Gospel Story Finder

Several months ago, a stake president and I visited a sister in his stake and her young adult son. After years away from the Church, wandering difficult and unfriendly paths, she had returned. During our visit, we asked her why she had come back.
“I had made a mess of my life,” she said, “and I knew where I needed to be.”
I then asked her what she had learned in her journey.
With some emotion, she shared that she had learned that she needed to attend church long enough to break the habit of not coming and that she needed to stay until it was where she wanted to be. Her return was not easy, but as she exercised faith in the Father’s plan, she felt the Spirit return.
And then she added, “I have learned for myself that God is good and that His ways are better than mine.”

On the trail a loving attachment frequently developed between a pioneer and his ox team. Joseph F. Smith related: “My team leaders’ names were Thom and Joe—we raised them from calves, and they were both white. Thom was trim built, active, young, and more intelligent than many a man. Many times while traveling sandy or rough roads, on long, thirsty drives, my oxen were lowing with the heat and fatigue. I would put my arms around Thom’s neck and cry bitter tears! That was all I could do. Thom was my favorite and best and most willing and obedient servant and friend.”

A few months ago we took our grandchildren on an escorted tour of the Church printing facilities. There, all of us saw the missionary edition of the Book of Mormon coming off the delivery line—printed, bound, and trimmed, ready for reading. I said to a young grandson, “The operator says that you can remove one copy of the Book of Mormon to be your very own. You select the copy, and it will then be yours.”

Removing one finished copy of the book, he clutched it to his breast and said with sincerity, “I love the Book of Mormon. This is my book.”

I really don’t remember other events of that day, but none of us who was there will ever forget the honest expression from the heart of a child.

In the spring of 1970, our priest had announced that we would be selling our school to the Mormons. “You Chileans think that the Catholic Church is the only religion,” he said.
I thought, “Of course, what else?”
Our priest continued, “All of you will write a report on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Since the LDS mission office was only two blocks from our home, I went there to find information for my school project. When I got home, I looked at the pretty pamphlets about the Church and at the Book of Mormon. My copy of the book contained Moroni’s special promise right on the first page:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moro. 10:4–5).
When I read that promise, I received a spiritual witness that those words were true and that the Book of Mormon was true. But I was fifteen and not ready to be “religious,” so I decided not to do anything specific about my feelings. My interest had been stirred, though, and I earned the best grade in the class with my report on the Mormons.

