Gospel Story Finder

I grew up in Colonia Juárez—one of the Mormon colonies in Northern Mexico. Each morning I had to milk two cows, feed the pigs and chickens, and gather and clean the eggs. On Saturdays I worked in the orchard with my father.
My father owned about 20 to 30 cattle. Every year we gathered them together to brand the calves. Once I was riding with my father on his horse when my father got off to brand a calf that he had roped. I was alone on the horse when it became spooked. I was old enough to ride a horse—about eight or nine years old—that is, until it started bucking.
When the horse took off, it didn’t take very long for me to fall off. My shoelace got caught in the stirrup, and I was dragged behind the horse. I was right between the horse’s hind legs, and I could see its hooves on both sides of me. The longer this went on, the more scared the horse became. He kept bucking and kicking and jumping. I was sure I was going to die.
Finally, my shoelace broke. My pants and shirt were ripped to shreds, but I didn’t have a scratch on me. I wasn’t hurt at all. My dad always called it a real miracle.
This experience strengthened my testimony. I know that my life was preserved by Heavenly Father. I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior and that Heavenly Father is my Father. I know that They know me and love me. I know my life was preserved for a purpose and that I need to live the best I can to perform that purpose. I know that President Thomas S. Monson is the Lord’s prophet and that this is Jesus Christ’s Church. I know these things without any doubt.

The Sabbath is clearly a day in which we worship, work, and serve, as our employment circumstances allow. Each one of us has different responsibilities to attend to. Healthcare workers, police, and other vital occupations may be required to work on Sundays. When I was working as a physician, I had to do shifts in the hospital on some Sundays as assigned by the department director. I would go early to the hospital to evaluate the patients admitted under my care dressed in trousers, a white shirt, and a tie. I kept a prayer in my heart and focused on the service that was needed for the attention of our patients. As soon as the work was done, I would go straight to church and meet with my family there for the remainder of the meetings that I was able to join.

Another experience that taught me courage happened in Sun Valley, Idaho. Some friends and I were doing construction work for the summer to earn money for college. In the evenings, we liked to walk around and see the shops, restaurants, and other tourist attractions. We often saw a certain girl, and I told my friends that I’d like to meet her. After three weeks of hearing me say this, my friends were getting annoyed.
One day, my friends and I happened to be walking into a lodge just as she was walking out. One friend called to her, “This guy has been talking about you for three weeks. He doesn’t have the nerve to ask you out. Will you go out with him?”
She looked embarrassed and startled. “I don’t know.”
My friend told her that we were going for a jeep ride in the mountains the following day and that she was welcome to come. Since it was a group outing, she agreed. I finally had my first date with Nancy without having said a word to her!
During our day in the mountains, I found out that she wasn’t a member of the Church. That evening, I gave her a Book of Mormon and invited her to read it. Before my friends and I returned to BYU, I baptized Nancy into the Church. Later, she was offered a job in Salt Lake City and moved to Utah. We continued dating, and the day after I graduated from BYU (a year from the time Nancy was baptized), we were married in the Manti Temple.

Ever since I was a little girl, I loved sports, especially football. I played whenever I could, and I dreamed of competing someday for Argentina in the Olympics or the World Games.
My dreams were shattered one day when I was 15 years old. I had just visited my sick seminary teacher and was riding my bicycle home when two gangs in my neighborhood started shooting at each other. A stray bullet hit me in the back.
When I woke up in the hospital the next day, I learned that I was paralyzed from the waist down.
While I was healing, family and friends would ask me how I was doing. I could see that they all felt bad for me, so I would console them by saying I was OK. Comforting others helped me, but I knew I wouldn’t walk again and had to learn how to live with being paralyzed.
At the time, I had started going to seminary and was becoming active again in the Church. Seminary was the pillar that supported me in coming back and in not getting mad at Heavenly Father over what had happened to me.
In seminary our teacher taught us that when bad things happen, we shouldn’t ask, “Why did this happen to me?” She said the question we should ask is, “What can I learn from this?”
It was hard to keep going and to always be positive, but my seminary teacher’s question gave me a lot of strength. When I lost hope and when doubts filled my mind, I always returned to that question: “What can I learn?” That helped me get up every day, and it carried me when I felt like giving up.

On decisions: “Decisions ought to be made in favor of our Heavenly Father. When I had an opportunity as a young woman to become a contralto with the Metropolitan Opera, I told them I’d have to pray about it. I also studied my patriarchal blessing, which promised me that my success would come in the service of the Lord. So I came home and rejoined the Tabernacle Choir.” She has the longest service record in the choir—over fifty years—making the phrase “He that hath clean hands and a pure heart” from “King of Glory” not only a sermon in song but a symbol of her life.

