Gospel Story Finder

A cow helped provide necessary nourishment on the trail for the family of my great-grandmother Margaret McNeil as she came to Zion from Scotland. As a 12-year-old, it was Margaret’s task to arise early and get breakfast for the family and milk her cow. She would then drive the cow on ahead of the company to let it feed in the grassy places. She wrote:
“The cow furnished us with milk, our chief source of food. … Had it not been for the milk, we would have starved. …
“One night our cow ran away from [the] camp, and I was sent to bring her back. I was not watching where I was going and was barefooted. All of a sudden I began to feel I was walking on something soft. I looked down to see what it could be, and to my horror found that I was standing in a bed of snakes, large ones and small ones. At the sight of them I became so weak I could scarcely move; all I could think of was to pray, and in some way I jumped out of them. The Lord blessed and cared for me.
“We arrived in Ogden, Utah, on the fourth day of October [1859], after a journey of hardships and hunger. … I walked every step of the way across the plains.”

Following the recommendation of the Council of the Twelve to feature cultural programs in conjunction with June regional meetings, the Payson (Utah) Region youth got together last summer for a lively, creative dance festival on a local high school football field.
“The Colorful World of Dance” was a treat not only for the audience but for the 360 participants from Payson Utah, Payson Utah East, and Santaquin Utah stakes who kicked up their heels in such numbers as “Devil’s Dream,” “Muskrat Love,” and “Spinning Wheel.” Swedish, Norwegian, and Hungarian folk dances were also featured, and a Lamanite sister rendered “The Lord’s Prayer” in Indian sign language.
Many hours were spent sewing colorful costumes and practicing under the leadership of 16 stake dance directors and two ballroom dancers from BYU. As the group concluded by gathering to sing “I Am a Child of God” with the audience, it was generally agreed that it had all been worth the effort.

“I will go first,” says Irinka every first Sunday of the month. With hands holding tight to the chair and eyes full of excitement, she works up the courage. Irinka is only nine years old, but it seems like she’s the bravest of all eight members who come to church regularly in her branch in Bulgaria.
Before she stands up, Irinka usually waits to see if someone else wants to bear testimony first. Everyone secretly gives her a glance and waits for her to go up front. Finally, with a big smile, she walks to the pulpit. The branch president gets her a stool to step on so she can see the members. Irinka, the only child in Primary, looks at the small congregation and starts talking.
She doesn’t appear nervous that everyone is looking at her. The members listen to her sweet voice. As she speaks of Christ, the scriptures, and the truthfulness of the Church, she is influencing the testimony of everyone else.
When she sits down, everything is quiet and it seems that the Spirit has touched other hearts. Then one of the members stands up to bear testimony, and then another and another …

