Gospel Story Finder

Not content with merely being very good, the post gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better.
In the ward cultural hall balloons squeak as several clowns practice making balloon animals under Howard’s guidance. Others work on a skit. Brother Buchanan’s voice is heard. “Remember to work the crowd. Don’t just stand around. Work the crowd. Get them involved!”
Howard is demonstrating an airplane. Dr. Funnybones, experimenting, suddenly discovers that he has created a monkey hanging from a branch. Several other clowns stop to look. “How did you do that?”
Dr. Funnybones looks at his creation in awe. “I have absolutely no idea.” There is a camaraderie here, a palpable warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The Explorers have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.

Completing the picture. My husband and I and our three children decided that we would each read the Book of Mormon individually. We cut a print of an ancient prophet holding golden plates into five pieces. Each family member was responsible to complete the picture by completing our reading. Our youngest son does not read yet, so I read an illustrated Book of Mormon with him.One by one we finished our reading and began to pray for those still working on the challenge. We all finished by the end of the year, and we showed by following the living prophet that we value the words of our ancient prophets. Cinara Lilian Leão Machado, São Carlos, Brazil

When Peter returned after completing his mission, he quickly began the routine of work and visits to the hospital as he continued with corrective surgery. At this time, he was called to serve a stake mission. In this capacity he met the secretary to the stake mission president, Marjorie Clegg of Tooele, Utah. They became good friends, and Peter started arranging dates for her with his friends. Finally, after having had too many dates arranged for her, Marjorie asked him to please not arrange any more dates for her. Peter asked her for a date for himself. Based on a foundation of friendship, the relationship grew into love, and they were married.
Except for the very first time Marjorie met me, she never seemed to notice my burns. I’m very much aware of people noticing that I’m different. I’ve never noticed that Marjorie ever thought me any different on the outside than she found me on the inside. She makes me feel very handsome. I love her not only because she’s my sweetheart, but because she’s my very best friend. She is the girl I prayed for who would take me for what I am on the inside. That’s what I needed because I couldn’t get very far using the outside.