Last year I went on a hike with my dad and brother. We hiked deep into the canyon. We soon started exploring a side trail. We found large caves and great lookout points. We climbed higher and higher over loose rocks and steep hills.
After a while we were completely lost. We didn’t know which way to go to get to the bottom of the canyon. We got stuck in thick brush, losing sight of both the top and bottom of the canyon. I started to get really frustrated. I did not know where to go, and neither did my dad!
It was getting dark and cold, and we were far from getting out of the canyon. I knew that Heavenly Father knew which way to go.
I said, “If we want to get out of here, we need to pray!” So the three of us knelt down in prayer, asking Heavenly Father to lead us out of the canyon.
As we started to walk, a feeling told me that when I saw a straight tall tree, we should turn left. After we turned left, I saw our car. I knew that Heavenly Father helped us get out of the canyon. Heavenly Father answered our prayer, and we made it out safely—just as the sun was setting.
I am so thankful for the power of prayer and for Heavenly Father’s listening ear.

True worship is a deeply satisfying experience. Some years ago I went hiking in the Catskill Mountains with some young people to pick huckle. On this mountain there was a spring near the berry patch, so we didn’t carry any water with us. When we arrived at the spot, we found lots of big berries, but we couldn’t find the spring. After a while our thirst became almost unbearable. We quickly picked our pails full and made the long descent down the mountainside. Near the place where we had parked our car there was a crystal-clear spring of cold water. We stretched out on the grass and drank. I will never forget the intensity of my thirst and how deeply satisfying it was to drink from that spring. Worship can be like this to the true believer in Christ. The Savior told a woman in Samaria who had come to a well to draw water, “… whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst.” (John 4:14.)

Another inspired teacher in my life was Erma Bollwinkel, a member of our stake Primary board. She constantly stressed the importance of learning the Articles of Faith. In fact, we could not graduate from Primary until we successfully recited each article of faith to her—something of a challenge for rambunctious young boys, but we persevered and succeeded. I have, throughout my life, as a result, been able to recite the Articles of Faith.

For many years as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I had responsibility for East Germany, also known as the German Democratic Republic. In this assignment, my knowledge of the Articles of Faith was most helpful. On each of my visits throughout the 20 years I supervised this area, I always reminded our members in that area of the twelfth article of faith: “We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.”

Our meetings behind what was known as the Iron Curtain were always monitored by the communist government there. In the early 1980s, when we sought approval from the government officials to build a temple there, and later when we asked permission for young men and women from that area to serve missions throughout the world and for others to come into their country to serve missions, they listened and then said, “Elder Monson, we’ve watched you for 20 years, and we’ve learned we can trust you and your Church because you and your Church teach your members to obey the laws of the land.”