Gary watched his brother Geof giving directions to their two younger brothers. Geof was waving his hands excitedly and talking very fast. Gary could not see all Geof was saying, but he caught the enthusiasm and excitement of his brothers.
Dad had taken Mother to the hospital earlier that morning, and the boys could hardly wait for him to come home and tell them about their new baby sister. They were sure the baby would be a girl, that she would be soft and pink, and they would call her Tammy.
Gary was sure he would love her at first sight. Sometimes his stomach would get all tight inside just thinking about having a baby sister at home to laugh with and to love.
Gary watched closely as Geof stood directly in front of him and carefully repeated what he had been saying. “When Tammy comes to live with us,” he said, “we’ll have to keep our trucks and bicycles out of the way so she won’t get hurt, and we can’t throw balls in the house, and we can’t yell too loud when she’s sleeping. Isn’t that right?”
Gary nodded enthusiastically.
At an important time like this, Gary wished he could talk and hear like everyone else. Sometimes it was hard being deaf, but he tried not to show his frustration.
Gary was learning to read at the school for the deaf, and he could use his fingers when talking in class. But at home his family spoke carefully and directly to him so he could lip-read what they said. With their patient help, he was learning to sound out many words so they could understand him.
Geof usually took charge of the brothers whenever Dad and Mother were away even though Gary was older. And Gary was usually glad because he knew that Geof was a good leader.
Gary was certain that it would be different with Tammy. He wanted to help take special care of her. He wouldn’t mind doing anything at all to help her and make her happy.
Gary and his brothers gave Geof their full attention as they made plans for their new little sister.
It was almost evening before Dad came home. The boys were keyed to a high pitch after the long wait.
They crowded around Dad.
“What does she look like?” Kent asked.
“How much does she weigh?” Karl questioned.
“Does she have dark hair? How long before we can see her?” Geof wanted to know.
Gary looked at his father soberly, “Is she all right?”
Father bent down and gathered his four sons into his long arms and said huskily, “The baby is all right. It weighs almost ten pounds and has dark hair and beautiful dark eyes and looks like Mother. But the baby is a boy.”
“A boy,” Karl said in disbelief.
“But what about our sister? We already have boys,” said Geof.
Gary looked up into his father’s face and smiled. “But if he’s okay, that’s all that matters,” he said with rapidly moving fingers. “When can we see him?”
A few days later Mother came home with the new baby. Gary took just one long look at his red wrinkled face, little clenched fists, and thin kicking legs, and he loved him immediately. Gary let the baby’s fingers curl around his own big finger. He liked the tight way the baby held on.
Here is someone, Gary thought, who can use some special help from me.
The family decided to name the baby Tommy.
Each night while Mother prepared dinner, Gary sat in the big rocker crooning softly to Tommy. Gary felt sure the baby understood him, and he was happier than he had ever been before.
All day long Gary looked forward to this hour before dinner when he could hold Tommy and put into song all the things he felt and had never before been able to say.
One day in school Gary’s teacher said, “I hear something special has happened at your house. Would you like to tell us about it?”
Gary went to the front of the class and began to describe his new baby brother. His fingers couldn’t move fast enough to tell all the wonderful things he felt about Tommy.
That night when Gary went home, he sat down in the big rocker as he did each evening. As he held the baby, Gary tried to sing all the things he had told his classmates. But Tommy was not feeling well. He wriggled and squirmed and cried even though Gary tried to quiet and soothe him.
Finally Mother said, “Perhaps Tommy needs to lie on his stomach. I’ll put him back in his crib for a while.” She took the baby from Gary, and soon Tommy stopped crying.
Mother came back into the kitchen. Gary watched her for a few minutes, and then he quietly went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Even Tommy doesn’t like my singing, Gary thought. He must know I have no real words ever to give anyone. And suddenly all the hidden hurt of a lifetime was inside of him and Gary began to cry. Once the tears started, he couldn’t stop them.
For a long time Gary stayed inside the bathroom, but finally he washed his face, opened the door, and went out to have dinner with the family. Mother gave him a quick hug as he sat down at the table, and Dad gave Gary one of his special smiles.
Later that night when the dishes were done and everything was put away, Gary went to bed in the room he shared with Kent, but he couldn’t get to sleep. A few minutes later Mother came in carrying Tommy, who was all ready for bed and wrapped in a soft blanket.
Mother bent low over Gary’s bed so he could read her lips in the soft night light. “Gary, are you still awake? I know Tommy would love to have you hold him for a few moments and sing to him. Cuddle him close and sing again the song you were singing this afternoon.”
Gary put out his arms and Mother gently put Tommy into them. Gary looked down at his little brother and held him close. Then he began to sing with all the love he had in his heart.
And Tommy seemed to understand. He looked up at Gary and smiled.

A similar experience occurred as I was pursuing my career in business. I was offered an excellent job opportunity, but it would have likely required me to work on Sunday. I had committed not to work on the Sabbath day. Ultimately, I had to turn down the offer. I could not compromise my commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy. As with my college commitment, I was later blessed with many other business opportunities that did not require me to compromise and that allowed me to devote Sundays to the worship of the Lord.

With the help of my mother and sister, I painted a banner for the Relief Society sports festival held in our stake. My mother recommended me to the Relief Society president, who asked me to make their banner for them. I accepted their request and started to make rough sketches. Through the combined efforts of my family and me, we were able to create a beautiful work of art that represents the theme, “Find Nobility in Motherhood and Joy in Womanhood.”

First, I remember visiting an elderly widow whose health confined her to her home. With warmth, graciousness and love, she received me and appreciated that as an Aaronic Priesthood holder I was giving her a donation envelope so she could joyfully pay her fast offerings. She respected the Aaronic Priesthood I held and treated me with love and dignity. Second, the bishopric also treated me with love and dignity. They made me want to be a better person. They made me feel I needed to be worthy to participate in sacred ordinances. To this day I remember the feelings of appreciation and responsibility I felt every time I participated in blessing or passing the sacrament.