When I was a small boy, even too young to go to school, I lived on a farm with my aunt and uncle in Burley, Idaho. My uncle had a dog named Shepherd that I loved with all my heart. Shepherd was getting old when our friendship started, but we still spent hundreds of hours together. We dreamed our dreams, and we accomplished great feats within our little kingdom.
But Shepherd, my true and loving companion, was moving through life much faster than I was. After a while, I noticed that he no longer wanted to bark at the ducks, jump across ditch banks, or follow me out to the green alfalfa field. He was content to simply lie in the shade by the house and watch me come and go. Although I respected his wishes, I missed the times we had shared.
One morning my uncle came to me and said, “Francis, Shepherd is very, very old, and he is ill.”
“What can I do to help him get better?” I asked.
“He can’t get better,” was my uncle’s reply. “We have to take him to the animal doctor so his pain and suffering will last no longer.”
Running to Shepherd, I knew I would have to say good-bye forever to the friend I loved so dearly. Locking my arms around his neck, I was determined to protect him, as he had so often protected me.
I remembered the time he had saved me from an angry, charging, muskrat. And how, after a few loud barks from my faithful friend, a man-eating water snake changed its course, leaving me happy to be alive.
But my strength and size were no match for the mature strength of my uncle, who with loving care and understanding pried me loose from old Shepherd. Frantically I tried to regain hold of my friend. As I grabbed him, a tuft of hair came off in my hand.
Unable to control the pressure in my small body, heartbroken sobs came from deep within my soul. My battle was lost; my beloved pet would be gone forever.
Sorrow filled my young life. There was no joy because there was no hope I’d ever see Shepherd again. I lost all interest in adventuring to the apple orchard, watching white fluffy clouds, or playing in the big tree.
A few days later, my uncle asked me if I would like to go to Park Valley with him while he rode for cattle. Usually when my uncle went to Park Valley, I loved to go with him. I’d spend long hours with my cousin, exploring old barns, bird’s nests, and cedar draws (shallow ravines). But now my heart wasn’t in it. I said, “Thanks, but I don’t feel like going.”
“Well, Francis, it’s up to you,” he replied. “But you can be miserable there just as well as here. Besides, it will be a good change of scenery.”
I wasn’t sure he was right, but I finally decided to go.
We were quiet as we climbed into the truck. I knew that my uncle was trying to think of something to say that would make me feel better. Finally he spoke. “Francis, do you see that outcrop of rocks along the ridge of that mountain?”
“Yes,” I replied, puzzled. I had seen that ridge many times, and I wondered why he wanted me to look at it again.
“If you could see old Shepherd now, he would probably be on that ridge, running like the wind. He’d be free from all the aches and pains he suffered.”
I asked, “How could Shepherd be dead and still run along the crest of that rimrock?”
“When Old Shepherd died,” he replied, “his spirit became separated from his body. His mortal body was buried, but his spirit body didn’t die. Spirits are always alive.”
So that’s how Shepherd can run and jump now, I thought happily as my mind locked onto this new and exciting idea. Then I asked, “If I could see Shepherd’s spirit, could I hug him around the neck and could he lick me on the cheek?”
“No,” my uncle said. “We can’t feel a spirit because spirits are made of a material different from mortal bodies.”
My young heart grew heavy again. What fun would Shepherd be if I could never give him a hug, or scratch him, or wrestle with him. Would I never be able to have those experiences with my beloved dog again? Sadly I asked, “Will I ever be able to touch old Shepherd again, or will we only be able to sit around and look at each other?”
Smiling, my uncle said, “The time will come when you will be able to feel him bump against you and feel him lick your hand.”
Suddenly I felt happier than I had for a whole month. Now questions began to tumble out of my mouth. “When will I be able to touch him again? What will happen to make it possible to touch Shepherd again? Who is able to do this wonderful thing?”
What joy filled my little chest! Perhaps there was a way to get my dog back after all.
“Hold on a minute,” my uncle said. “Catch your breath, and I’ll answer your questions. Do you remember hearing of Jesus Christ?”
I nodded. “Yes, you’ve told me a lot about Him. And every time I go to church, my Primary teachers talk about Him.”
“Do you remember what He did when He lived on the earth?”
“I remember that He was really good, and He made people well,” I said. “But some people put Him to death by nailing Him to a big wooden cross.”
“So Jesus died, is that right?” my uncle asked.
“Yes,” I answered quietly.
“What happened to Jesus when He died?”
I wasn’t exactly sure, but I decided to venture a guess. “If Shepherd’s body separated from his spirit when he died, then Jesus’ body must have separated from His spirit when He died, too.”
“That’s exactly right,” my uncle said. “So when this happened to Jesus, where did His followers put His body?”
I knew the answer to that one. “They put His body in a cave place and put a great stone in front of the way in.”
“Right again. Now, did His body stay in that cave forever?”
“No,” I replied. “Three days later a lady came to see if His body was OK. But when she got there, she saw an angel who told her that Jesus was gone.”
“Yes,” my uncle said, nodding. “And do you know why Jesus wasn’t there?”
“He came alive again.”
“That’s right—He came alive again. And that’s called the Resurrection. Resurrection is when, after a person or animal dies, his or her body and spirit come back together again. Jesus made it possible for everyone to be resurrected.”
“Even animals?” I asked eagerly.
“Even animals.”
“You mean that Shepherd will someday get his body back and that I will be able to touch him?” I whooped with joy.
“Yes,” my uncle assured me. “Even old Shepherd will get his body back. But this time he won’t have any aches or pains.”
At that moment all the sorrow and pain I felt for my beloved pet was gone. It was replaced with love and gratitude for Jesus, who had died and come alive again. He made it possible for everyone, even animals, to have their bodies forever.

Another insight on building a marital relationship on the rock of Jesus Christ is found in Ephesians 4:26: “Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.” This particular verse has likely been the source of the advice often given to newlyweds, “Never go to bed angry.” My wife, Susan, and I were given this advice by a well-meaning relative when we were married. I joke that there was one time during our first year of marriage when we went nearly three days without sleep! Many married couples may realize, as we did early in our marriage, that late at night when they are tired is not always the best time to resolve conflicts. But undoubtedly the spirit of Paul’s counsel to the Ephesians would motivate us to resolve conflicts quickly so they do not persist and grow more intense over time. The Savior also admonished His disciples to resolve conflicts with dispatch so they could approach their God with pure hearts (see Matt. 5:23–24).

When I was a child, my mother introduced me to the nature of God with a story from her own childhood: “As a little girl, I walked home from school with my brother. We always took a shortcut past a large black dog that chased us as we ran by his house. If we ran at just the right time, we could make it to a fence and to safety. My brother would tell me when to run.