I can remember a Sunday School teacher telling me once that I wasn’t very spiritual. Looking back, I think she was probably concerned because I had trouble sitting quietly through a whole lesson. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. But it didn’t sound like a compliment, so I went home and thought about it. I figured that maybe spirituality meant being quiet, especially on Sundays. I wanted to be spiritual, but I needed to know what it meant.
Since that time, I have continued my search to understand spirituality and make it more a part of my character. One day I read Elder Bruce R. McConkie’s statement that “no other talent exceeds spirituality.” (The Mortal Messiah, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1982, p. 234.) This idea, that spirituality is a talent, put my search in perspective. There’s probably nothing magical about achieving spirituality. More likely, we develop it much as we develop other talents—through hard work, difficult decisions, critical choices, enduring through hard times, trying again, not giving up.
Foremost in my mind, spirituality implies doing. That makes it difficult for me because I’d much rather sit in a comfortable place and think about it, or discuss it, or read a book about it. But spirituality is God’s asking—his inviting—and our responding—our doing. It’s getting on with it without waiting around for more details.
How is action an integral part of spirituality? We do things because we want to demonstrate to our Heavenly Father that we really mean what we say. That we meant it when we made baptismal covenants with him. (See Mosiah 18:8–11.) That we mean it when we have the privilege of entering a holy temple and making other covenants. That we mean it when, in our quietest, most private moments with him, we ask for his help and make additional promises.
One evening when my parents weren’t home, I answered the telephone. It was one of my younger sisters, crying hard. “Come and get me,” she pleaded. She was calling from a party at a friend’s house where her friends had started swearing. Unknown to any of her family, she had promised Heavenly Father that she would never swear. Spirituality means honoring our promises to Heavenly Father.
Another concept that rings true for me was taught by Bishop J. Richard Clarke, formerly second counselor in the Presiding Bishopric: “It has always been the disposition of the true disciples of Christ, as they reached higher degrees of spirituality, to look after the needy.” (General Conference, April 1978.)
Who are the needy? If we speak of temporal needs, we can identify the poor quite easily. I have seen many in Africa, Asia, and other places who might be identified as “poor.” There are many who are hungry and have no food. They are thirsty and have no water. They are sick and have no medicine.
One day as I watched some women squatting by the river to wash their clothes, I pictured myself putting my clothes into a washing machine. And I wondered what I did with all the extra time I have. In a refugee camp in Thailand, I once visited with a couple as their children played nearby. One little girl knocked over a small plastic bag of rice. With great care, the parents picked up every single grain of rice and put them all back in the bag. I thought about how much food I have wasted in my life. I will never forget the moment in Indonesia when I realized that I was spending more money in a month than some people made in an entire year.
Spirituality is opposed to worldliness, and it is opposed to selfishness. To be worldly is to be concerned with the affairs, pressures, and “things” of this world to the exclusion of more important matters.
When we are worldly, we may actually be contributing to inequality in the world. Spirituality is a conscious moving away from self-indulgence. It is a consciousness that God created the earth with “enough and to spare” (see D&C 104:13–18) and that I have enough and have much to spare—to share.
When we as a people endeavor to find more to share, we reach toward a lofty goal, a society where there are no poor. “And the Lord called his people ZION, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them.” (Moses 7:18.)
But there are so many ways to be needy. There are many who mourn and find no comfort. They are lonely and find no love. Some feel unneeded and find no opportunities to share with others. Anyone who has an unmet need is needy. We are all needy! And those who have something they can share are rich. We are all rich! All of us can share something that may lift a burden or help in some silent struggle.
A friend of mine was very sick at one time. She was home alone when someone knocked at her door. She didn’t feel like getting up, but the knocking continued. Then she realized that it might be her visiting teachers. She knew they had set a goal for 100 percent; it was near the end of the month, and they hadn’t come yet.
When she saw that it was indeed her visiting teachers, she began to feel hopeful. She had a lot of undone work around her apartment. Perhaps, she thought, they might see how sick she was and offer to help. When they saw her and asked if she was all right, her hopes increased. “I’ve been so sick,” she said. “Well,” they replied, “we’ll just give you a quick lesson so you can get back to bed.”
They gave her the lesson, left, and got “credit” for their visit. My friend went back to bed and wept. She thought of times when she, too, had missed opportunities to serve because she was not as sensitive as she could have been.
How often we continue doing good out of a sense of duty, rather than reaching for a level where we do out of love. I have often wondered what would happen if we approached our visiting and home teaching with the primary goal of helping people meet their needs. I suspect that 100 percent might just happen anyway, without giving it much thought.
Spirituality is responding to our God-given ability to know right from wrong—and choosing right without delay. This means we cannot go day after day with the same excuses, the same putting off. I have always thought it’s a wonderful thing that we lose our peace of mind when we do wrong. Let us pray that we will never cause the Holy Ghost to cease striving with us. Imagine that inside each of us is a little device with many sharp points. When we do wrong, it starts to spin, and its sharp edges cause pain. When we stop doing or thinking wrong things, it stops spinning and we feel better. But if we continue doing what we know we should not, the sharp edges wear down and we no longer feel or notice the pain so much. To delay change, once we know it is needed, is to lose a measure of spirituality.
The story goes that someone once asked the great Italian artist Michaelangelo how he could transform ordinary rock into his marvelous statues. Reportedly, the artist replied that he just chiseled until everything that wasn’t the statue wasn’t there. To be spiritual means to have a sense of who we truly are and then to be that person.
Eventually, spirituality becomes such an integral part of our being that we can follow our heart’s true desires without doing anything wrong. Nephi, the son of Helaman, reached that point where there was no conflict between what he wanted and what was right. The Lord promised him, “I will bless thee forever; and I will make thee mighty in word and in deed, in faith and in works; yea, even that all things shall be done unto thee according to thy word, for thou shalt not ask that which is contrary to my will. (Hel. 10:5; italics added.)
This kind of spirituality requires that we consciously move away from all that is unkind, unholy, impure, or unchristian. It requires that we let go of anger and revenge. And it yields a peace of heart and soul. It makes us able to find good things to do without constantly being asked, pushed, or reminded.
As I observe people who seem to have developed a deep spirituality, I notice several qualities they have in common. One is the ability to communicate in a meaningful, personal way with God, to enjoy meditating and pondering. Another is a cheerfulness, an optimism, a buoyancy of spirit. Those who are spiritual also seem to be grateful—not just for obvious blessings, but for the often unnoticed joys of life. They seem genuinely happy when others succeed or receive praise. They obey with a feeling of enlightenment and sense of progression, rather than out of duty or fear or in hopes of some honor. And they seem as much concerned with being—with the state of their souls—as they are with doing.
Perhaps the trait I enjoy most in those who seem to have reached higher levels of spirituality is that they show kind, tender, active concern for others. They don’t seem to need much credit for genuine Christian service. And they seem to be able to help others without creating dependency or a feeling of indebtedness. They have a way of exalting those they help. (See D&C 104:15–16.)
They say, “Here we are, Lord. Send us!” Send us anywhere in the world where we might be of service. Send us next door with some warm bread. Send us to listen to a weary, struggling neighbor. Send us to visit a lonely friend. Send us into the next room to lift a heavy heart. Help us be in tune so that we can respond to all the big and little promptings that come. Help us go beyond “Just call if you need me” to anticipating and helping before there is desperation and helplessness.
The price God asks of each of us is the same: everything. The reward is also the same: a growing feeling of confidence and peace. I will always remember a tall Nigerian who stood in a testimony meeting and said with emotion, “I am convinced that I am a son of God!” I also like to think how Enos must have felt when he knew he was forgiven of his sins and his faith in Christ was rewarded: “Wherefore my soul did rest.” (Enos 1:17.)
May we lift and love and nourish and smile. May we visit and share and sing and serve until joy fills our souls to overflowing. Then we, with Enos, may look forward to meeting God, for we will “see his face with pleasure.” (Enos 1:27.)