The class bell rang, and a few stragglers darted quickly into their classrooms, leaving Jed Fischer stranded in a new school with a locker that wouldn’t open. For the fifth time he slowly turned through the numbers written on a slip of paper, but it wouldn’t open.
“What are you doing in the hall during class time?” a voice sternly barked behind him.
He turned, expecting to face an angry teacher, but instead found a girl his age sporting an impish grin.
“Scared you, didn’t I?” Her face was freckled and she had short, tossled, reddish-brown hair. Plopping her books in his arms, she took the paper giving his combination. After dialing the three numbers, she slammed the locker with her foot. The locker flew open.
“It sticks. You have to hit it.” She opened her own locker, next to his, and took her books from him.
“Thanks,” he said. “I just transferred here from Idaho.”
“Welcome to New York. I’m Pam Burgess.”
“My name is Jed Fischer.”
“I know. I work in the office in the afternoon. My family is very big for volunteer work,” she said, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “I looked at your records when they came here. I found out that you’re a junior, that your dad is a nuclear engineer transferred from Idaho to Brookhaven Lab, and that you’re a football player. Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re the only one in this school.”
“My sister goes here too. She’s a sophomore. So there’re two Mormons.”
“What’s her name?”
“Brenda.”
“Does she have curly hair like her brother?” Pam asked.
“No. That’s the curse of our family. The girls have straight hair.”
“Do you want to walk around, and I’ll give you the tour?” Pam asked, closing her locker.
“What about you?” he asked as they leisurely strolled the halls.
“My mom and dad both work in the city. Mom is in advertising. Dad’s a stockbroker. I see him about twice a month.”
They passed the cafeteria. The smell of tuna fish casserole invaded the hall.
“Nobody eats there,” she said.
“Somebody must.”
“Oh, sure, the losers.”
“Who are the losers?” he asked.
“There are just two kinds of people in the world, the winners and the losers. Didn’t you know that? You look to me like a winner.”
“Where do the winners eat?” he asked.
“We go to a little pizza place a couple of blocks from here. I’ll meet you at noon and show you.”
He met Pam at noon. They were joined by one other boy, Doug Cabot, who spent his time complaining about how rotten everything was.
The pizza shop was old. Two large fans resembling airplane propellers stuck from the ceiling. At noon the place was crowded with kids from school. All the booths were being used, and several people were jammed around the stand-up counter. After they had ordered, they stood and waited.
“I think we can sit down over there,” Doug said, looking at a small booth near the corner.
They walked over to the booth. There was just one boy in the booth. He was overweight and wore a pair of thick glasses that seemed to magnify his eyes to an observer. He ate his pizza without looking up, avoiding eye contact with any person in the room.
“Ernie, how’s it going?” Doug asked, his voice conveying a mood of cruelty.
The boy looked up with a weak smile.
“We saw you sitting all alone in this big booth, and we thought you might be nearly through.”
Ernie understood the threat. “You can sit here. I’m almost finished.”
Ernie stood up, grabbing his cardboard platter with pizza still on it, and started to leave the booth. Doug stood in his way.
“You sure gorge yourself, Ernie,” Doug said. “What’s it like to be fat? Since you have such a weight problem, would you mind if we borrowed a couple of slices to nibble on until our order is done?” Doug reached out and took a slice.
“Give him back his pizza, Doug,” Jed said firmly.
“Why? He’s letting me have it.”
“Leave him alone.”
“Are you a friend of his?” Doug asked. “Because if you are, you’re the only one he’s got.”
Pam broke the mounting tension. “Lay off, Doug. Our pizza is done.”
Doug stepped aside for Ernie to pass. About halfway to the door, somebody deliberately bumped Ernie’s arm and his pizza fell on the floor. Ernie knelt down, scraped up the mess, and threw it in the garbage can on his way out.
During lunch, Doug talked about the injustices committed against a group of people in South America.
Jed found out when he went to class that Pam was in his chemistry class. On that day they were having a lab. Each group was given a test tube with an unknown solution in it. The purpose of the lab was to determine what the unknown was by performing a series of chemical tests.
Pam invited Jed to work with her. “Nothing to it,” she smiled. She walked to the checkout counter in the back of the room and started talking to the lab assistant. The others in the class were testing for the unknown.
In a few minutes Pam came back with a slip of paper. “I found out what our unknown is. Just copy this down on your lab notebook.”
“What about the tests we’re supposed to perform?” Jed asked.
“All the reactions are negative except numbers 3 and 11.”
“Aren’t we going to do it?”
“What for? This is how I do all the experiments. If you want to be a hero and smell like hydrochloric acid, be my guest.”
Jed sheepishly signed his name to the report and turned it in.
As they walked downstairs to their lockers, she suggested driving to Montauk Point on the tip of Long Island.
She let him drive her car, a late model sports car. When they arrived, the wind was whipping up white caps on the incoming waves. The turbulent waves smashed against huge boulders, sending up geysers of spray.
They walked along a path that climbed up to a rocky precipice. Near the top they found a place where they could sit and watch the endless water.
“Most people come here in the summer,” she said, her arms wrapped around her legs. “Sometimes it seems like there are a million, and every one of them has a bag of potato chips and a bottle of suntan lotion. They gobble the chips, throw the bag on the beach, douse themselves with oil, and fry.”
They watched the clouds changing shapes as they swept across the sky.
“I like to come in the winter,” she continued, “after the wind and the breakers have ripped away all the debris, leaving it clean.”
She pointed out to him the silhouette of a freighter on the horizon.
“Hard to believe all this is an accident,” she said, observing the harsh beauty of the ocean.
“It didn’t just happen.”
“You seem sure of yourself.”
“I am,” he replied.
“Back in school or at home, I really get so I don’t care about God. But sometimes, when I walk here, there’s a feeling I get. It’s hard to explain, but a feeling that He’s there somewhere. But by the time I’m back in my car and stuck in traffic on the freeway, the feeling is gone.”
He studied her face as she talked. She was beautiful even with the wind scattering her hair. He felt as if he cared for her, not really like being her boyfriend, but more like a brother. It was a good, clean feeling, and he thought that she felt it too.
“Pam, I want to tell you about my church.”
They made a date for her to attend his ward on Sunday. When they returned to the car, the feeling was gone.
“Well, that turned into a real prayer group, didn’t it?” she said, embarrassed.
They made it back to his home at 7:30. Luckily his parents had gone out that night to have dinner with his father’s new boss. While Jed got out of the car, Pam slid over to the driver’s side, smiled, and drove away. When he walked in the house, his sister Brenda was standing at the window.
“Well, I don’t have to ask you how your first day of school went,” she teased. She was tall and graceful, looking like she could be a ballet dancer. Yet at home she preferred levis and an old long-sleeved shirt of Jed’s. The hardest thing about the move for her had been the sale of her quarter horse.
“Her name is Pam, and I think she’s interested in the Church.”
“Where have you been?”
“We went to Montauk Point. How was your day?”
“Not too bad, considering I don’t know anybody in the school.”
The next day after English class, Ernie walked over to Jed and said, “Thanks for trying to help me yesterday.” His eyes darted up to Jed’s face and then down again, uncertain of his standing.
“Sure.”
“They say you’re a Mormon. I’ve got an uncle who’s a Mormon. He joined a year ago. Is there a Mormon church on the island?”
“Several.”
“Can people who aren’t members go to it?”
“Yes.” Jed inwardly cringed at the thought of Pam seeing Ernie at church.
“I’d like to go this Sunday. My uncle keeps telling me how friendly the people are.”
“You can’t smoke on church property,” Jed said coolly.
“I know. I have a jacket with these pants. Is that okay to wear?”
Jed looked at the wrinkled, gray dress slacks with tiny cuffs. They must be ten years old, he thought to himself. “I guess so,” he said dryly.
It was only the second time that Jed had been to church in New York. After priesthood meeting he was in the hall putting on his jacket so that he could drive out to pick up Pam. Ernie walked in. His forehead was sweating, and he was puffing.
Elder Baker, one of the missionaries assigned to the ward, rushed Ernie shortly after he walked in, shaking his hand and welcoming him to church.
Jed reluctantly came out from the coat rack area and said hello to Ernie, “I see you made it,” he said. Ernie rambled on about missing an exit and going three miles out of his way. Jed looked nervously at his watch and excused himself.
Pam’s home was a three-story brick house set on a hill overlooking Long Island Sound. A maid answered Jed’s ring and showed him to the den. He sat and studied the wall of bookshelves; in the middle of the room was a large, natural-stone fireplace.
In a few minutes Pam appeared. It was the first time he had ever seen her dressed up. She looked beautiful and rich.
“What’s it going to be like?” she asked on the way. “Will you help me so I’ll know when to kneel or what to say?”
“It’s not like that. It’s very simple. More like a big family than anything. In fact, we teach that we’re all brothers and sisters. So if anyone calls you Sister Burgess, don’t faint.”
He took the exit from the freeway. “Oh, Pam, there’s one other thing. That fat kid, Ernie, cornered me in class, and well, he’s going to be in church too.”