When Leah woke up that morning, she looked out the window. She smiled because everything was covered with snow. She dressed for school quickly and rushed down to the warm kitchen. “Mom,” she said happily, “did you look outside?”
Her mother smiled and nodded. “Yes, I did, honey. Isn’t the snow pretty?”
“When I get home from school, can I play in it?” Leah asked hopefully.
“Yes, you may. But you’d better hurry and eat your pancakes now, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Mom!” Tim called from the basement. “Where are our winter boots?”
“Under the stairs,” Mother called back. “In the tall cabinet.”
Leah’s older sister, Carol, wrapped a scarf around her neck. “I found my boots. See you later, Mom,” she said as she gave Mother a kiss. Then she patted Leah’s head and added, “Have a good day, Pumpkin.”
Soon Tim left for school too.
“I wish I could stay home and play in the snow,” Leah said.
“That would be nice,” Mother agreed, “but today is a school day.”
Leah nodded and popped the last piece of pancake into her mouth. “That was good! Thank you.”
Mother smiled. “Thank you, honey, for enjoying it. Now hurry and get ready.”
Leah went to the closet and took out her coat and hat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and pushed her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Then she went downstairs to the tall cabinet beneath the stairs. She opened the door and looked for her boots. There they were, white and clean, waiting to tramp in the snow. Leah liked them a lot. She sat down and pointed the toe of her shoe into the opening of one of the boots. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her boot over her shoe.
“Mom,” she finally called up the stairs, “I can’t get my boots on.”
Mother went down the stairs. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Don’t tell me they no longer fit.” Mother knelt in front of Leah and put a boot beside Leah’s shoe. “They look like they might barely fit.” Mother tugged and pushed, but the boots would not go over Leah’s shoes. “Well,” Mother said as she looked in the cupboard. “Let me see … Yes, here’s a pair of Carol’s old boots. Let’s see if they fit.”
Leah tried on one of the boots, and it slipped on without any trouble. “They fit, with room left over.” Leah giggled.
Mother laughed too. “Not too much room, though. I’m glad you can get into them. They’ll keep your shoes nice and dry.”
All the way to school Leah watched the tracks the boots made. The bottoms made squiggily lines like snow tires. Leah was glad that her sister’s boots fit her.
When recess came, Miss Higgins asked, “How many of you would like to go outside and play in the snow?”
Everyone raised his hand and cheered.
“All right,” Miss Higgins said with a smile. “Bundle up and out we go.”
Leah pulled on her boots easily, and soon she was outside playing. Then Leah saw Melanie standing alone near the school building where the snow barely covered the ground. She wasn’t playing with the others because she wasn’t wearing boots.
When recess was over, everyone lined up at the door, waiting to go back inside. “Quietly now, class,” Miss Higgins said. “Shake the snow from your boots and walk quietly past the other classrooms.”
Leah looked at Melanie’s shoes. They looked like they were sopping wet, and Leah knew that Melanie’s socks were wet too. Leah looked at the footprint Melanie’s shoes made in the snow, then made a boot print beside it. Melanie’s shoe print was quite a bit smaller than the print from Carol’s old boot! Leah smiled to herself as she followed the line into the school.
After school Leah looked for Melanie.
“Melanie?” she called. “Do you want to walk in my boot tracks as far as my house?”
Melanie shivered and smiled. “Thanks, Leah,” she said happily.
“Don’t you have any boots?” Leah asked over her shoulder.
“My parents will probably get me some when they can.”
Leah nodded. “I have some white boots at home … I can’t wear them anymore. I think they’d fit you!”
Melanie hesitated. “Maybe your mother wouldn’t like me taking your boots.”
“She wouldn’t care,” Leah told her classmate. “I’m the youngest in the family, so I know she wouldn’t mind.”
Melanie smiled and shivered again. “Well, if she says that I can have them, that’d be great!” Melanie said, hurrying on as Leah turned up the walk to her house.
“Mom,” Leah called, “I’m home!”
Mother turned from the sewing machine and gave Leah a welcome-home hug. “How was school, honey?”
“We played in the snow at recess time and pasted pictures in our books this afternoon. It was fun.”
“That’s good,” Mother said.
“Mom,” Leah said quietly. “Melanie Harper doesn’t have any boots. Can I give her my old white ones? I think they’ll fit her.”
Leah’s mother looked at her for a long minute, then gave her a second hug. “Honey, it’s more than OK. It’s a very caring thing to do, and I’m proud of you. I know how much you liked your white boots.”
“Melanie will like them too. Do you think Heavenly Father would be happy if I give them to her?”
“Honey,” her mother replied, “Heavenly Father is always pleased when we help each other.”