“Did you sing that song when you were in Primary?” Jessica asked.
“No, ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ hadn’t been written yet when I was in Primary. Several years after Grandpa passed away, Grandma heard the Primary children sing it in sacrament meeting. She felt the Spirit so strongly that she was sure Heavenly Father was speaking right to her. Grandma loved the words because they gave her comfort in knowing that her family could be together forever.”

My friend is sometimes very bossy and does not play nicely with the other children in our neighborhood. She is sometimes mean to me too. Once I wanted to say something to her but was scared, so I talked it over with my mom. She gave me some ideas of what to say and practiced it with me a few times. Now I am able to handle this situation by myself. I remind my friend to be nice when she forgets.
Bela T., age 7, North Carolina

When I was a little boy, about five or six years old, I sat at the dinner table with my large family and listened as the others discussed tithing. They told me that tithing is one-tenth of all we earn and it is paid to the Lord by those who love Him.
After dinner I got the little money I had saved and figured out what I owed the Lord. I then went to the only room in the house with a lock on the door, the bathroom, and there knelt by the bathtub. Holding the three or four coins in my upturned hand, I asked the Lord to accept them—certain that He would do so. I remember pleading with the Lord for some time, but when the money remained in my hand, no little boy could have felt more rejected. The Lord had accepted tithing from my parents and from all of my older brothers. Why not from me? As I rose from my knees I felt so unworthy that I could not tell anyone what had happened. Only the Lord knew.
Primary day arrived a few days later. The teacher said that she felt impressed to talk about something that was not in the lesson. I sat amazed as she then taught us how to pay tithing. What I then learned was far more important than knowing how to pay tithing. The Lord had heard and answered my prayer. I learned that the Lord loved me and I was important to Him.
So tender was the memory of that occasion that for more than thirty years I could not share it. Even today, after sixty years, it is still difficult or impossible to tell without it bringing tears to my eyes and a quiver to my voice. The pity is that that wonderful teacher never knew that through her the Lord spoke to a small boy.