She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Ernie?”
They got there late. Jed saw the elders taking Ernie to the investigator’s class, and so he decided to take Pam to the class for high school students.
Sacrament meeting was held immediately after Sunday School. It seemed extra long to Jed. The high council visitor was there. He talked about welfare and explained how he used to hoe sugar beets on a welfare farm in Utah as a boy. Jed counted him using poor grammar ten times during the talk. A young mother in front of them struggled with her two-year-old boy, feeding him soda crackers one at a time. Jed felt embarrassed about church for the first time in his life.
On the way home Pam talked enthusiastically about their summer home in Maine and how she’d like him to see it sometime when her folks took her there.
“Thanks,” she said as they pulled up in her driveway.
“I guess it seemed a little different from the church you usually go to,” he said.
“Yes, it did.”
“I’m sorry about the noise.”
“That’s okay. I guess it’s what you get used to.”
“Will you let the missionaries explain about our beliefs?”
She grinned. “I’m more interested in you than I am in your church.”
“It means a lot to me.”
“I’ll see,” she answered.
When Jed got home, Elder Baker and his companion were there.
“Ernie’s really ready for the gospel!” Elder Baker announced. “He wants to have the discussions. It’d be great if we could have them here so he could be fellowshipped.”
Jed’s mother agreed, and they arranged the first discussion for Tuesday evening.
“How about inviting that girl you brought to church to hear the lessons at the same time?”
“No, not with Ernie.”
The discussion on Tuesday was a success as far as the missionaries were concerned. After Ernie had left, Elder Baker said, “He’ll be baptized. Jed, you can really help him by fellowshipping. Eat lunch with him, take him to activity night, get to be friends with him.”
“A guy like that will never join the Church,” Jed said grimly.
“What do you mean by that?” his father challenged.
“Nothing,” Jed said, unwilling to get into an argument.
The next week Jed started on the next chemistry lab experiment, determined to quit his reliance on Pam’s friendship with the student lab assistant. He was still reading the complicated directions when Pam came back to where he was working.
“Sodium hydroxide,” she whispered in his ear.
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“The unknown is sodium hydroxide. But now that I’ve told you, it’s not unknown, is it? I’ve saved you two hours of work. Will you come home with me and help me fix my ten-speed?”
After they’d looked at the bike, she gave him a piece of cake. They sat and ate in the kitchen. The kitchen floor looked like it could have been used for a commercial about floor wax.
“My dad says he knew a Mormon in the service; he respects them.”
“Did you ask him about taking the missionary lessons?”
“I never ask him anything unless it costs money,” she answered.
“Well, are you going to take them?”
“I don’t know. Is it all that important?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is good old Ernie going to be a Mormon?” she teased.
“No.”
“If he did, you’d have to call him Brother Ernie, wouldn’t you? And if I joined too, he’d call me Sister Pam. That’d be great,” she said cynically. “He’s a loser, Jed. Face it.”
That Friday night Pam’s parents took Jed and Pam to dinner with them in Manhattan. They ate at a Japanese restaurant where they removed their shoes and ate on bamboo mats in a small enclosed room. Afterwards they went to a Broadway play. They talked during intermission about inviting him up to see their summer cabin in Maine.
The next week the elders persuaded Jed to pick up Ernie for activity night. He and his mother lived in a housing development built for low-income people. Ernie’s mother was a tired-looking woman with a deep, hacking smoker’s cough.
They played volleyball that night. At first Ernie was just going to watch, but Brenda talked him into playing on her side. She stood next to him and instructed him about how to set up the ball for players in the front row to spike. When he missed, which he did frequently, she’d say, “That’s okay, Ernie,” or, “Nice try.” By the end of the first game, he was returning most of the serves hit to him. By the end of the second game, he was excited about the game, encouraging other players, and shouting when they gained a point.
Jed and Brenda drove him home after it was over. He joked with Brenda about his poor eyesight, telling how he stepped on his glasses once while he was looking for them. Jed was silent.
After they had let Ernie out at his home, Brenda started in with Jed. “The only time you paid any attention to Ernie was when you spiked the ball toward him.”
“He was the weakest member of your team. It was just good strategy.”
“You aren’t helping him any.”
“You’re wasting your time, Brenda. He’ll never join the Church.”
“But your precious Pam will?”
“Yes, in time she will.”
“My big brother is a dummy.”
“My little sister can’t face reality.”
“Jed, why do you ignore him?”
“How can anybody ignore him? He’s got bad breath.”
“Do you think you’re better than he is?” she asked.
“That’s not the point. If I can get Pam interested in the Church, the Church will be made stronger. She knows a lot of people. But she’ll never even look at the Church if Ernie is baptized.”
“So you’re just going to let Ernie go. His only chance, maybe, to hear the truth.”
“I picked him up tonight. Isn’t that enough?”
She was quiet for several minutes, and then, quietly, she asked, “What would the Savior do?”
“You’re not going to trap me,” Jed answered brusquely.
“Just tell me what He would do.”
“It’s more complicated than that. You don’t understand. If I get tied up with Ernie, I won’t have a friend in that whole school.”
“Because he’s fat.”
“Yes, and sloppy and clumsy.”
“Jed, you’re my big brother. I used to be proud of you, but I’m not sure that I like you very much anymore. You’ve changed. Pam’s changing you. Did you know that?”
“Tough,” Jed said angrily.
The next Monday when Pam and Jed met at their lockers, she invited him to come with her and her family for the weekend while they did some work on the cabin in Maine. The plans called for them to fly up Friday and return on Monday afternoon.
His parents were not happy about the plan. “You’re going to be missing two days of school. You’re already behind,” his mother said.
“What will you do about church on Sunday?” his dad asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have to miss one time. It won’t kill me.”
“That’s not the point. Where are your priorities?” his dad asked.
After an hour’s discussion his dad finally said that Jed was getting old enough to make his own decisions, that he’d been taught what was right, and that he would be allowed to make his own decision.
Jed went to his room, knowing what he should decide, knowing what he was going to decide. After an hour of listening to his tapes, he walked downstairs and announced simply, “I’m going this weekend.”
The next night Elder Baker and his companion came over and announced that Ernie was to be baptized Saturday. “And he wants you to baptize him, Jed.”
There was an uneasy silence in the room. “I can’t,” Jed said. “I’m going with Pam and her parents to Maine for the weekend.”
“Oh,” Elder Baker said, looking at Jed’s parents.
The next day at school Jed decided the least he could do was to explain to Ernie why he wouldn’t be able to baptize him on Saturday.
“I’m sorry I can’t go to your baptism. Pam’s parents asked me up to their summer home in Maine.”
“Do you think you might be falling in love with her?” Ernie asked.
“What’s that to you?” Jed shot back.
“Nothing, I guess. Are you falling in love with her way of life?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a friend in chemistry who says you and Pam are cheating.”
“Just on the labs,” Jed defended.
“Oh, just on the labs. I’ll be sure to tell him. I’m sure he’ll be much more interested in learning about the Church when I tell him you’re only cheating on the labs.”
“I’m going to make it up.”
“I don’t know if he’ll believe that, but I’ll tell him.”
Jed felt his face flush with embarrassment. “Anything else? I’m in a hurry.”
“Yes, one other thing,” Ernie replied, looking straight at Jed. “I guess you’re upset about my joining the Church, aren’t you?”
“No,” Jed said. “The Church is for everyone.”
“But you’d like to choose which of those everyones joins, wouldn’t you? A rich man, or a beautiful girl, an athlete, a talented artist, an influential politician. I’m not any of those things, am I? Do you think there’s room in your church for me?”
Jed felt stunned as if he’d been hit.
“For the first time in my life, I now have a reason to live. But you’ve always had that, haven’t you? It was very comfortable, wasn’t it? Having the truth while the rest of us stumbled in the dark. I’d like to know how you feel, Jed. Not that it matters, I guess, because I’m going to be baptized. Not because of your example, but in spite of it.”
Jed walked away. His face felt as if it were on fire.
He walked to a park, sat on a deserted park swing, and thought.
He went back at noon, ate in the cafeteria with Brenda, and for the first time they were able to talk again. After his last class, he met Pam at her locker.
“Pam, something has come up. I won’t be able to go with your family this weekend.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m going to baptize Ernie Saturday.”
“That’s more important than being with us in Maine?”
“Tell your parents I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe you’d back out of this trip just so you can baptize that clown Ernie.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Then you’re a loser too,” she snapped, slamming her locker and walking away.
“Pam?” he called, when she was no more than 20 feet away.
She turned around, tearful yet defiant.
“Nobody’s born a loser. We make the losers, you and me, by the way we treat them. We carefully mold them each day of their lives. But to the Savior, nobody’s a loser.”
She shook her head, turned away, and walked quickly down the long hall.
Jed watched her go and then slowly walked up the stairs for what became a long conversation with his chemistry teacher.