“One day I was alone and didn’t run at the right time. The dog threatened me, and I froze on the sidewalk in terror. As he lunged toward me, I cried out as loud as I could, ‘Heavenly Father, help me!’”

Suddenly, my mother recalled, the dog halted as if his way had been barred, and she crawled through the fence to safety. She knew her prayer had been answered.
That story told me much about the God my mother worshiped. It gave me a sense of security, a comfort I could not have put into words.

William’s heart beat a little faster. He knew it was wrong to tease the old blind shoemaker, but at the same time, it was exciting being out after dark with his friends. Even the fear of getting caught was not enough to make him turn back. William watched as the kerosene lamps were turned low inside the houses that lined the main street of their small town. The lights flickered and went out, but in one house a lamp continued to burn.
Wilhelm Dithmer sat on his front porch playing his clarinet.
William reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pebbles. His bare feet padded quietly through the dirt along the side of the road, and he and his friends approached the house that was Wilhelm Dithmer’s home and shoe shop.
William let his small stones fly and watched as the man jumped at the sound of the rocks raining above his head onto the tin roof.
“Stop! Come back!” Wilhelm stood and waved his fist into the air.
The boys laughed and darted away. “See you tomorrow,” William called to his friends as he headed for home.
In the light of early morning, William lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The thrill seeking of the night before was haunting in daylight. What was it his father had said about the shoemaker—something about him going blind because he had the measles when he was a boy? And had he really been an orphan in Denmark?
The day seemed longer to William than usual. What was this uncomfortable feeling? Still, after school he agreed to meet with his friends again that night.
As he crept up the street watching for the lights to dim, William heard the sounds of Wilhelm’s clarinet. The melody was high and mournful. William stopped a moment to listen. Every night, Wilhelm closed up the shoe shop and then sat on his porch to play his music. It had become almost a ritual, but tonight the notes ended abruptly. William listened, but the only noise was the croaking of the bullfrogs.
William drew back his arm to throw the stones in his hand, but suddenly someone grabbed his arm.
“Help!” William cried, but the other boys ran away. “Let me go!” William struggled to loose himself from Wilhelm’s grasp.
“I only want to show you something,” Wilhelm said.
William stopped squirming, curious why the man did not scold him or call out for the authorities. “What?” William asked.
“I want to play a song for you on my clarinet,” Wilhelm said. “But first, promise me that you will not run away.”
William didn’t know what to say. “I guess,” he said at last.
“No,” Wilhelm said. “Promise.”
“All right,” William said. “I promise.”
Wilhelm relaxed his hold. He led William to his front porch and sat down in his chair. William watched as Wilhelm took a deep breath and began to play his clarinet. The melody lifted soft and sweet into the night air.
William sat still and listened. What must it have been like to grow up alone in Copenhagen? How hard would it be to lose both a father and a mother? He couldn’t imagine leaving his home and traveling across the ocean by himself to a strange land where no one understood the language he spoke. All the heartache of Wilhelm’s life seemed to be played out in the notes that came from the clarinet.
Wilhelm finished. He placed the clarinet across his knees and waited for William to respond, but the boy was silent.
“What is your name?” Wilhelm asked.
William hesitated. He wanted to reach out and touch the clarinet, but if he told the man his name, he would surely get into trouble. Still, there were not many musical instruments in the town.
“My name is William,” he said. “Almost like yours.”
“Well then, William,” Wilhelm said with his strong Danish accent. “Would you like me to teach you how to play my clarinet?”
“You would teach me how to play?” William asked.
“I will teach you to play my clarinet. If you practice very hard and learn to play well, I may even help you buy one of these for yourself. Maybe we could start a band.”
“A real band?” William asked. “Like the ones that play at dances?” This wasn’t at all what he had expected.
Wilhelm nodded. “But you must stop raining pebbles on my roof. And you must come every day after school to practice.”
William did learn to play, and so did his friends. They played for high school dances. They played when the town put on their Christmas plays. They played in the outdoor pavilion on warm summer nights. Long after their school days ended, the band stayed together.
For years, Wilhelm gave free music lessons in the evening after working all day in his shop. When Wilhelm died, many of his students played music at his funeral. William, now a grown man, was one of them.

Susan: “By the time Church policy had changed to allow worthy women who have nonmember husbands to attend the temple, I had been a member for six years—long enough to know how eternally significant the covenants are, and also long enough to know the difficulties in keeping those covenants.