Recent floods had caused devastation in Kerala. The Kerala flood relief camp was organized by our Bengaluru Stake to provide relief to people in the Wyanad area. I accompanied other Saints of our stake to offer humanitarian aid.
One morning as I was at the relief camp, I read a message on the ward’s WhatsApp group. I felt shocked after reading the message that Brother Michael’s health was in serious condition, and he was taken to his native place, Madurai, Tamil Nadu, for hospitalization. I offered a silent prayer for his health to improve and that I would get an opportunity to visit him. Brother Michael and Sister Rabi were diligent members in attending the regional language Sunday School in our ward.
The very next Sunday after returning from relief work, Brother Karthikeyan approached me and asked me if I would be interested to join with him to visit Brother Michael. I immediately accepted the offer to visit and was so happy. We travelled by train and reached Madurai the next day morning. We then went from the railway station straight away to the Madurai Meenakshi Mission Hospital. Before we reached hospital, we heard his second son, Allwyn, was also admitted in the same hospital in a different ward due to his health problem. The same morning we visited both of these brethren. They were lying on their beds, and Brother Michael’s condition was very critical. He was not able to recognize who we were, and the doctors were not able to let us know his condition. All they told us was that he needed to be in medical observation—which means each part of his body function needed to be observed. We as priesthood brethren administered priesthood blessings with faith to both father and son, and we comforted Sister Rabi and their older son.
We then headed to the train station where we refreshed ourselves at the railway station waiting room, and we headed to visit a nearby place in the local train. While we were halfway there, Brother Karthikeyan told me that we need to head back to the hospital. It was purely an inspiration. We reached the hospital and to our surprise, for we just could not believe our own eyes, Brother Michael had gotten up from his bed and was sitting. What a miracle! He was unable to get up from his bed before, but he was able to now. Our beloved Heavenly Father, through the Holy Spirit, had blessed him.
Now the same day in the evening he was able to recognize who we were, and he spoke to us a few words. I was able to shoot some videos with him, and when I asked him what he would like to convey to our ward members, he showed a “thumbs up” sign and asked me share the videos I recorded of him in the hospital to the regional language Sunday School class members.
Yet another miracle happened with the blessing of the priesthood, and this didn’t end with him. Afterward we visited his son Allwyn. He told us that the doctors wanted him to get discharged the next day, while his health was fine and he had recovered sufficiently to go home.
“Ministering and exercising the priesthood at the right time with faith brings blessings. I believe blessings to others will never stop . . . miracles will never cease.”

Ronald Millet of Long Beach, California, has a book of remembrance of his own that is complete with certificates to prove his birth, baptism, graduation from Primary, and ordinations in the Aaronic Priesthood, with achievement awards for each year. He has many special events recorded that show his progress thus far in his spiritual journey.

As a dedication to his father, who died three years ago, he is compiling and writing a very remarkable life story in the form of a book of remembrance. Through a lively correspondence with his dad’s former friends and personal interviews with relatives and old friends, he has built a beautiful memorial and testimony of the life of his father. Many testimonies and incidents that might have been lost are now written down and illustrated with available pictures. What a literal treasure.

This book has been arranged in chapters dealing with the different periods in the life of his father, such as childhood, schools, mission, and church activities. Ronald said, “I look forward to each day that I am able to spend with my father’s life story. I have uncovered so many accomplishments that I did not know of before. I hope I can carry on his honored name.”