Paper stars. I am half Thai and half American. I spent three years living in Laos, next to Thailand. For the first two years we were in Laos, my parents hired a pileang, or nanny, named Rojana, who took good care of me. Since she was Buddhist, I didn’t expect a gift from her at Christmas.
On Christmas morning I found a jar filled with at least a hundred tiny paper stars, folded so they were three-dimensional. They were blue and pink and glittery. Rojana had no money to buy me anything, so she spent hours folding those stars for a child who wasn’t her own.
It was a wonderful Christmas gift, a gift of time and dedication.Faye H., Virginia

Let us cite only a few of the numerous cases that have come to my personal attention recently. A few months ago a mother of five children came to my office. She wept bitterly as she told me that her husband had spent most of his time during the past year with another man’s wife. She explained that on a number of occasions she followed him in her car to the other woman’s place. Naturally, the sinful husband was miserable, the wife was very sorrowful, and the children were brokenhearted. “… wickedness never was happiness.” (Alma 41:10.)

It started out as an ordinary Primary lesson. I was standing in front of my class of eight-year-old boys and girls, telling them a story about one of the latter-day prophets. When I finished, I began to question them about the moral the story taught. Everyone in the class wanted to answer my question—everyone, that is, but Robert.
I thought nothing of it. He was new in the class, and I thought he was probably just shy about speaking out on his first day. But as the answer was given and as we talked about it, I noticed that Robert’s face got more and more troubled. He wasn’t understanding the idea.
The week before, I hadn’t had time to finish the lesson I had prepared. I knew there wasn’t much time again now, and so I told myself I couldn’t make the other children wait until I had explained it again for Robert’s sake. I decided to go on. After all, I told myself, we will probably go over this idea again some other time.
I made one quick look around the room to make sure the rest understood. As my eyes passed by Robert’s, my heart froze. In an instant it seemed as though his face faded away and in its place I saw that of my three-year-old son, Sam. Startled, I just stood there, staring at Robert as if I expected the transformation to happen again. It didn’t then, or ever again.
Then I realized the impact of what I had done. I had passed over a child of God simply because I couldn’t be bothered. I had lost an important teaching moment. I had been given the opportunity to place a child closer to his Father in Heaven, but had turned my back.
I’ve never forgotten the lesson I learned that day—that only when I have done my best on behalf of all the children I teach can I pray for the best from another teacher on behalf of my own child.

I recall the time when I was ordained a deacon. Our bishopric stressed the sacred responsibility which was ours to pass the sacrament. Emphasized were proper dress, a dignified bearing, and the importance of being clean inside and out. As we were taught the procedure in passing the sacrament, we were told how we should assist Louis McDonald, a brother in our ward who was afflicted with a palsied condition, that he might have the opportunity to partake of the sacred emblems.
How I remember being assigned to pass the sacrament to the row where Brother McDonald sat. I was fearful and hesitant as I approached this wonderful brother, and then I saw his smile and the eager expression of gratitude that showed his desire to partake. Holding the tray in my left hand, I took a small piece of bread and pressed it to his lips. The water was later served in the same way. I felt I was on holy ground. And indeed I was. The privilege to pass the sacrament to Brother McDonald made better deacons of us all.

I soon learned in hiking with boys that they got no pleasure out of my reading the map and showing them the direction. But if I provided each one with a map and a compass and pointed to a spot on the map indicating where he was, then pointed to another spot on the map and said, “Meet me at that point at 4:00 this afternoon,” he embarked on a great adventure, a great challenge, and received immense satisfaction in solving the problem. But all of this was physical satisfaction.

Our ultimate purpose in life is not physical; it is spiritual. It is to come to know God and Jesus Christ whom he has sent. That is what Christ the Lord said when he began his great prayer in Gethsemane. (See John 17.) The gospel is given to us so that we can be guided to the objective given us—to know the Father and the Son. It is as though he said to me, “Son, here is a map and a compass. You are at this spot, and your objective is to reach this other spot. You can do it quickly, or you can take a long time. The sooner you do it, the happier you will be.”

I take the map and gaze at the strange symbols on it. The directions are plainly written, yet I do not quite comprehend. They are words without meaning to me. Just what is an azimuth anyhow, or what does BM x 8270 mean? What are the blue lines as opposed to the black lines and those brown lines in semi-symmetrical patterns? I must understand them to be guided by a map.

Our map, of course, is the revealed word. Our compass is the prophet of the Lord. Understanding comes when one has obtained the Spirit of the Lord, the Holy Ghost.

So let us start on our journey to find eternal life. We will need a map.

Many years ago the Lord gave to the Church a revelation through the Prophet Joseph Smith. In the latter part of it he spoke to the Twelve Apostles and gave them some instructions. Finally he bore witness as to how they could know it was from him. The remarkable thing about it was that there was no Quorum of the Twelve at that time (June 1829). In 1835, six years later, the Quorum of the Twelve was organized and its members chosen. Now the Prophet gathered them together and read to them this revelation. It was read to them in the spring of 1835 by the Prophet as their first instruction. Verses 34 through 36 of the revelation are the testimony of their truth.

“These words are not of men nor of man, but of me; wherefore, you shall testify they are of me and not of man;
“For it is my voice which speaketh them unto you; for they are given by my Spirit unto you, and by my power you can read them one to another; and save it were by my power you could not have them;
“Wherefore, you can testify that you have heard my voice, and know my words.” (D&C 18:34–36.)

Now if you will read this testimony, you will discover—
1. The words are of God and not of man.
2. They are given by his Spirit (through Joseph Smith).
3. Without that Spirit you could not have them.
4. By that Spirit you can read them—one to another.
5. Having read them by the Spirit, therefore, you may know that you have heard the voice of the Lord and know his word.

I had read that series of verses many times, saying to myself that the Twelve received their instruction by revelation through the Prophet. Then one day as I was reading them, in some manner of which I was not conscious at the time, I suddenly realized that the message was for me as well as for the Twelve—not the message itself, but the manner of receiving the message.

