fish with him. Besides, Nathan told himself, the coat would protect him.
Not more than an hour had passed before Nathan had cut all the reeds that his mother would need. As he started to bind them together with a strip of leather, he heard sounds of thrashing and snorting in the deadwood up the shoreline behind him. He whirled around and spied three large boars erupting from the brush, their foul, twisted tusks ripping and gouging in fits of frenzy at the misted air. Piercing Nathan’s dread was the thought, The coat will protect me.
But as the boars tore down the bank toward him, he jumped up and started to run. Stumbling over a rotted log, he fell into the mud on the lakeshore. Getting up, he started to run again, but the big coat kept snagging on protruding limbs and jerking him back, and the accumulated lake mud on it was slowing him considerably.
Nathan was barely able to grab onto a low-hanging tree limb and swing his legs up around it before one of the pigs snagged the bottom of the coat. Yanking on it, the boar shook its ugly head in a squealing rage, slashing its tusks through Nathan’s shirttail. The added weight of the boar was now starting to drag the boy down—down to where the other two pigs rooted about, waiting for him to fall!
Suddenly the pig that had hold of Nathan’s clothes squealed sharply, released its hold, and fell lifeless into the mud. At the same time, the remaining two pigs dashed madly up the bank and disappeared into the brushwood. Nathan blinked mud from his eyes and looked over his shoulder to where Papa stood along the shoreline, holding his still-smoking carbine.
Nathan dropped to the ground and started running toward his father. Just short of reaching his father’s strong arms, his legs gave out. Papa dropped his rifle and sank to his knees in the mud beside his son, pulling Nathan onto his lap. For a long moment they sat in silence, each holding on to the other. Nathan was thinking that his father would scold him for disobeying, but all Papa did was run his hand through the boy’s mud-clotted hair and tell him softly that he loved him.
“This coat almost got me killed,” Nathan finally said, his voice trembling with fear and shame. “It would have, too, Papa, if you hadn’t come along when you did.” Then he added, “Why did you come?”
“Something inside told me that maybe you could use a little help.”
Nathan’s eyes tried to meet his father’s, but they couldn’t—not yet. “How could I have been so stupid as to ever think that a silly old coat could do anything more than keep me warm.”
Papa smiled. “Anything seems possible when you’re young, I guess.”
Nathan lifted the muddy bottom of the coat and let it drop. “I imagine the closest thing to there being any real magic in the world is a body’s thinking that there is.”
Papa patted the youth’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he said, pointing off across the lake to the misted mountains lit with gold. “I’d say it took Heavenly Father a fair share of ‘magic’ to put that together. Of course, what looks to us to be magic or miraculous is to Him a matter of perfect knowledge and the execution of natural law. We don’t understand it, so to us, it’s a wonder.” Papa helped Nathan up, adding, “Life, itself, is a kind of magic, a kind of miracle, wouldn’t you say?”
Nathan thought for a moment, then nodded excitedly. “You mean like a tiny seed growing into a big old oak tree?”
“And a lot more,” Papa said. “Like the power of the priesthood. An answer to prayer. What your mother does in the kitchen every day along about suppertime. Even failure.”
“Failure?” Nathan questioned.
Papa smiled. “It allows a person to start over again, giving him a second chance to do something better than he had done it before.”
Nathan thought about the second chance he was fortunate to have: The next time Papa instructs me not to do something, I’ll obey better than I ever have before!
Picking up his carbine, Papa rested his arm over the boy’s shoulder, and the two started toward home.
“There’s one more miracle that I almost forgot about,” Papa proclaimed as they tromped along, a jestful gleam in his eye.
“What’s that?” Nathan queried.
“Your mother’s homemade lye soap. I’ve seen it take a week’s worth of summer off you in less than a groan. But,” he added with a chuckle, “judging from all that mud on you today, it’s a miracle that will be sorely tried!”

The more I read on a regular basis, the more I found myself turning to the scriptures in times of need or distress. On one occasion, I became extremely angry with someone who had broken an important promise to me. For days I was resentful and considered retaliation. I was miserable. I knew that it was wrong not to forgive, but I did not know how to overcome my feelings. Finally, in anguish, I picked up the Book of Mormon. Without any real intention of reading, I let the pages fall open. The words of the Lord from Mormon 3:15 seemed to jump out at me: “Vengeance is mine.”
In an instant, everything was brought into eternal perspective. I was chastened and humbled, realizing that my attitude was wrong. At the same time, this scripture brought great relief. The Lord was aware of my feelings! He cared. How much easier it was, then, to pray and to forget my bad feelings.