“I know why they’re going to tear the old Bently place down,” Troy announced late one afternoon as night was starting to creep around us. “It’s because it’s haunted!” he said in a whisper.
“Everybody knows that,” Shane muttered, swallowing hard and glancing down the street toward the Bently house.
As long as I could remember, we had all been afraid of the old Bently house. Nobody had lived in it for years. Most of the windows were boarded up, the paint had peeled off, and the doors that were left sagged and squeaked on their hinges.
Dad said that he could remember when there had been tall oak trees, green lawn, and trimmed bushes all around the house. The oak trees were still there, standing like big bushy giants around the old house to guard it and keep snoopers away. But the lawn had been taken over by weeds, and the bushes were nothing but tangles. Every time I had to pass the Bently house, I shuddered and tried not to look as I sprinted past it.
“Do you figure any ghosts live there?” I asked, glancing first at Troy and Shane and then at Justin, who was sitting beside me.
“The place is packed with them,” Shane answered.
“Once, I walked up on the front porch and peeked in the window,” I bragged.
Troy, Shane, and Justin looked at me. I could tell that they didn’t believe me. “It was afternoon, though,” I explained, shrugging my shoulders, “and I was with my Uncle Dan. But it was still kind of scary.”
“What did you see, Jimmy?” Shane wanted to know.
“Nothing. It was too dark, and something started banging on the side of the house. I was halfway home in about three steps. I didn’t want to go back, even with Uncle Dan.”
“I wouldn’t just go up on the Bently porch,” Troy said in his cocky way. “I’d go right inside!”
We stared at Troy. He was the biggest kid in the neighborhood, the strongest and the bravest too. If anybody would dare go into the Bently house, Troy would.
“I would too,” Shane boasted.
I licked my lips and added, “Me too.”
We looked at Justin, waiting for him to make his brag. He just sat there, his eyes wide and his face looking a little white. He swallowed and rasped uneasily, “Mom and Dad told me to stay away from the Bently house.”
“Don’t blame your mom and dad,” Troy scoffed. “You’re just chicken.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts. My dad said that I could get hurt in there because it’s falling apart. And that’s why they’re going to tear it down—not because of ghosts.”
Troy jumped to his feet, stuck out his chest, and put on his toughest look. “Jimmy and Shane and I are going in there right now,” he said. “If you don’t come, you’re just chicken.”
I felt my heart flip-flop in my chest, and it felt like someone had sucked all my breath away. Mom and Dad had told me to stay away from the house too. I just didn’t know how to tell Troy and Shane that. I slowly got to my feet and stood next to Troy, and Shane followed me.
We looked at Justin, who was looking at the ground. For a long time he didn’t say anything. Finally he looked up and said, “I’m not afraid—well, maybe a little—but the main reason I’m not going is that Mom and Dad told me not to.”
Right then I was wishing that I could tell Troy and Shane that I couldn’t go either, for the same reason, but I didn’t have the nerve.
“You’re just a chicken!” Troy sneered at Justin. “But if you want to hang around with us any more, you’d better come with us.”
“You could get hurt in that old house,” Justin insisted.
Troy laughed, and Shane and I joined in. “What a chicken!” Shane gave Justin a little shove. “Go on home to your mommy so that nothing will get you.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing that my mouth wasn’t so dry and my heart wasn’t beating so fast. “Go home and let your mom tuck you into bed.”
Leaving Justin standing there, the three of us started toward the Bently house. We laughed and bragged all the way, telling each other that we weren’t afraid of anything. But every time I laughed, I got a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach.
Outside the Bently house we stopped. Shadows were lurking everywhere, making strange, scary shapes.
“Do you think we ought to get a flashlight?” Shane asked. His voice cracked, and he coughed to cover it up.
“We don’t need a flashlight,” Troy muttered. “Flashlights are for sissies like Justin.”
I wanted a flashlight. I wanted one bad! But I didn’t want to be called a chicken, so I just looked over at Troy and asked, “How are we going to get in?”
“In back. Just to the side of the big oak tree, there’s a window that we can squeeze through. The boards have fallen off.”
We found the window that Troy had told us about, and we had to pull off two more boards to make a hole big enough to climb through. Shane and I helped Troy through first; then he helped pull us up into the house.
A few gray bars of light streaked across the room from cracks in the windows. It smelled musty, and when we moved, the boards under our feet creaked and groaned. And when we just stood still, the house made creaking, groaning noises all by itself.
“Well, we’re inside,” I squeaked. “Now we can say that we’ve been in the—”
“We’re not going to just stop here!” Troy broke off my sentence with contempt. “Just coming in the window’s nothing. We need to explore.”
“Shouldn’t we have a light, though?” I asked.
“Are you chicken like Justin?”
“Yeah,” Shane joined in, “are you chicken too?”
I shook my head—not that they could see it—and wished that I was with Justin.
“Let’s go,” Troy ordered.
We started shuffling forward. I could barely see Troy and Shane as we left the first room and tiptoed down a long, dark hall. Cobwebs brushed against my face, and dust filled my nose. Suddenly the flooring beneath our feet began to shudder. We all froze, not knowing which way to go. Then the floorboards buckled. Before we knew it, we were falling into a deep, dark hole with dust and boards tumbling about us. I heard somebody scream. It seemed like we were going to fall forever. Then my feet jarred against something solid, and I sprawled forward on my face.
I lay still, wondering if I was still alive. My arms felt like they’d been scraped half off, and my side burned like it had the time I fell off my skateboard onto the pavement. I was just getting ready to try to move, when I heard a groan.
“Oh, my arm!” someone whimpered. “My arm’s killing me. I can’t even move it.”
“Is that you, Troy?” I heard Shane ask.
The only answer from Troy was more moaning and groaning.
“Where are we?” I called out. “I can’t see anything.”
“Probably in the cellar,” Shane answered. “We shouldn’t have come into this creepy old house,” he sobbed. “I didn’t really want to come here. It’s all your fault, Troy. It was your great idea!”
Troy’s only answer was, “Oh, my arm. I think I broke my arm.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked, sitting up. I was sore, but I didn’t have any broken bones.
“I hope somebody finds us,” Shane whimpered.
“Who’s going to find us?” I snapped. “Nobody even knows we’re here.”
“Justin knows,” Shane said hopefully.
“But we sent him away,” I reminded him. “He won’t know we’re missing until tomorrow. Besides, after calling him a chicken, he won’t want to help us, anyway.”
Shane and I managed to get to our feet, and we started yelling, hoping that someone would hear us. But the sound seemed to stay down in the hole with us.
Finally we sat down quietly, breathing hard and staring into the blackness. Then we heard footsteps. They were faint at first, and I wondered if I was just hearing the creaky sounds of the house. Then they got louder and louder and closer and closer.
“What’s that?” Shane rasped.
“Can you hear it too?” I whispered.
Even Troy stopped his moaning as the footsteps came closer. Then a dim, yellowish light shone above us, and Justin called out, “Jimmy! Is that you?”
“Justin!” I started to breathe again. “How’d you find us?”
“I waited. When you didn’t come out, I ran home and got a flashlight.”
“Get us out of here,” Shane whimpered. “We’re stuck.”
“And Troy’s hurt,” I added. “He thinks that his arm’s broken.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get help.”
It seemed like Justin was gone forever. But finally we heard voices. Justin’s dad was there, and so were Shane’s dad and Brother Richards and Rusty Hammond and my dad and Troy’s dad. They had ropes and a ladder and had us out of there almost before we knew it. Everybody was pretty sure that Troy’s arm was broken, so his dad hurried him off to the hospital.
That very night our dads boarded up the Bently house tighter than ever. Shane, Justin, and I just stood out by the curb and watched them work.
“I’m sorry for calling you a chicken,” Shane mumbled to Justin.
“Me, too,” I said.
Justin shrugged. “It’s OK.”
“No it isn’t,” I added. “We were wrong. We said that you were afraid because you wouldn’t go into the house with us, but we were the ones who were really afraid. At least I was. I was the real chicken.”
Justin stared at me, not quite understanding.
“I was afraid to say no. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to go into that old house, but I was afraid to tell Shane and Troy no. I was afraid that they would call me a chicken too. I was afraid to do what was right.”
Shane nodded his agreement.
I thought a moment. “I guess a lot of times it takes more courage not to do something than it takes to do it.” I smiled over at Justin. “Thanks for saving us. I don’t know what Troy or Shane think, but you can be my friend anytime.”