Into my mind came the question: How does one hear the word of the Lord? The answer was sharp and clear: By reading the scriptures—by my Spirit they are given to you in writing through my prophets.

Ever since that day whenever I have read the scriptures, there grows in me a thirst—a hunger—to learn more. I start; I don’t want to stop; I am absorbed in the wonder of the word, its scope, its completeness. I can now read the map that guides me to eternal life.

Then I wondered how the Spirit manifests itself to me. How can I know how to seek and obtain the Spirit so that I am hearing by the Spirit? One can read the words without it, and they are just words. I had done that many times. But to read and expand and glow with its warmth, that, I learned, is entirely another thing.

After I had the experience to which I have just referred, I began to search to see how it happened to others. One day I was reading in Enos. The tenth verse almost leaped out at me.

“And while I was thus struggling in the spirit, behold, the voice of the Lord came into my mind again, saying. …” (Enos 1:10.)

That’s it, I thought. Later as I was reading section 8 of the Doctrine and Covenants I came upon verse 2. [D&C 8:2]

“Behold, I will tell you in your mind [there it is again] and in your heart.” (What does he mean by “heart”?)

Then in section 9, verse 8. [D&C 9:8]

“Behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you.” (There it is again, mind and bosom—heart.) So I conclude that it comes into my mind accompanied by a feeling that may center in my bosom. Then finally it seemed to me to be entirely clear to me when I read in 1 Nephi 17:45 [1 Ne. 17:45], Nephi’s rebuke of his brothers. He reminded them of the times the Lord had spoken and that finally He had spoken to them with the still, small voice, but they were without feeling and they could not feel his words. Why did he say “feeling” and “feel” rather than “hearing” and “hear”? Because it is by feeling, not by hearing.

So here is your bridge, young folks; here is your map, your compass, and your guide:
1. Be righteous.
2. Read the scriptures with pure heart and desire.
3. Learn to interpret the “feeling” that comes to you when you do read.
Then more often than you will ever realize, the word of the Lord will come into your mind. You will have the “feeling” for it, and you will have received direct revelation yourself for you alone, which will guide you right every time and help you make the decisions that will assure you that you will know the eternal God and his Son Jesus Christ and be led to eternal life.

Two years ago, my youngest brother, Chad, stepped through the veil. His transition to the other side left a hole in the heart of my sister-in-law Stephanie; their two small children, Braden and Bella; as well as the rest of the family. We found comfort in the words of Elder Neil L. Andersen in general conference the week before Chad died: “In the crucible of earthly trials, patiently move forward, and the Savior’s healing power will bring you light, understanding, peace, and hope” (“Wounded,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 85).
We have faith in Jesus Christ; we know we will join Chad again, but losing his physical presence hurts! Many have lost loved ones. It is hard to be patient and wait for the time we will rejoin them.
The year after he died, we felt like a dark cloud overshadowed us. We sought refuge in studying our scriptures, praying with more fervency, and attending the temple more frequently. The lines from this hymn capture our feelings at the time: “The day dawn is breaking, the world is awaking, the clouds of night’s darkness are fleeing away” (“The Day Dawn Is Breaking,” Hymns, no. 52).
Our family determined that 2020 would be a refreshing year! We were studying our Come, Follow Me lesson in the New Testament book of James in late November 2019 when a theme revealed itself to us. James, chapter 1, verse 2 reads, “My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into many afflictions” (Joseph Smith Translation, James 1:2 [in James 1:2, footnote a]). In our desire to open a new year, a new decade, with joy, we decided that in 2020 we would “count it all joy.” We felt so strongly about it that last Christmas we gifted our siblings T-shirts that said in bold letters, “Count It All Joy.” The year 2020 would surely be a year of joy and rejoicing.
Well, here we are—2020 instead brought the global COVID-19 pandemic, civil unrest, more natural disasters, and economic challenges. Our Heavenly Father may be allowing us time to reflect and consider our understanding of patience and our conscious decision to choose joy.
The book of James has since taken on new meaning for us. James, chapter 1, verses 3 and 4 continue:
“Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
In our efforts to find joy in the midst of our trials, we had forgotten that having patience is the key to letting those trials work for our good.
King Benjamin taught us to put off the natural man and become “a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and [become] as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things” (Mosiah 3:19).
Chapter 6 of Preach My Gospel teaches key attributes of Christ that we can emulate: “Patience is the capacity to endure delay, trouble, opposition, or suffering without becoming angry, frustrated, or anxious. It is the ability to do God’s will and accept His timing. When you are patient, you hold up under pressure and are able to face adversity calmly and hopefully” (Preach My Gospel: A Guide to Missionary Service, rev. ed. [2019], 126).
Patience’s perfect work may also be illustrated in the life of one of Christ’s early disciples, Simon the Canaanite. The Zealots were a group of Jewish nationalists who strongly opposed Roman rule. The Zealot movement advocated violence against the Romans, their Jewish collaborators, and the Sadducees by raiding for provisions and pursuing other activities to aid their cause (see Encyclopedia Britannica, “Zealot,” britannica.com). Simon the Canaanite was a Zealot (see Luke 6:15). Imagine Simon trying to coax the Savior into taking up arms, leading a militant group, or creating chaos in Jerusalem. Jesus taught:
“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. …
“Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. …
“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God” (Matthew 5:5, 7, 9).
Simon may have embraced and advocated his philosophy with zeal and passion, but the scriptures suggest that through the influence and example of the Savior, his focus changed. His discipleship of Christ became the central focus of his life’s efforts.
As we make and keep covenants with God, the Savior can help us to “be born again; yea, born of God, changed from [a] carnal and fallen state, to a state of righteousness, being redeemed of God, becoming his sons and daughters” (Mosiah 27:25).
Of all the zealous social, religious, and political endeavors of our day, let disciple of Jesus Christ be our most pronounced and affirming affiliation. “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matthew 6:21). Let us also not forget that even after faithful disciples had “done the will of God,” they “[had] need of patience” (Hebrews 10:36).
Just as the trying of our faith works patience within us, when we exercise patience, our faith increases. As our faith increases, so does our joy.
This past March, our second daughter, Emma, like many missionaries in the Church, went into mandatory isolation. Many missionaries came home. Many missionaries awaited reassignment. Many did not receive their temple blessings before departing to a field of labor. Thank you, elders and sisters. We love you.
Emma and her companion in the Netherlands were stretched in those first several weeks—stretched to tears in many instances. With only brief opportunities for in-person interaction and limited outdoor exposure, Emma’s reliance on God increased. We prayed with her online and asked how we could help. She asked us to connect with friends she was teaching online!
Our family began to connect online, one by one, with Emma’s friends in the Netherlands. We invited them to join our weekly, online, extended-family Come, Follow Me study. Floor, Laura, Renske, Freek, Benjamin, Stal, and Muhammad all have become our friends. Some of our friends from the Netherlands have entered “in at the strait gate” (3 Nephi 14:13). Others are being shown “the straitness of the path, and the narrowness of the gate, by which they should enter” (2 Nephi 31:9). They are our brothers and sisters in Christ. Each week we “count it all joy” as we work together in our progress on the covenant path.
We “let patience have her perfect work” (James 1:4) in our inability to meet in person as ward families for a season. But we count as joy our families’ faith increasing through new technology connections and Come, Follow Me study of the Book of Mormon.
President Russell M. Nelson promised, “Your consistent efforts in this endeavor—even during those moments when you feel that you are not being particularly successful—will change your life, that of your family, and the world” (“Go Forward in Faith,” Ensign or Liahona, May 2020, 114).
Where we make sacred covenants with God—the temple—is temporarily closed. Where we keep covenants with God—the home—is open! We have an opportunity at home to study and ponder on the exceptional beauty of temple covenants. Even in the absence of entry into that sacred physical space, our “hearts … shall greatly rejoice in consequence of the blessings which shall be poured out” (Doctrine and Covenants 110:9).
Many have lost jobs; others have lost opportunities. We joy, however, alongside President Nelson, who recently stated: “Voluntary fast offerings from our members have actually increased, as well as voluntary contributions to our humanitarian funds. … Together we will overcome this difficult time. The Lord will bless you as you continue to bless others” (Russell M. Nelson’s Facebook page, post from Aug. 16, 2020, facebook.com/russell.m.nelson).
“Be of good cheer” is the commandment from the Lord, not be of good fear (Matthew 14:27).
Sometimes we get impatient when we think we are “doing everything right” and we still do not receive the blessings we desire. Enoch walked with God for 365 years before he and his people were translated. Three hundred and sixty-five years of striving to do everything right, and then it happened! (See Doctrine and Covenants 107:49.)
My brother Chad’s passing came just a few months after our release from presiding over the Utah Ogden Mission. It was miraculous that while we were living in Southern California, of all the 417 missions we could have been assigned to in the year 2015, we were assigned to northern Utah. The mission home was a 30-minute drive to Chad’s home. Chad’s cancer was diagnosed after we received our mission assignment. Even in the most trying circumstance, we knew that our Heavenly Father was mindful of us and helping us find joy.
I witness of the redeeming, sanctifying, humbling, and joyous power of the Savior Jesus Christ. I witness that when we pray to our Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus, He will answer us. I witness that as we hear, hearken, and heed the voice of the Lord and His living prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, we can “let patience have her perfect work” and “count it all joy.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