A true story from Mexico.
“Time for bed,” Mamá said with a smile.
Logan went into his room. He said his prayers and crawled into bed. Then Mamá read him a story. He slowly closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.
But Logan had a scary dream. He was alone in a dark place. He saw a big, spiky monster with huge teeth. It growled at him. Then it started running toward him!
Logan tried to run away. But he slipped and fell! The monster got closer and bigger until—
Logan woke up and sat up in bed. He wiped tears from his eyes and saw it was still dark outside.
He wanted to talk to his parents about the dream. But he didn’t want to leave his bed. The darkness made him feel like a monster was hiding somewhere. Every shadow looked scary. A dog barking outside sounded like a monster growling.
Logan pulled the sheets up to his nose. He was too afraid to move.
He wanted to fall back to sleep. But each time he closed his eyes, he saw the monster’s angry face and sharp teeth. He couldn’t stop looking at the scary shadows.
Then he saw a picture on the table by his bed. It was a photo of him, his two brothers, Papá, and Mamá outside the temple in Monterrey, Mexico. They looked so happy.
Suddenly, the words to his favorite Primary song popped into his head. “I love to see the temple,” Logan started singing quietly. “I’m going there someday. To feel the Holy Spirit, to listen and to pray.”*
While he sang, Logan thought about that day at the temple with his family. He had felt so peaceful. Because of the temple, he could be with his family forever.
Logan couldn’t hear the dog barking over the sound of his voice. He closed his eyes and kept singing. “As a child of God, I’ve learned this truth: A family is forever.” He felt a peace in his heart that made him smile. He knew there was no monster.
The room had been dark and scary. But now it was a calm, safe place. Logan leaned back on his pillow and fell peacefully asleep.
When he woke up, it was sunny outside. He got up and looked at the sunshine reflecting off his photo of the temple. He hummed his favorite song as he got ready for church.
On the way to church, he told his family about his nightmare and the song he sang. He listened to talks and sang hymns in the chapel. Then it was time to go to Primary.
Logan loved listening to the piano. And now he knew that some songs are powerful enough to make even scary monsters go away.
“Welcome to singing time,” said the Primary leader. “What song should we sing first?”
“I know!” said Logan, raising his hand high into the air. “Let’s sing ‘I Love to See the Temple.’”
Illustrations by Carolina Farías

It was a beautiful, sunshiny, October morning, and everybody had a Saturday chore to do. Everyone except Annie. She was too short to help Jennifer clean the tub, too young to help Mother rinse the breakfast dishes, too little to help Dallin bring in the garbage cans.
Annie wanted to help too. Sadly she kicked a crackly red leaf off the porch just as Daddy came through the gate.
“You’re just who I was looking for,” he said, picking up the lawn rake and taking Annie’s hand. “I’m trying to find the Leaf Queen, and you’re just the right size to help me.”
They walked through the gate into the backyard, a wonderland of red, gold, brown, and purple leaves. Daddy showed Annie how to use the rake to make small piles of leaves.
“What does the Leaf Queen look like?” Annie asked.
“Oh, you’ll know her when you see her,” Daddy said.
Annie raked and cleared, pulled and piled. She peeked and poked and searched and searched, but there was no Leaf Queen to be seen. Before long, the lawn was green again, except where the leaves were heaped together in one high pile.
“Maybe we accidentally raked the Leaf Queen into the pile,” said Daddy, gathering Annie up into his arms. “You’d better look.” And with that he tossed her gently into the middle of a big, soft mountain of leaves.
Annie squealed and tumbled, scattering leaves all around. Then she stood up and laughed, “There’s nobody in here but me!”
“Who said that?” Daddy turned and stared. There stood Annie, colorful autumn leaves sticking to her from her hair to her toes, like the branches of the maple tree. “Why, if it isn’t the Leaf Queen herself!”
“I’m the Leaf Queen!” She giggled amid a flutter of leaves.
“And,” said Daddy, lifting her out of the leaves with a crunchy hug, “you’re a pretty good helper too.”