“Time passed, and I was still making excuses. Then a friend asked, ‘Susan, when are you going to the temple?’ Something within me responded positively to that question. Soon some of my close friends and I went to the temple, where I received my endowment.

“One of the reasons I had hesitated about the temple was that I feared that my increased knowledge and commitment would widen the gap between my husband and me. But as I prayed about it, I came to feel that following the counsel of the Lord and his prophets—in short, practicing obedience—could only help me become a better Latter-day Saint and, therefore, a better person, a better spouse.

“The hard part is to remember that the covenants I’ve made in the temple are mine, not my husband’s. I try not to expect him to live according to covenants he has not made.”

Listen to the kind of recreation the Saints held under the Prophet’s direction in Nauvoo. On February 20, 1843, a “woodcutting bee” was held at the Prophet’s home. Seventy brethren attended. They sawed, chopped, split, and piled up a large stack of wood in the yard, which served not only the Prophet’s family, but also the many persons they helped out. “The day was spent by them with much pleasantry, good humor, and feeling,” says the record. “A white oak log, measuring five feet four inches in diameter, was cut through with a cross-cut saw, in four-and-a-half minutes, by Hyrum Dayton and Brother John Tidwell.” This tree had been previously cut by the Prophet himself, and he had hauled it to the yard with his team.13

I didn’t want Valjean to die.

Not Jean Valjean, the character from Les Misérables, my favorite novel. I knew his fate. Rather, Valjean my potted plant. He was the lone survivor in a long line of indoor plants who had curled up their roots and done a swan dive into the dumpster.

And though he had long outlasted his predecessors, Valjean looked as if his days too were now numbered. The long, slender leaves were turning brown. The plant drooped as if under a heavy burden. Extra water and fertilizer only seemed to make things worse.

I know it sounds silly, but Valjean’s condition truly upset me. Only a month earlier, my father-in-law had passed away. Two weeks later, my own father passed away. In the midst of all that loss, my failing plant affected me more than it should have.

While staring glumly at Valjean, I had the thought that I should pray. I have to admit, the notion struck me as odd. Pray over a plant? After all, I could simply get another. I always had before. Yet the feeling persisted, and so I uttered a short prayer for my faltering vegetation. Immediately afterward, I had the distinct impression that a little bit of knowledge would go a long way. So I did some research.

My life has been a lot greener ever since. Along the way, I’ve learned plenty of spiritual parallels to plant care that help me in other areas of my life.

There’s another concern that’s less obvious. Many plants don’t respond well to chemicals often found in tap water (particularly chlorine). This is what was killing off Valjean one poisonous sip at a time. I learned in my research to allow tap water to sit for 24 hours before using it. This allows the chlorine to escape the water. That one trick—along with cutting back on the amount of water—turned Valjean’s health around.

When I prayed for help in saving Valjean the plant, I never guessed I would learn as much as I have about caring for plants. Since then, I’ve been able to keep a thriving variety of plants alive and healthy, as well as grow new plants from clippings to give to friends and family just for fun. It’s become a rewarding hobby.

And Valjean is still growing strong!

This experience helped me to learn even more deeply that God is involved in the details of our lives. For me, one main lesson I take away is this: I should always follow a prompting to pray, even if it seems too small a matter. You never know what might grow from it.

At school that morning, Marcus noticed a new boy walk into the classroom.
“Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Becker said as everyone quieted down. “This is Halim. He is new to our school. In fact, he is new to our country.”
Halim kept looking at the floor as he said hello. Marcus thought his voice sounded kind of different. Mrs. Becker kept talking.
“We are so glad he is here and that he is going to be part of our class. I hope we can all help him feel welcome.”
As Mrs. Becker showed Halim where to sit, Marcus thought about how nervous he would feel if he had to move to a new country and a new school.
After their morning snack, Mrs. Becker told everyone she had a surprise for them. Marcus sat up really straight so he could see what she was pulling out of her bag. They were small buckets. She started passing them out to everyone in the class.
“Each one of us has an imaginary bucket inside of ourselves,” she said as she handed Marcus a yellow bucket. “People fill our buckets when they do nice things for us. And we can fill others’ buckets by being nice to them. For example, when your mom gives you a hug, she is filling your bucket. When you say something nice to someone, you are filling their bucket.”
Marcus looked at his best friend, Caleb. He got a yellow bucket too!
“This week, we’ll keep these buckets on our desks so we can write nice notes for each other,” Mrs. Becker said. She folded up a little piece of paper and dropped it in a bucket. “And that will help us remember the imaginary buckets everyone has inside. We want to be kind so that we are bucket fillers.”
Marcus pulled out a piece of paper and thought of the things he could write to Caleb, like that he was good at sports. But then he looked at Halim. His shoulders were kind of bent over, like he was sad.
Marcus wondered if Halim had a best friend where he used to live. It must have been hard to say goodbye and scary to move so far away.
Marcus looked down at the blank piece of paper on his desk. He had an idea, then he wrote,
“Dear Halim,
Welcome to our school. If you want, we can play at recess. I will be your friend. And I bet Caleb will be your friend too.
From, Marcus.”
Then he carefully folded the paper up and dropped it in Halim’s bucket. Halim smiled. Marcus felt warm and happy inside. He liked being a bucket filler!