This truth is illustrated in the experience of two young missionaries serving in Europe, in an area where there were few convert baptisms. I suppose it would have been understandable for them to think that what they did wouldn’t make much of a difference.
But these two missionaries had faith, and they were committed. They had the attitude that if no one listened to their message, it would not be because they had not given their best effort.
One day they had the feeling to approach the residents of a well-kept four-story apartment building. They started on the first floor and knocked on each door, presenting their saving message of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church.
No one on the first floor would listen to them.
How easy it would have been to say, “We tried. Let’s stop right here. Let’s go and try another building.”
But these two missionaries had faith and they were willing to work, and so they knocked on every door on the second floor.
Again, no one would listen.
The third floor was the same. And so was the fourth—that is, until they knocked on the last door of the fourth floor.
When that door opened, a young girl smiled at them and asked them to wait while she spoke with her mother.
Her mother was only 36 years old, had recently lost her husband, and was in no mood to talk with Mormon missionaries. So she told her daughter to send them away.
But the daughter pleaded with her. These young men were so nice, she said. And it would take only a few minutes.
So, reluctantly, the mother agreed. The missionaries delivered their message and handed a book to the mother to read—the Book of Mormon.
After they left, the mother decided she would read at least a few pages.
She finished the entire book within a few days.
Not long after, this wonderful single-parent family entered the waters of baptism.
When the small family attended their local branch in Frankfurt, Germany, a young deacon noticed the beauty of one of the daughters and thought to himself, “These missionaries are doing a great job!”
That young deacon’s name was Dieter Uchtdorf. And the charming young woman—the one who had pleaded with her mother to listen to the missionaries—has the beautiful name of Harriet. She is loved by all who meet her as she accompanies me in my travels. She has blessed the lives of many people through her love for the gospel and her sparkling personality. She truly is the sunshine of my life.
How often have I lifted my heart in gratitude for the two missionaries who did not stop at the first floor! How often my heart reaches out in appreciation for their faith and work. How often have I given thanks that they kept going—even to the fourth floor, last door.

During the Great Depression, we had certain values burned into our souls. One of these values was gratitude for what we had, because we had so little. Rather than becoming envious or angry because of what we did not have, many of us were grateful for the meager, simple things with which we were blessed, like hot, homemade bread and oatmeal cereal.
I remember my beloved grandmother Mary Caroline Roper Finlinson making homemade soap on the farm. The soap had a very pungent aroma and was almost as hard as a brick. There was no money to buy soft, sweet-smelling soap. On the farm, there were many dusty, sweat-laden clothes to be washed and many bodies that desperately needed a Saturday night bath. If you had to bathe with that homemade soap, you could become wonderfully clean, but you smelled worse after bathing than before. I have since developed a daily appreciation for mild, sweet-scented soap.

Then gradually the thoughts of my ancestors who had walked this trail began to fill my heart. First it was Jared and Cornelia with their two-year-old son. I felt the chill in the air, but that chill was nothing compared to the freezing conditions Jared and his little family had experienced during their exodus. Cornelia died somewhere between Nauvoo and Salt Lake. I imagined Jared weeping as he picked up his son and continued on.
My heart began to swell with emotion; it felt as though Sarah had joined me. Jared and Cornelia with their little son were with me also. We walked together amid the light and shadow, past and present merging on this trail—this trail of hope, this trail of tears. In a way I can’t explain, they were with me and awakened in me our shared love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I realized that my testimony burns in me because it had burned in them—passed from generation to generation—each laying the foundation for the next. I wept with gratitude.
Soon my husband, who had been photographing elsewhere, caught up with me. I stood close to him as I told him of my experience. He, like those Nauvoo Saints, was the first in his family to believe the gospel. And he, like those who had walked this trail more than 150 years before, would not be the last to believe. His testimony and mine nurtured the testimonies that now burn in the hearts of our children, just as the testimonies of Jared and Cornelia and Sarah nurtured the testimonies of thousands of their descendants.