It was a crisp fall Sunday morning in 1971 when, as investigators of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my husband and I walked into the Douglas Ward meetinghouse, which at that time also served as the meetinghouse for the University 12th Ward. There in the foyer, among others who were there to welcome us, was one young man whose warmth, enthusiasm, and spirit enveloped us. He was also there the day we were baptized and on several occasions thereafter. Can you begin to imagine the thrill and joy in our home this past week when we opened our New Era and saw again that unforgettable young man there on the pages of “Inside’s What Counts”?
When we moved back east in 1974 we lost contact with Pete Jeppson, but after seeing him again, old feelings were stirred to a new height. Our sincere appreciation to you in this effort and also in the effort of publishing such an excellent magazine as the New Era. We are a busy young family but always find the time to read the New Era from cover to cover—usually the very day it arrives!
Sandy and Gary Frederick

For one of my value projects in the Personal Progress program, I decided to send a copy of the Book of Mormon to my grandparents, who are not members of the Church. I was very nervous about this because my grandparents had never seemed to like the Church very much, but I felt strongly that this was something I should do. I went through the Book of Mormon and marked the scriptures important to me. Then I wrote my testimony on the inside of the cover and fasted that they would accept my gift.
I was afraid their reaction would be negative, but they surprised me. One day while I was checking my e-mail, I found a message from them. They thanked me for sending the Book of Mormon to them and for the time I had taken to make it personal for them.
This experience taught me to have faith in the Lord and follow the promptings of the Spirit. We never know what the consequences of our actions will be, but if we trust in the Lord we will never regret it.

One man who had committed himself to do everything he could to share the gospel with others walked out of his office one day and saw a man running down the hall. He learned this man had stapled his finger. He reached into his big pocket, pulled out Merthiolate and a Band-Aid, and dressed the wound. The shocked individual asked in amazement why he did this. He responded: “I am a Mormon, and Mormons do these things.” This man was prepared to help another whenever possible.

Only six days before the accident, the Volkmans became members of the Church. Sage was only five then, but she anxiously awaited the time when she could be baptized. Her parents had investigated the Church for many years and found it hard to be baptized. “Sage is responsible for our baptism,” says Sage’s dad, Michael. He says she kept asking questions about God he couldn’t answer, and she wanted to go to church to find answers. He took Sage to a nearby LDS church because he had received a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon 10 years earlier when a friend had given one to him.
When Michael took Sage and her brother, Avery, camping that weekend after his family joined the Church, he had no idea how his family would be changed. He and Avery went fishing early one morning, and Michael had gone back to the camper to check on Sage, who was asleep. Five minutes later, the fishermen saw smoke rising from their campsite and they raced back. Sage’s dad had to pull her out of the burning camper from under melting sleeping bags. He resuscitated her, but he was so frantic he broke one of her ribs as he pumped on her chest. Michael was badly burned and had his hands and eyes in bandages as the ambulance rushed Sage to the hospital.
Sage had numerous third- and fourth-degree burns, and her nose and one ear were melted off. Doctors had to amputate her fingers because they were so badly burned. She was in a coma. One lung had collapsed. But, to the surprise of all the medical staff, Sage survived the night.
A few days later, Sage was moved to the burn unit of a New Mexico hospital. Again, there was little hope she’d make it through the night—only a 10 percent chance—but she survived and improved over the next two days. Then pneumonia struck. Sage’s condition deteriorated, and two weeks later she was flown to a burn institute in Texas, still in a coma. The doctors there said her survival through the night was a “big if.” They also said if she survived she would have vision loss, hearing loss, brain damage, chronic lung problems, and she would be unable to walk. Anything short of that would be a miracle.
Sage pulled through again with the help of numerous priesthood blessings. She also had the aid of loving parents and skilled doctors. One priesthood blessing she received promised full recovery and that she would be safe with her Savior until she was better. After a six-week coma, the blessing was fulfilled, and Sage was finally well enough to go home on December 23, 1986, after three months in hospitals.
Hundreds of letters, posters, stuffed animals, and lots of love came pouring in from all those who had been touched by Sage’s story. Sage’s life and positive attitude have touched many for good. Many of those who wrote told of how the story of Sage in the August 1989 Ensign had comforted or converted them. One missionary in Spain wrote, “I have nothing to be sad about. I now realize how small my trials are.”
Thirteen years, 64 surgeries, and lots and lots of friends later, Sage is doing better than ever. Defying all the doctors’ expectations, Sage walks, talks, sees, drives, and does so much more than that. She’s even going to take a kick-boxing class. She says it was her constant reliance upon the Lord which has allowed her to become who she is.
Sage doesn’t think her trials have been too hard to handle. “There’s tons of kids who have it worse,” she says. “It humbles you to see other people with problems.” Sage tries to help those who have it worse than she does. She volunteers at a camp for children who are burn victims and is on the board of directors of the Phoenix Foundation, an organization which helps burn victims.
A lot like many other LDS teens, Sage worries about school, works hard, plays hard, and has trouble waking up for early-morning seminary. She attends a high school where she is the only LDS student; she has lots of friends from her ward and her school.
Sage’s goal is to become a doctor. She plans to go to Ricks College in Idaho after she graduates from high school and then go into medicine. “It’s something that fascinates me,” she says. Why else would she read that huge medical book before she goes to sleep each night?
Despite, or perhaps because of, all she’s been through, Sage’s motto is “Never forget who you are, but always remember what you could become.” She says, “You shouldn’t deny what you are. If you do your best, then who knows the possibilities of what you could be and who you could be.”
“That’s kind of like me,” Sage adds, “because I could try to become someone else and deny this whole ordeal that I’ve been through, but I haven’t. I want to strive to be the best that I could possibly be. And I want to be a doctor. And there’s nothing that I can’t do so far.”
Sage knows she can do it with Heavenly Father’s help. She also wants to help as many people as she can along the way. “That’s all I can offer—my help and my testimony,” she says. “This is the true Church, and I know I wouldn’t be here today without it. I couldn’t even begin to count how many blessings I’ve received.”
Sage may still have physical scars, but her bishop, Bradley Greer, says, “Sage has got this personality about her, and you become oblivious to how scarred she is.” Many surgeries have restored Sage’s skin, nose, and ear, though not her fingers, since the accident 13 years ago. But the gospel has done its part in healing her pain too, she says, and it continues to uplift her each day.