Not long after our friend Carolyn Rasmus joined the faculty of Brigham Young University, a group of her new teaching colleagues invited her to join them on a Saturday hike in the mountains above Provo. Carolyn was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but she had felt particularly welcome in her new circle of associates. She eagerly joined them for the climb.
As the sun steadily rose, so did the hikers on the mountainside. Then, as the ten o’clock hour approached, the group began to find places to sit down. Carolyn thought, “This is wonderful. How did they know I needed the rest?” and she, too, looked for a comfortable spot to stretch out. But the participants seemed unusually earnest about this particular break, some pulling out pencils and notebooks while one intently dialed a transistor radio.
What then happened would be a turning point in her life forever. One of her friends said, “Carolyn, we need to explain something. This is the first Saturday in October, and for us that means not only lovely weather and bright fall foliage, but it also means a general conference of the Church. As Latter-day Saints, wherever we are or whatever we are doing, we stop and listen. So we are going to sit here among the oak and the pines, look out over the valley below, and listen to the prophets of God for a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” thought Carolyn. “I didn’t know there were prophets of God still living,” she said, “and I certainly didn’t know there were two hours’ worth!” Little did she know that they were going to stop again at two o’clock that afternoon for another two hours and then invite her to tune in at home for four more the next day.
Well, the rest is history. With the gift of a leather-bound copy of the scriptures from her students, the love of friends and families in the LDS ward she began to attend, and spiritual experiences we want all who make their way into the light of the gospel to have, Carolyn was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. The rest is, as they say, history. With her introduction to general conference that day sitting high atop Y Mountain, Sister Rasmus had seen her own personal fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophetic invitation: “Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.”

Remember a few years ago when devastating fires burned out of control in Southern California? As fierce winds blew, the public was restricted from the area by police. A few families were allowed to remain and try to save their homes.

Soon a van arrived at one house, filled with brethren from the quorum, carrying their shovels. They were asked, “How did you get past the police barricade?” Response: “It was easy. We just told them our brother lives here.”

The count was soon up to thirty-nine brethren who were helping dig a trench for fire protection. A curious police officer appeared and said, “I just want to meet the man who has thirty-nine brothers!”