As a study abroad student in Jerusalem, I participated in this commemorative event. Standing with a palm reed in my hand, I was inspired by how many other Christians had traveled to the Holy City because they loved and wanted to celebrate Jesus Christ.
People sang, cheered, praised, and danced. Just like in Jesus’s time, they waved their leaves from the top of the Mount of Olives, down to the Kidron Valley, past the Garden of Gethsemane, and into the Old City. Throughout the procession, I heard continuous shouts of “Hosanna!”
It was an experience I’ll never forget.

This important truth was evidenced some years ago as a member of the Seventy was on assignment in Hong Kong. He visited a very humble ward that was struggling in many ways, unable to provide for its own needs. As the bishop described their situation, the General Authority felt the impression to have the members pay their tithing. The bishop, knowing their dire circumstances, was concerned about how he could carry out that counsel. He thought about it and decided he would approach some of the most faith-filled members of his ward and ask them to pay their tithing. The next Sunday he went to the Primary. He taught the children about the Lord’s law of tithing and asked if they would be willing to pay tithing on the money they earned. The children said they would. And they did.

The bishop later went to the adults in the ward and shared with them that for the past six months their faithful children had been paying tithing. He asked them if they would be willing to follow the example of these children and do the same. The people were so touched by the sacrifices the children were willing to make that they did what was necessary to pay their tithing. And the windows of heaven were opened. With the example of these faithful children, a ward grew in obedience and in testimony.

One Sunday morning some 30 years ago, while I was serving in a stake presidency, we received a telephone call from one of our faithful bishops. He explained that his ward had grown so rapidly that he could no longer provide a meaningful calling to all worthy members. His plea to us was that we divide the ward. While waiting for such approval, we decided as a stake presidency that we would visit the ward and call all these wonderful, worthy brothers and sisters to be stake missionaries.

About the third person I visited was a young female student attending the local university. After chatting for a few moments, I issued the call to serve as a missionary. There was silence for a few moments. Then she said, “President, don’t you know that I am not active in the Church?”

After a few moments of silence on my part, I said, “No, I did not know you were not active.”

She answered, “I have not been active in the Church for years.” Then she said, “Don’t you know that when you have been inactive, it’s not all that easy to come back?”

I responded, “No. Your ward starts at 9:00 a.m. You come into the chapel, and you are with us.”