Sister Ana Rivera braided her long dark hair and pulled her scripture bag over her shoulder. Another day of her mission was about to begin. She was excited to see what miracles lay ahead!
Ana and her companion, Sister Carrascal, walked outside into the morning air. They could see tall volcanoes in the distance as they walked through the village. They were some of the first missionaries to be serving in the Otavalo area. The Church in Ecuador was still new, but it was growing.
“Hola!” they said as they greeted one of the families they were teaching. A mother, father, and several children gathered for a lesson.
“Today we are going to teach about prophets,” Ana’s companion said. Ana and Sister Carrascal took turns explaining how God calls prophets to teach about Jesus Christ.
When it was time to read, Ana opened her Book of Mormon. Ana always read the scripture verses because Sister Carrascal couldn’t read or write. Sister Carrascal was still a powerful missionary.
“I know that what we’ve shared today is true,” Ana said at the end of the lesson. “Will you pray to know for yourself?”
The family nodded. Ana felt warm in her heart.
At the end of the day, Sister Carrascal said, “Can you teach me to read and write?”
Ana didn’t know what to say. She had never taught someone to read before. She didn’t know if she could do it.
“I can try,” Ana finally said. “I don’t know if I’ll be a good teacher.”
Sister Carrascal smiled big. “Just teach me,” she said. “I will pray to Heavenly Father to help me understand.”
Ana was amazed by Sister Carrascal’s faith. “OK. I’ll do it!” she said.
Each morning, Ana worked hard to help Sister Carrascal learn. They practiced writing letters. They sounded out words. They prayed for help. Eventually, Sister Carrascal was reading scripture verses, one word at a time!

“You know,” Mom said, “there was a girl on my basketball team in high school—Sarah—who had the worst attitude. She was always yelling at everybody and making us feel terrible when we made mistakes.”
“She must be related to Andrew.”
Mom laughed. “Well, I got pretty fed up with Sarah’s bullying. So one day I decided to show her what real team spirit was all about. Every time somebody made a mistake, I jumped in before Sarah had a chance and said, ‘Good job, Karen,’ or ‘Nice try, Susan.’ And if somebody did something really great, I jumped up and down and yelled and screamed and really whooped it up.”
“So did Sarah stop being so mean?” Brian asked hopefully.
“No.”
Brian looked out the window again. “I didn’t think so.”
“But everyone else was too busy watching my spirited pep shows to notice her anymore,” Mom said with a smile. Brian smiled, too, in spite of himself.

This story happened in the USA.
Weston was playing outside when a car and a big moving van drove up to the house across the street. Lots of kids got out of the car. One of them was a boy who looked like he was Weston’s age.
Weston ran inside his house. “Mom, Dad! A new family is moving in!”
Dad looked up from the project he was working on. “That’s awesome.”
“I want to meet them,” Weston said. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course!”
Weston and Dad walked across the street to their new neighbors’ house. When they knocked, a lady came to the door. The boy Weston’s age was standing behind her.
Weston waved. “Hi, I’m Weston. What’s your name?”
The boy stepped out from behind his mom. “I’m Nate.”
“Want to play at my house?” Weston asked.
Nate looked at his mom.
“You can go,” she said. “Just be home in time for dinner.”
After that, Weston played with Nate almost every day. He was so happy to have a new friend. They rode bikes, swam at the pool, and played pirates at the park. Sometimes Weston played at Nate’s house too. Nate’s whole family was nice!
One day, Nate’s dad got really sick. He had to go to the hospital. The sickness got worse and worse. Nate and his family were so worried.
Weston was worried too. Everyone at church fasted and prayed for Nate’s dad. Weston also fasted. He hoped for a miracle. But Nate’s dad passed away.
As the days went by, Weston saw how sad Nate and his family were. He wanted to cheer them up. He walked across the street and knocked on Nate’s door.
“I don’t want to play today,” Nate said.
“Oh, OK,” Weston said. Was there anything he could do to help Nate?
Weston went home and found Mom. “Nate doesn’t want to play,” he said.
“That’s hard.” Mom hugged him. “Sometimes when people are sad, they just need some time alone.”
Weston nodded. “I guess if my dad died, I wouldn’t feel like playing either.”
But Weston still wanted to help Nate and his family feel better. He had an idea. “Where are the scissors?” he asked. “I want to give Nate something from our garden!”
Weston went to the backyard and searched for something to give to his friend. He looked in the dirt where they’d planted some carrots. But they weren’t ready yet. He searched in the fruit trees but only found bare branches.
Then Weston looked under some vines with big leaves. He pushed aside a few of the leaves and found a tiny green cantaloupe growing on the vine. This was the cantaloupe he had planted and watered himself!
Hopefully Nate and his family liked melons. Weston cut it from the vine and carried it inside. Then he wrote a note to go along with his gift.
When the card was finished, Weston carefully set the cantaloupe and card on Nate’s doorstep. Then he rang the doorbell and ran back home as fast as he could. I hope they like it, Weston thought.
Later, Weston saw Nate’s family at a neighborhood barbecue.
“That was the best cantaloupe ever!” Nate’s sister said.
“We weren’t sure what it was at first.” Nate laughed. “We thought it was a weird coconut!”
“Thank you for the sweet gift,” said Nate’s mom.
Weston felt warm inside as Nate hugged him. He couldn’t take away his friend’s sadness, but even a tiny cantaloupe could help bring a smile.
Illustration by Greg Paprocki

A young man from the East stopped in my office on his return from his mission in Argentina, where he spent an extra six months helping the missionaries learn the language. Calling him by name, for I knew him and his parents before he left for his mission, I said: “Do you feel that it was a waste of time for you to go on that mission—that you should have been completing your education and getting ready for marriage?”
He replied: “If the brethren would like to make me happy, just let them load me on a plane tomorrow morning and send me back to Argentina.” And he hadn’t yet seen his loved ones whom he had left at home.

“I got started in eighth grade in Tucson, Arizona,” Richard Olson said. “I was in a math class with four friends. One day one of them brought a maze he had made and started a contest to see who could make the best maze. After a while the other four stopped making them, but I haven’t yet.
“I would make mazes at home and take them to school. Some of my friends got excited about them and started copying them, and that kept me excited about them.
“When I feel like doing a maze, I sit down and think of movies I’ve seen, books I’ve read, anything that might bring me an idea. I’ve taken art classes all through school, but I don’t have any particular tricks I use in drawing mazes, though I do like to continue a particular path a long way and then end it before I finally create the one good path. Usually, I just sit down and start drawing, and the idea works itself out as I go along.”