Craig checked the invoice as he loaded the sprinkler parts into the cardboard box and wondered if there was possibly a more boring job on the planet. He put the box on the conveyor belt and decided the girls down the line had it worse. At least he got to pull the orders. The girls got each order off the belt and had to sort through the boxes and verify that the order pullers had pulled the right stuff, then place their tag, “Checked by number whatever,” in the box and check the next one. And the next. Yawn.
He couldn’t complain too much, though. He’d found the job after high school graduation, when he’d been thrown into the uncomfortable phase of life known as “Now What?” He’d planned on a mission for a long time, and this job would help pay for one if he decided to go, but he wished his parents would help. He didn’t know if he could do it without their support.
He rubbed the back of his head. Another headache was coming on.
He noticed that Mike, another order puller, had stacked his boxes too high. Suddenly, most of them came crashing off the line, spilling sprinkler parts at the feet of the startled order pullers. There were groans from everywhere.
Craig was the closest to the disaster.
“Oh, no!” he said. The belt stopped.
“Congratulations,” said a voice at his elbow. Amber, an order checker, had come to see what had happened, while some of the others smirked. The break bell sounded, and all the order pullers except Craig made a beeline for the break room. The other order checkers left, too, leaving Amber standing there.
“I know,” said Craig. “Pretty swift.”
“No, I meant congratulations that you’re the only one who doesn’t swear his head off when that happens.”
Craig looked at her, surprised. He’d never really noticed her. He’d have thought her pretty if she didn’t have the worn, burnt-around-the-edges look. Her dark roots advertised obviously over-dyed blond hair, frizzy at the ends, and her perfume was eau de tobacco. But she had stunning green eyes, though they looked tired. That she would notice he never swore, unlike most of his co-workers, astonished him.
Amber was busily checking one of the boxes that had fallen to make sure it held the right parts.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” Craig told her.
Amber shrugged. “I’ll have to do it anyway. I might as well do it now.”
They worked in silence for a while, hearing barks of laughter from the break room. Whenever anyone opened the door, a cloud of cigarette smoke billowed in.
Craig sneezed and his head pounded. He rubbed at his eyes.
Amber asked, “You go to high school around here?”
Craig shook his head. “Graduated,” he said, “from Sand Valley High.”
She nodded. “I never did. Graduate. Used to go to Clairmont, though.” She looked at him as though she had more questions but said nothing.
When the bell rang to signal the end of break, she seemed relieved, though her co-workers gave her a hard time for not coming.
Craig didn’t see Amber again the rest of the day and didn’t really think about her. His mind was occupied with the mission decision. He knew what his parents’ reaction would be if he decided to serve. His dad would think he was wasting his time. His mom would go to pieces and would worry excessively for two years straight. Neither one would be happy for him, and he wondered whether they would even write. Mom, maybe, letters full of anguish. Dad, no. They had been active when he was little, but by the time he could drive himself to church, they had stopped going.
That Sunday he drove to church alone but found his friend Dan and sat with his family. Dan’s missionary farewell was only three weeks away. Dan would get plenty of letters from home. His parents were proud of him.
They were sitting near the back, and Craig found himself squinting to read the hymn numbers. Dan looked at him and laughed.
“You must be near-sighted. Better get some glasses.”
Craig was startled at the joking suggestion, but it stayed on his mind.
Lindsay Carter gave a talk on scripture study, using a quadruple combination as a visual aid. She blew along its pages, sending an obvious cloud of what appeared to be dust flying.
“Don’t let this happen to your scriptures,” she said, and the congregation laughed. Craig decided she had probably put flour or baby powder on the scriptures to emphasize her point. His own parents’ scriptures had sat on top of the bookcase for literally years. He could see them in his mind’s eye: one black set, one brown, his parents’ names imprinted in gold on their covers. Lindsay could easily have used their scriptures for her visual aid—no powder necessary.
He knew his parents’ inactivity had been gradual. Over several years’ time, the gospel, which had become so important to him, had conversely dwindled in importance to them. They had unintentionally drifted. Their distance from the gospel was now reflected in the way they acted and talked—more negative, more cynical, less hopeful. He wished his parents would come back. He prayed for it every night. But would a mission bring them closer to the Church or drive a larger wedge between them?
He spent a lot of time at work thinking about it, since his work didn’t require much thought. He’d been at it long enough to pull orders on autopilot. So he was unaware of Amber at his elbow again one day when she spoke.
“Can I ask you something?” Her eyes had dark circles around them, like she’d spent the weekend partying. “Are you happy?”
He wasn’t sure what he thought she would ask, but that wasn’t it. It caught him off guard.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “I mean, when I’m doing what I know is right, I am.” He could tell the answer was important to her.
“See, I don’t expect to be happy constantly, but I’m mostly happy.” He hesitated. “I know God loves me. He’s given us the way to be happy if we’ll make the right choices.” He looked at Amber, surprised to hear himself saying things he’d never said before, but he was being nudged. She still needed to hear one thing more.
“God loves you, Amber. He knows you and wants you to be happy.”
She looked like she was about to cry. She turned away and went back to work. Craig wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not. But he knew what he had said was true.
After work he had an eye appointment. He realized he had been squinting at anything farther away than about 50 feet.
The ophthalmologist called him in and did so many things Craig wasn’t sure what he was doing. He sat Craig in front of a strange apparatus and kept turning wheels that changed the lenses in front of his eyes: right, left, both; asking him if each was better or worse until Craig was so confused he wasn’t sure of anything. After a while the doctor studied the data and told Craig the results.
“Looks like you’re quite near-sighted and will need some glasses or contacts.”
Craig took the prescription and staggered outside, shielding his dilated eyes from the sun. He sat down and waited until his vision cleared.
On Friday Amber came up to him.
“Hey, you got glasses. They make you look smart,” she said. “Not that you didn’t look smart before,” she added hastily. She hesitated for a moment, then asked him a question.
“What would you do if you were trying to get off drugs and your friends were all doing them at lunch and expected you to join them?”
He considered this, wondering if she could just go with them and not do any drugs. He decided against the suggestion, not sure how tough it would be to resist. The right answer hit him, as awkward or unlikely as it would be.