The youth of the Las Cruces New Mexico Stake hit the city parks en masse, but the purpose was work rather than recreation. Under the direction of their youth leaders, 80 young people accepted the challenge to help the city pick up trash and paint tables and rest rooms in the parks.
One lucky group climbed in the muck of a drained pond to clear moss from the edges. Braving dead fish, broken glass, and boot-grabbing mud, the young men and women slogged through the slime, swinging pitchforks. It was a dirty job, and this group did it without a complaint.
Employees of the city parks department were grateful for the participants’ efforts and praised their good work.

However, many of us put ourselves in situations like that of Ruben, who took pride in the communication techniques he had learned from his sales training. Knowing of his wife’s unhappy childhood, he earnestly tried to get her to talk whenever she became upset. Unfortunately, because Ruben was rather mechanical and scrutinizing, relying more on technique than on the love he felt for his wife, he intimidated rather than encouraged her. As she would tense up, he would press harder, applying probing techniques until them was very little heart-to-heart communication.

The solution lay almost totally with Ruben. He learned to care enough about his wife to recognize that often she needed respect more than she needed to talk. As he allowed his love for her to guide him, he learned to watch for nonverbal nuances. If he asked a question and she did not respond immediately, he did not press her for an answer. On more than one occasion, he went days without pressing issues, confining himself to simple courtesies, thoughtful actions, and words such as “please” and “thank you.” As he concentrated on creating a climate of respect instead of trying to get his wife to open up, she responded with increasing trust, and their communication improved steadily.

Twenty-six years after the experience with my father, I continued to learn important lessons through a father-and-son relationship. The exterior woodwork of our home was in need of redecoration. I cleaned and prepared the surface and applied an undercoat. In my mind I could visualize the flawless gloss finish that would be the product of my labors. Our five-year-old son, Kevin, watched as I prepared to apply the final gloss covering. He asked if he could help me. I hesitated before responding, considering what effect this would have on the fulfillment of my dream, or alternatively how he would feel if I declined his offer. It was almost as if I heard someone else say, “That would be a great help. Thank you.”
After I provided him with an old shirt of mine that covered him completely, almost touching the floor and with sleeves rolled back several times, we went to work on the door that secured the main entrance to our home. He was applying paint to the bottom panel as I worked on the top section. I noticed that because of his age and physical stature, he wasn’t able to spread the paint evenly and that beads of paint were resulting. Each time he bent down to recharge his brush, I would hastily smooth out the paint on the bottom panel, returning to my assigned area so that he would not realize what I was doing. After a while I decided that more important than a first-class paint job was the opportunity to work with my son. On reflection I realized how well he was doing. Thereafter, every time I approached the door and saw the distinctive style of decoration, I was reminded of what is really important in our lives.

Richard was to spend only a few years in Nauvoo. After the martyrdom of Joseph Smith in 1844, the Saints prepared to leave their homes and travel to the Great Salt Lake Valley. In charge of building wagons and carriages, Richard was among the last to leave Nauvoo. In September of 1846 he prepared to cross the Mississippi River.
As an officer in one of the companies of pioneers, Richard made rounds every night to see that all was well. One night he met Huldah Meriah Clark. He was attracted to her immediately. On February 18, 1847, they were married by Heber C. Kimball in Winter Quarters. Two years after leaving Nauvoo, the Ballantynes arrived in the Great Salt Lake Valley.