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I sat at the window in the living room and looked out. The snow had piled up almost every day for a week, but now the skies were clear and the air was icy. I could hear Mom, Tara, and Laurie in the kitchen, making treats for the neighbors. Next to me the Christmas tree twinkled, and there were piles of presents stacked beneath it. Usually on Christmas Eve I would feel each package and shake and smell it. I didn’t care about the packages this year.
Christmas had always been fun before. As soon as all the presents were exchanged, I would call Bryan, and we would spend the rest of the morning together until it was time to visit our cousins.
I couldn’t ever remember a time when Bryan and I hadn’t been best friends. We did everything together. We studied together, weeded our gardens together, had a paper route together, joined Cub Scouts together.
Bryan and I were both planning to play football in the pros. He was going to be the quarterback, and I was going to be the end. What a team we’d make! But now I wasn’t sure if we would ever play football together again.
Ever since Bryan had told me about the cancer in his left leg, I had prayed for him. I had even fasted two different Sundays. But the doctors still took his leg off, just above his knee. They said that they thought that they had caught the cancer in time and that it hadn’t spread, but his leg was still gone, and right now he lay in a hospital bed with nothing but a TV and a stack of books and magazines to keep him company.
“Randy,” Mom said, coming into the living room, “you sure look glum for a Christmas Eve.”
“I keep thinking about Bryan,” I mumbled.
“He’ll be fine,” Mom declared. “His mother told me that his whole family is going to celebrate Christmas Eve in his hospital room tonight.”
“But it’s not the same thing. Besides, I wanted to give him something … something super.”
“You already sent a present over.”
I nodded sadly. “A book. But that’s nothing, even if he does have to stay in bed and reading is all that he can do. I wanted to give him something extra special, something that he’d never forget.” I stopped for a moment, then blurted out, “What he really wanted was a football, an official leather football so that we could practice to play in the pros.”
Mother smiled understandingly. “That’s what you’ve both wanted for years, I know.”
“Bryan really did want a football, Mom. But you know how much they cost.”
Mom smiled again and just said, “Yes, I know how much they cost.”
I glanced in toward the tree and stared at the package wrapped in gold foil paper that was nestled under the far side of the tree. Yes, I thought, Mom knows how much footballs cost.
Then she asked gently, “Are you forgetting Bryan’s leg?”
“Bryan won’t always have a stump for a leg,” I told her. “They make legs. Good ones. There was a guy that had his leg cut off because of cancer, and he walked clear across Canada. If he could do something like that, Bryan will be able to play football. And if he had a football now, he’d have something to look forward to, something to work for. We’re still going to play in the pros!”
Mom went back to the kitchen, and I looked out the window again. Christmas would soon be here. If I was going to do anything for Bryan, I would have to do it soon. Then an idea came so quickly that for a moment I could hardly breathe.
Hurrying to my room, I pulled on my sweatshirt, wiggled into my heavy coat, pulled the hood over my head, stomped my feet into my snow boots, grabbed my gloves, and raced back to the living room. I reached for the gold-wrapped package under the tree, called to Mom that I’d be back in a while, then slipped out of the house.
The snow squeaked and crunched under my boots, and my breath puffed out of my mouth and nose in steamy clouds as I sped down the street. Finally I reached the hospital. I pulled open the huge glass doors, walked rapidly down the long hall, and got on the elevator and pushed the third floor button.
Bryan didn’t see me slip into his room, so I whispered, “Hi, Bryan.”
His head turned toward me, and his face and eyes brightened. “Randy!” he cried. “I knew you’d come.”
“How do you feel?” I asked, setting the package on the floor by the bed.
“Oh, OK I guess.”
“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you came, Randy.”
“I knew you couldn’t have much of a Christmas here,” I told him. “A hospital is no place for Christmas. And I knew I could never have Christmas without seeing you. I just had to come—and I brought you something.” I bent over, picked up the package, and handed it to Bryan.
“But you already gave me a present. It’s over there, under the tree.”
I glanced at the small silver tree in the corner. My book, wrapped in Santa Claus paper, lay with several other packages. I shook my head. “That’s not my real present,” I told him. “This one is. Open it now, while I’m here.” I pushed the package across the covers to where Bryan could reach it.
He tugged at the gold wrapping paper, pulled the lid off the box, and caught his breath. Then he reached in and lifted out the football. “But, Randy, this was supposed to be yours, wasn’t it?”
“But I want you to have it,” I faltered. “It’s the only thing I could think of that was super special enough for you. It’s one just like we’ve always talked about. Now we’ll play in the pros for sure!”
For a long time Bryan stared at the ball. Then tears came to his eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s a real one, just like they use in the pros. I just knew you’d have to have one because—” The words caught in my throat. I looked down at the flat place on the bed where Bryan’s left leg should have been.
Bryan was staring at the flat place too. “I can’t take your ball, Randy,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can even play any more.”
“Yes you can—we’ll still play together!” I burst out. “It’s just like I was telling Mom. They make artificial legs, Bryan. Good ones. And the quarterback doesn’t have to run much. You can still play. We’ll still be a team.”
Bryan smiled weakly. “Maybe I ought to be the coach,” he said. “The coach doesn’t have to run at all. All he has to do is yell and blow his whistle, and I can at least do that.”
Bryan stared again at the flat place. I caught my breath, starting to feel sick.
Suddenly Bryan grinned up at me and declared, “It’s a super ball, just what I’ve always wanted. I’m glad that you brought it. Real glad.” Then his smile faded. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need anything. There’s only one thing I really want, and that’s for you to get well and leave here.” There was a terrible, hurting lump in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, but it was stuck. I bit down on my lip. “Every night I pray for you. And every Sunday in Primary we pray for you too. We never forget you, Bryan.”
“I know, and it means a lot to me. But I still want to give you something. I want to give you a super gift too.” He held his new ball tightly. “You know I’ve always wanted a football just like this, and to play in the pros,” he said, rubbing his cheek against the ball. He looked up at me. “You’ll have to play for both of us.” He stopped, then holding the ball out, added, “You’ll need a good ball. The very best. Take this one and play for both of us. It won’t hurt so much if I know I’m helping you out, that you’re playing with my ball.”
“But if I take your ball, that will mean I didn’t give you anything good.”
“Oh, but you did, Randy. You gave me the best gift of all, just by coming.” Bryan smiled. “I waited all day. I didn’t even sleep. I just lay here and looked out the window. I knew you’d come because you’re my friend, the best friend in the world, and having a friend like you is the very best Christmas present of all.”
I could feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I reached out, took the ball from Bryan, and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow too.”
Bryan nodded.
As I trudged back home through the snow, I knew that now I could enjoy Christmas.