“Come have lunch with me.” It wasn’t important what anyone thought. Amber was the important one, and she needed to know it.
“Serious?” she said.
“Sure. I usually bring my lunch and go out to the patch of lawn next to Carpet World.”
They spent more time talking than eating lunch over the next several weeks. At first Craig didn’t think they would have much to say. Then he began looking forward to lunchtime.
They talked about their families. He told her he was disappointed in his parents, that there was a cold feeling in his home.
“Cold? Your house doesn’t sound so bad,” Amber said. “If your house is cold, my house is Antarctica. I’m working this job so I can get enough money together to move out. My mom sneaks around with boyfriends, and my dad thinks I’m some kind of a punching bag.”
Craig stared at her and suddenly noticed a series of bruises on her arms and one on her cheek he’d mistaken for too much dark blush. Why hadn’t he ever noticed those before? It was like he was seeing her for the first time, like he was seeing his father and mother for the first time. Since he’d gotten his new glasses, he could see a lot better far away. Yet he was looking at his immediate surroundings in a new way. It was like the old saying about not being able to see the forest for the trees.
When he went home that night, he hugged his mother and told her he loved her and asked his father if there was some yardwork that needed doing. He was getting a reality check and realizing he didn’t have it so bad after all. He mowed the lawn and started digging postholes for a fence, and his dad came out to help. His dad talked for quite a while, reminiscing about helping his own father on the farm and talking about the dream he’d had to become a pilot. Craig went inside that night, long after the sun had set, sweaty and exhausted, but feeling happy. His dad came in whistling and threw together a plate of nachos for all of them, something he hadn’t done in a long time.
Craig and Amber continued to have lunch together, though her friends made crude comments about it. She turned bright red and later apologized to Craig.
“It’s so hard,” she said. “People won’t let you change. They want to keep you down in the gutter with them.”
Craig was at a loss. “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry about them. They don’t realize where they are or how bad it is.”
Amber’s friends made fun of him in his new glasses. They had caught wind of his talking about the gospel with Amber and called him the minister. It didn’t hurt Craig at all. He didn’t care what they thought.
Craig asked Dan what the missionaries taught, and Dan showed him the materials he’d collected. Dan was the type to be right on top of everything he did, diving in completely. He’d do well in the mission field, Craig was certain.
“See, here are the things someone new to the gospel needs to know.” As they discussed it, Craig hit upon the perfect subject for Amber.
“That’s it!” Craig pulled the lesson on the plan of salvation closer. “This is what she needs to hear.” Then he looked doubtful. “But maybe I should have the full-time missionaries teach her.”
Dan looked at his friend. “Somehow, I think you must be doing a great job teaching Amber. You’ll be able to reach her because you’re her friend.”
The next time they ate lunch together, Craig taught Amber about the plan of salvation.
“Oh!” Amber said, after he had explained about the premortal existence and our coming to earth to be tested, and our spirits going on beyond the grave. “Oh!”
She said nothing more that day, and he wondered what she thought. Was it too much to accept? His own testimony had grown as he studied and taught Amber. He again realized how much Heavenly Father loved all of them.
At lunch the next day, Amber said, “You know what you said about us being spirits? Well, I always thought that once you died, you were gone. Kaput. But what you told me rings true. It really does. And it explains a lot of things to me.” She took a bite of her apple. “Lots of nights, I lie awake. I hear my parents fighting. Sometimes I hear my dad slap my mom. Then I want to retreat, to be asleep, dreaming I have another family. Sometimes I fall asleep, and then I feel my Grandma Norene, my dad’s mother, right beside me. And she holds my hand. And I feel wonderful until I wake up. Do you think she worries about me?”
Craig whispered, “I’m sure she does.”
Craig invited Amber to Dan’s farewell. She arrived late to the church, breathless and wearing a dress that was a little too short, still smelling of cigarette smoke. She was nervous but excited. She spent the meeting listening closely.
After the meeting she wanted to know all about missions, and the questions came rapid-fire.
“How long do you go on a mission? How do you know what to teach? What if you go to a foreign country? Do you get paid by your church?”
Craig answered all her questions and told her he might be going on a mission soon. He was a little afraid of her reaction, but she actually clapped.
“That’s perfect! Of course! You’d be terrific at teaching people, just like you’ve taught me. You’ll be good at this!” She then said, “I’ll miss you, but I could write you letters, couldn’t I? And you could still answer my questions about the gospel.”
Craig nodded, a slow smile overtaking his face. Amber had just answered some of his questions for a change, like whether or not to go on a mission. And whether or not he’d have any support if he did. He realized he’d already started his missionary work. And he’d been really happy lately. He’d have to trust that the Lord would help him reach his parents somehow. Maybe it was in the way he saw things. He knew for sure it had a lot to do with faith.
The next time Amber came to church, he did a double take. She had dyed her hair a shiny chestnut, closer to her real color, and was wearing a long skirt, nice blouse, and sandals. Her makeup was light instead of her usual overkill, and she smelled like flowers instead of cigarette smoke. Her eyes looked vibrant, with a fire in them that had replaced the dull, half-lidded sleepy look she used to have.
Craig met her in the foyer. “These new glasses are great. I didn’t know how cute you were.”
Amber smiled and he noticed dimples in her cheeks he hadn’t seen before. For a split second, he could imagine her being baptized. He was reminded of the scripture about the Lord not looking on the outward appearance but upon what was in the heart.
At first he had worried that she might be changing because of an interest in him. Then he had seen that she was truly happy he would be going on a mission. Craig realized she thought of him like a brother, like someone who had given her an incredible gift.
His parents had seemed happier. He finally summoned up all his nerve and told them he was going on a mission. They were a little upset that he would be leaving, but they could see it was what he wanted to do.
Craig knew everything might not work out the way he wanted it to. He knew his parents might never make their way back to activity, but for the first time in a long time, he started to believe in what could happen if the people he loved wanted it as much as he did.
In the same way that he had started to see Amber going down into water in a white dress, he was starting to see his parents’ scriptures off the bookcase, dusted off, and open.