“President Lee once told of a woman in New York who approached him concerning her nonmember husband. Her spouse wanted her to attend parties that were far below Church standards. President Lee advised her that whereas a woman should follow her husband, she need not follow him to hell. The husband, upon hearing this from his wife, was, like your parents, extremely resentful.

“Let your parents know how much you love them and appreciate their offer but also that the Lord has said that sacrament meeting is the most important meeting we have to attend. Being the only member or active member of a family is sometimes a lonely ordeal. But if we seek to do the Lord’s will over the conflicting desires of loved ones who don’t or won’t understand, he will bless us. He certainly blessed the lady from New York. A few months after she had revealed the advice of the prophet, her ‘resentful’ husband was baptized.”

I looked at them as they finished their story; their faces shone with happiness. In what I thought would be a closing question, I asked in halting Spanish what they were now doing in the Church. Among them were a bishop, a Sunday School superintendent, another bishop, an executive secretary, and a mission presidency counselor.
I turned to the father, Manuel, and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was serving as a counselor in a bishopric. I was ready to finish with one last item when one of the brothers added that the bishop to whom their father was serving as a counselor was one of their brothers.
Then came one of the choice moments of my interviewing life. Turning to the bishop son, Víctor, I asked, “How does it feel to have your father as your counselor?”
With poignancy, he gently answered, “I have great love for my father. He has always counseled me well in my life. He has been an example to me. He has been my inspiration. When I have had difficulties in my life he has helped me. Who else could I ask to counsel me but my father?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I slowly turned to Manuel: “How do you feel about serving your son as a counselor?”
In the great dignity natural to the Spanish tongue, Manuel Cerda softly, slowly, and in an emotionally quivering voice said, “I have great love for my sons. It is an honor to counsel them. It is an honor to advise others to listen to them. I believe I feel something like God the Father felt when he said, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him.’ (Matt. 17:5.) I understand well love between father and son.”
I turned and went around the circle again. “What,” I asked, “brought about this family love?”
The father, Manuel Cerda summed up the answers of the others—“It was the gospel that changed our home. It taught us to see each other as eternal friends. It has taught me affection and love. It has taught me to esteem my children. We fight against anything that seeks to divide us, that affects our esteem for each other. The truth has changed our lives.”