I knew Shannon couldn’t help being talented and intelligent. It wasn’t her fault that she always came home with straight A’s and that she had a natural talent for music and art. It also wasn’t her fault that her hair flowed softly over her shoulders and that she had the long willowy body of a model. But none of these things helped me any.
It was the summer before I was to enter high school. Everytime I looked in the mirror there was another freckle until they were all over everywhere, even on my toes. I was plump and dumpy, and I had hair that would only go the way it wasn’t supposed to go. I marveled that our parents’ genes could play such a dirty trick. How could one child turn out so lovely, enchanting, and full of grace, and the other turn out to be a homely little 16-year-old nobody.
That summer things were at an all-time, record-breaking low for me because I was to enter Jackson High School in September. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I begged my parents to let me transfer to another school, but they could see no sense in it. It made perfect sense to me. Shannon had been junior prom queen and secretary of her class and had sung the lead in the big musical just the year before. How could I follow in those footsteps? I also got nauseated at the thought of hearing those words again—the words I had heard all through Everest Elementary and Weston Junior High: “Is Shannon your sister?” (with the accent on the your). “Why she’s so beautiful … so talented …” (so everything you’re not). I knew I would hear those words dozens of times. They would bring tears of anger to my eyes. Yet how could they help being amazed? It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Even though I knew no one was to blame, certainly not Shannon, I took my unhappiness out on her. There are subtle ways to persecute a sister. I knew them all. When she was trying to take a nap, I turned up my radio. When she tried a new recipe, I refused to eat it because it looked “funny.” I slipped into the shower just as she was getting ready to take one. I borrowed her shoes without asking. And I hurt her in thousands of more painful psychological ways.
But, Shannon never complained. It was always “Good morning, Janet.” Her cheerfulness made it worse, and I tried to think of more ways to make her angry. Nothing I did, however, seemed to stir her quiet grace. I guess the worst way I hurt Shannon was when I tuned her out of my life. I stopped telling her things, stopped sharing secrets, and stopped listening. When she came into my room just to talk, I would cut her off with “I’m busy right now.” She would walk out of my room sadly, and pretty soon she quit coming in. Our communication deteriorated to one- and two-word sentences. That summer we stopped being close because I wanted it that way.
Then it happened. It was just two weeks before school would start, and I had a date with Robert Bates. It was only the second date I had had all summer, and Robert was a pretty super guy. I had no idea why he had lowered himself to asking me out unless it was because we had had some fun times during roadshow rehearsals. I was excited and nervous, but I knew we’d have a good time because we got along pretty well. We doubled with Jill Quigley and John Turnbine and the date turned out to be even more fun than I had anticipated. In fact, I hadn’t had so much fun all summer.
Afterwards we stopped at my house for ice cream, and then we all sang around the piano. Jill could play the piano almost as well as Shannon.
“All I can play is the bass viol,” I proclaimed. No one believed me, so I went upstairs to get it. I had taken up the bass viol because I knew Shannon would never try to play one. She wasn’t the bass viol type.
The wall between our bedrooms is thin, and I was puzzled to hear Shannon in her room because I knew that she had had a date with Jack Smithson. I liked Jack because he was nice to me, and I set great store in a man who can be nice to his date’s little sister. The next thing I heard puzzled me even more. It was the sound of subdued sniffling. Shannon rarely cried. What did she have to cry about? My first reaction was curiosity, but I forced myself not to speak. I didn’t want to get involved.
Picking up my bass, I started toward the stairs. Getting it down the stairs was always the most difficult part. I had gone only a few awkward steps when I heard another sniffle. I wanted to just pretend I hadn’t heard: I could just go down the stairs and no one would know I had heard Shannon crying. Well, except me. I leaned my bass against the wall, walked back to Shannon’s door and knocked.
“You okay?” I didn’t get an answer and my duty was done, so I turned back toward the stairs, but there was another sob.
“I know you’re in there. Now, what on earth is the matter?” My voice was icy.
“Nothing. Just leave me alone,” she squeaked. “Just please, please, leave me alone.”
“Well, I’ll be back.”
I showed the group my bass viol and played for them. I think Robert was impressed even though I made a couple of bad mistakes. It was getting late, however, and everyone was tired, so they left—but I knew Robert would call me again.
When I went back upstairs, Shannon was sitting by her dressing table brushing her hair, pretending that nothing was wrong. I must say she didn’t look beautiful. Her skin was blotched and her aristocratic nose was swollen and red.
“What is it? Can I help you?”
“What?”
“Can I help?” I was as surprised as she was that I had said it. I guess it was because she looked so pitiful sitting there trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The shock of my concern set her off again, and she began sobbing like smooth, collected Shannon had never sobbed since we were small. It affected me so much that I put my hand on her shoulder and patted it.
“Come on. Come on. Things aren’t that bad, are they? Does it have something to do with Jack? You can tell me if you want to. I mean I’d like to hear if you feel like telling me.”
“You would?” I was ashamed at her amazement.
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Oh, Janet, I’m so miserable.”
“Come on; tell me about it.”
She sobbed again, gulped, and got control of herself.
“I’ve wanted so much to tell you about Jack. He’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. I can’t explain what it is about him. He’s different from the other boys I’ve dated. He’s so good-looking and intelligent and a good athlete, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. None of that has gone to his head. He’s always courteous and kind to people, even little children. Now I’ll never see him again.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was nervous and jittery, and my stomach was all twisted inside. I was a bore. Finally I asked him to take me home early. I knew he was having a lousy time.”
“Oh, come now, Shannon. It’s all your imagination. Things couldn’t have been that bad.”
“They were. They were.” She began crying again. Then suddenly she blurted out some words that took me entirely by surprise.
“And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. “What do you mean my fault?”
“I guess I might as well tell you what ruined the date. Just as we were going out the door, you had to come in and do one of your cute little routines. You always do that when I go out with someone—come in and show off your personality. Then, on the way out to the car, Jack said, ‘Wow, your little sister is sure a little firecracker. What a personality!’ After that the whole date was ruined. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was like a dead battery. If I could have been like you, he would have liked me. You can always think of funny, witty things to say, and you always remember jokes and sayings. I get sick of people saying, ‘Is Janet your sister? Why she’s so bubbly and so full of energy!’ What they’re really saying is that I’m a bore.”
I was so stunned that I just sat there on her bed in a stupor. “Is she your sister?” I had almost hated her for those words. Then I began laughing, but I was crying at the same time.