She answered, “No, it is not that easy. You worry about a lot of things. You worry if someone will greet you or if you will sit alone and unnoticed during the meetings. And you worry about whether you will be accepted and who your new friends will be.”

With tears rolling down her cheeks, she continued, “I know that my mother and father have been praying for me for years to bring me back into the Church.” Then after a moment of silence, she said, “For the last three months I have been praying to find the courage, the strength, and the way to come back into activity.” Then she asked, “President, do you suppose this calling could be an answer to those prayers?”

My eyes started to water as I responded, “I believe the Lord has answered your prayers.”

She not only accepted the call; she became a fine missionary. And I’m certain she brought much joy not only to herself but also to her parents and probably other family members.

Levi didn’t have his mind on Primary that Sunday. He was still angry with his older brother, Jason.
Jason had just gotten his driver’s license. Last week, he had run over Levi’s bike, even though Levi had carefully parked it at the side of the garage. Levi had saved his own money to buy the bike. It had taken a long time.
“I’m really sorry. I’ll fix it up just like new,” Jason promised.
Levi looked at the crumpled fender. “It won’t be the same.”
Jason apologized again, but Levi refused to listen. “If you weren’t such a crummy driver, you wouldn’t have wrecked my bike.”
“I told you I’d fix the bike.” Jason didn’t sound so sorry now.
Levi stomped off, locking himself in his room for the rest of the afternoon and coming out only when Mom insisted he join the family for dinner.
That was last Wednesday. Levi had held onto his grudge for four days. It bothered him, being angry at Jason. Still, he didn’t feel like forgiving his brother.
After opening exercises and singing time, Sister McClure, the second counselor in the Primary presidency, presented Sharing Time to the older children. Starting with Levi’s class, she passed around a small paper cup. “Take one and pass it on,” she said.
Levi reached inside the cup and found it filled with pebbles.
“Put a pebble into your shoe,” she said. “Now try walking in place.”
Levi lifted up his foot and brought it down again. The little stone felt funny against his foot. He tried to move it to a more comfortable spot, but it kept rubbing against his foot.
“Now reverently walk around the room,” Sister McClure instructed.
Some of the children started giggling but stopped when Sister McClure reminded them to be reverent. A couple of the younger children started to limp and bent down to remove their stones.
Levi kept the pebble in his shoe. It began to feel a lot bigger as he walked.
After a few minutes, Sister McClure told the children to take their seats and remove the pebbles from their shoes. Once more, she passed around the paper cup and asked the children to put the pebbles inside.
Then she explained, “Those little pebbles are like the feelings we have when we don’t forgive someone who has offended us. They can start out small but then feel bigger and bigger.”
“What if the person who did something to hurt us isn’t really sorry?” Levi wanted to know.
“Sometimes we need to forgive, even when the other person doesn’t apologize or repent,” Sister McClure responded.
Sister McClure told a story about a time when the Prophet Joseph Smith forgave one of his friends who had betrayed him. Levi felt a lump in his throat as he listened to how the Prophet had forgiven William W. Phelps, even though Brother Phelps had conspired with the mobs who persecuted the Church and its leaders.
Levi thought about Sister McClure’s lesson during the rest of Primary. Following dinner that evening, when his parents asked family members what they had learned in church, Levi told them about the pebbles.
“How did your foot feel by the time you took the pebble out?” his dad asked.
“My foot was a little sore,” Levi admitted. “Sister McClure compared walking around with a pebble in your shoe to carrying a grudge and refusing to forgive someone who offended you.”
“It sounds like one of Mom’s object lessons,” his little sister, Annie, said.
Everyone laughed. The whole family knew that Mom liked to use objects in the lessons she gave for family home evening.
Before he went to bed, Levi knocked on Jason’s door. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk,” he said when Jason opened the door. “I know you didn’t mean to run over my bike.”
“Hey, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Jason pulled Levi into a bear hug and lifted him off the floor. “What do you say we work on the bike together tomorrow after school? I’ll ask Dad if we can use his tools.”
“Great!” Levi said, and as he went to his room, he thought, “I really do feel great!”

Lucy thought about the day she had come to Grandma Irma’s house to visit and they had decided to drive over to the post office and get the mail. When they arrived home, Grandma discovered that she had locked the keys in the house. So they pushed out the screen in the bedroom window, and Grandma hoisted Lucy up. Lucy had climbed in the window, trotted through the house, and unlocked the door. When they found the keys on the kitchen table, they laughed until their tummies ached.