Throughout his life, President Spencer W. Kimball faced many health challenges.
Doctor: You may have cancer in your throat. I recommend we operate.
Elder Kimball: My sister died of cancer. I’d better have the operation.
The surgeries that worried him the most were on his throat.
Elder Kimball: How can I continue to serve as an Apostle of the Lord if I lose my voice?
After Elder Kimball had surgery on his vocal chords, he traveled with fellow Apostle Elder Harold B. Lee.
Elder Lee: I’d like to invite Elder Kimball to bear his testimony.
Elder Kimball: I’m too embarrassed to keep speaking. I rasp and make terrible noises. Maybe in our next meeting I shouldn’t speak.
Elder Lee: Spencer, your testimony needs to be heard. You better get your voice back.
Elder Kimball did all he could to regain his voice. He followed his doctor’s orders, received priesthood blessings, and took voice lessons.
Elder Kimball: Camilla, I realize I cannot quit for anything, though the temptation is terrific when I stumble and stammer and halt.
The true test came when Elder Kimball returned to his home—the Gila Valley in Arizona.
Elder Kimball: Forgive my voice. While in the East, I fell among cutthroats.
Woman: His voice is different, but he still has the same sense of humor!
President Spencer W. Kimball never stopped preaching. In fact, his soft, deep, mellow voice became something people loved about him.

It’s no fun to want a dog more than anything else in the world and end up with a silly chicken. But that’s what happened to Peter.
“Poor little thing,” Aunt Helen said when she gave the poult to him. “A great big rat got into the coop and almost killed it. I told Mr. Raines I knew a boy who would love to take care of it.”
Peter mumbled, “Boy! Thanks a lot.”
“You’ll learn to love it, dear,” Aunt Helen said. “You’ll love it just because it belongs to you.”
“I could love you a lot more if you belonged to somebody else,” muttered Peter to the bird as he filled a can with fresh water.
The chicken stretched out its neck and pecked at the freckles on the back of Peter’s hand. “Ouch!” he yelled. “Talk about dumb.”
The chicken made a noise like a squeaky hinge. Peter poured some of the purple medicine his father had bought into the wound in the chicken’s side. After a few days, the chicken did look a little better. But it still walked like one leg was shorter than the other. That purple stain doesn’t help its looks much either, Peter thought.
“I can’t even give you a proper name,” Peter grumbled, “because I don’t know whether you’re a hen or a rooster. I guess you’ll just have to be plain Chicken.”
He put some food in another dish and sat down to watch it eat. “Boy, are you ugly,” he said. “It wouldn’t be so bad if you were a dog. An ugly dog would be better than no dog at all.”
Peter’s best friends Dick and Andy had dogs. Would they ever laugh if they found out about the chicken! But Peter was determined that they’d never find out. The old toolshed where he kept it was behind the garage, and they never went back there.
Then one day Peter’s father said, “You can’t keep that chicken penned up in the shed all the time. It needs to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. And it needs bugs and worms and gravel.”
So every day Peter took Chicken out for a short time and dug worms while the poult scratched around in the dirt. He was careful to keep Chicken in back of the shed though.
It wasn’t long until the bird began to wait for Peter. When the shed door opened Chicken half-flew to the shovel Peter was carrying and perched on top of the blade.
“Hey,” Peter would laugh. “That’s pretty clever.” But when Chicken tore after a butterfly and smashed headfirst into the fence, Peter would groan, “What a dumb chicken.”
When Chicken flew onto Peter’s shoulder and picked at the cracker he held in his mouth Peter said, “Not bad, Chicken.” But when Chicken swallowed one of Peter’s marbles and almost choked to death, Peter said, “Serves you right, stupid bird!”
As Chicken grew bigger and bigger, Peter had to spend more and more time exercising the bird. The chicken’s wound healed and it no longer limped.
Whenever Peter heard his friends Dick and Andy calling him from the front of the house, he hurriedly locked Chicken in the shed and ran to answer them. Then the three of them would take off on their bikes with Dick’s and Andy’s dogs running behind. Toby and Duke are sure swell dogs, Peter thought. How I wish I had a pet I could be proud of instead of an ugly, dumb chicken I have to keep out of sight.
One Saturday morning Peter hurriedly carried fresh water and feed out to the shed for Chicken. Dick and Andy would be along soon. The three of them were taking a picnic lunch down to the river on their bikes.
But when Peter got to the shed he found the door open, and the peg that held the hasp closed was lying on the ground. He had failed to push it in all the way the night before. Chicken was nowhere in sight, and Peter’s heart jumped to his throat. Maybe Chicken was out all night and wandered into the street and was run over! he worried.
Peter ran all around the yard, calling, “Here, Chicken! Here, Chicken! Where are you?” He was still on his hands and knees, crawling by the flower bed, when Dick and Andy rode up. “What in the world are you doing, Pete?” Dick asked.
Peter felt his face get hot. “I’m—I’m looking for a—a chicken,” he stammered.
“Looking for what!” the boys exclaimed.
“My pet chicken,” Peter answered, turning his head away.
The boys started laughing. “You mean you have a chicken for a pet?”
A surge of anger went through Peter. “Well, not an ordinary chicken!” he defended hotly.
Then he told them all about Chicken—how he had nursed it back to health, and how it rode on the shovel when he dug for worms, and how it ate a cracker out of his mouth.
“And besides,” he added, “Chicken is mine.”
“We’d better find your chicken before something happens to it,” said Dick.
The three boys rode around the neighborhood searching everywhere. “Here, Chicken! Here, Chicken!” they called.
Suddenly there was a loud squawking and a flutter of wings. Chicken flew clumsily from under a laurel hedge and landed on the handlebars of Peter’s bike.
“Chicken!” Peter cried. “You’re all right!”
The chicken stretched out its neck, looked into the boy’s face, and made a loud, squeaky noise that sounded like static.
The boys laughed and the chicken made the noise again, louder.
“You crowed!” exclaimed Peter. “You’re a rooster! I won’t have to call you Chicken anymore. And whether you’re a hen or a rooster doesn’t matter. From now on your name is Lucky, because it was lucky for both of us that I learned to love a chicken.”