Julie’s first day at Flower Elementary School just happened to be the day before Valentine Day. At breakfast that morning she felt sick.
“You’re probably just nervous,” her mom said. “Going to a new school can be scary.”
Julie did feel scared as she walked into the school yard. Everywhere she looked, she saw children she didn’t know. She wondered if she’d ever make friends.
Julie and her mom found her classroom and met her new teacher. Then Mom went home.
The teacher asked each of Julie’s new classmates to give his name and tell about something that he liked. Julie tried to remember everyone, but it was too hard.
After all the children had introduced themselves, the teacher talked about the valentine party for the next day. “You’re here just in time for the fun,” she said to Julie, handing her a written list of everyone’s name.
After school Julie told her mom about her day. “I’ll feel bad at the party because I don’t really know anyone yet.”
“Why not use the party to make new friends?” Mom suggested. “Give a special valentine to everyone in your class.”
Yes, Julie thought, I can do that. I’ll try to make extra-special valentines.
The first name on the list that her teacher had given her was Kim Anderson. Julie remembered Kim because she seemed nice. “I like cats and picnics,” Kim had said. So I’ll draw a picture of a cat having a picnic for Kim’s valentine, Julie decided.
She read the other names on the list and remembered what six of the children had said that they liked. For those that she couldn’t remember, she decided to draw hearts and cute stuffed animals.
When Julie explained her plan, Mom smiled and took her to the crafts store for supplies. Julie was picking out poster board when her stomach began to itch. She scratched it with her left hand and grabbed a sheet of pink poster board with her right one.
Back in the car Julie scratched her stomach again. Mom peeked under Julie’s sweater. “Oh, honey,” she said, “you’re coming down with the chicken pox. No wonder you didn’t feel well this morning.”
They drove right to Dr. Elder’s. “You just have a mild case of chicken pox,” he said. “Take it easy and don’t scratch. And no school for about a week.”
“No school!” Julie wailed when she got home. “Can’t I at least go to the party? I was going to make lots of friends with my special valentines.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but there will be other ways to make new friends when you can go back to school—you’ll see.”
The next morning Julie watched through the living room window as other children walked to school. She saw Kim and another girl from her class and plenty of children whom she didn’t know. They all chattered happily as they walked, making Julie feel lonelier than ever.
Even though Mom smeared lotion on Julie’s itchy blisters and read stories to her and played games with her, when two o’clock came, she felt especially sad because that was the time that the valentine party was supposed to start.
“I would have taken your valentines to school if I’d realized how much it meant to you,” Mom said.
“I didn’t make them, anyway,” Julie reminded her mom. “I was too tired to cut out that many hearts.”
Mom nodded. “That’s too much cutting for a girl with chicken pox.”
Then Julie had an idea. She could make one valentine by the time the children walked home from school. Working fast, she drew a giant heart on the poster board and cut it out and used a red crayon to write “Let’s be friends” on it. Then she drew a cat having a picnic, a truck, a horse, a baseball bat, a dog, some flowers, and some hearts. At the bottom she added, “I’m sick with chicken pox, but I’d still like to be your valentine. Julie.”
Mom helped her tape the giant heart to the living room window.
Soon dozens of children were walking past her house. They all looked at her valentine, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Then Kim came down the street. As soon as she saw the window, she pointed at it and called to other kids. Julie recognized them—they were her new classmates! She waved to them, but they had gathered together and were talking and didn’t wave back. Still talking, they sat on Julie’s lawn and acted very busy.
At last they stood, walked up to Julie’s front door, dropped envelopes into the mail slot and grinned and waved to her as they went on down the street.
Julie waved back enthusiastically, a big smile on her own face. Then she sat on the sofa and opened the envelopes. What fun it was. She had valentines from five children in her class—and even some from children in other classes! Her favorite one had a picture of a cat saying:
“To my chicken-pox valentine—
Get well so that we can have a picnic together.
Your friend,Kim.”