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
When I was young, my grandma often had get-togethers for my cousins and me. There were about 14 of us, and we were always excited when Grandma invited us over for dinners, sleepovers, game nights, and holidays. Grandma’s house was the place to be!
Every activity at Grandma’s house was fun. But I never thought about all of the time and work that went into each activity. I just thought that was what grandmas did, and I loved it!
After years of fun cousin memories at Grandma’s house, our family moved away. Later my grandma came to spend a special day with us in our new home. My family thought long and hard to find the perfect gift for her. She has more stuff than anyone I know. What could we get the grandma who has everything?
I asked my dad for ideas, and he told me the same thing he says every year: “Why don’t you write her a really nice letter?” I was out of ideas, and so early the next morning, before anyone else was awake, I sat at the kitchen table with my feet on the cold tile and wrote my grandma a special letter.
At first I wondered what I could write besides, “You are so wonderful. Thanks for everything.” As I looked out the kitchen window at the palm trees and the sky, I thought of the many things Grandma had done for us over the years. I remembered that I had never told my grandma how much those times spent together as a family meant to me.
In my letter, I told my grandma that I love her, and I thanked her for all of the special memories. I let her know how important they still were to me, even years later. Then I put the letter in an envelope and went back into my warm, carpeted room.
When the time came to give Grandma her gifts, I slowly pulled out my letter. I didn’t know how to feel about my gift to her.
She looked surprised when I gave her the envelope. I watched closely as she carefully tore off the end of the envelope and pulled out the letter on narrow pink paper. As she read it, she started to smile and tears filled her eyes. I had never seen my grandma cry before. She slowly looked up and turned toward me with warm, brown eyes. She whispered, “Thank you, thank you. I didn’t think anyone remembered.”
Grandma, who had done so much to build strong family relationships, had no idea that I remembered or was grateful for those times together. She wiped her eyes and said, “Kimberly, thank you. That was the best present anyone could ever give me.”
I gave Grandma a big hug, feeling her soft skin against my cheek and smelling her “grandma” smell that was a mix of baby powder and musk. I was so grateful for my dad’s idea to write her a letter. I didn’t know that words of gratitude and love would mean more to my grandma than all of the knickknacks, perfume, and gifts that money could buy.