Seven is Christie Kight’s favorite number these days. She recently took second place in the National Junior Olympics for the heptathlon, in which athletes compete in seven track-and-field events. Christie, a Laurel in the Auburn Washington Stake, says that after all her practice and hard work, the most important thing she did was pray to do her best.
And her best is exactly what she did, setting personal records in high jump, javelin, and shot put.

Zing! The rope barrier springs away and Neal spurs his quarter horse into the arena in pursuit of a scrambling steer, overtaking it as his father hazes the frightened animal closer to him. Moving at a hard gallop, Neal slides far sideways in the saddle and takes hold of the steer, right arm hooking one horn, left hand grasping the other. For a moment his body forms a perilous bridge between the horse and steer. Then his hand-tooled cowboy boots jerk free from the stirrups and tread clouds for an instant before hitting the hoof— soft ened dirt in a jolting cloud of dust, plowing a double furrow as he brakes against his own momentum and 600 pounds of charging steer. The muscles of his broad shoulders bunch under his western shirt as he turns his momentum, strength, and more than 180 pounds of solid bone and muscle into irresistible torque, levering the wide horns clockwise. The steer resists, teeters, and then crashes helplessly onto its side.

The judge’s flag drops. Time—6.2 seconds. Neal grins up at his father through the dust and applause, then scans the stands for his mother. Ignoring the burning weal that the horns have left on his ribs, he releases the animal, stands up, and stoops to dust off his western-cut jeans.

Neal Gines, 17, from Kamas, Utah, and his father have just won another first place in bulldogging.

Occasionally the group does have some free time during tours to use as it pleases. Oftentimes group members will sink into peaceful oblivion on the lawn of a chapel where they are to perform, but other times their free moments are spent in ways that attract at least as much attention as their performances.
Sandy Ord, a member of the group for the past two years, remembers a softball game where the boys challenged the girls on the lawn outside their motel. There’s nothing so unusual about that except for the fact the entire game was played without any equipment.
“We had the whole thing,” said Sandy, “umpire, cheerleaders, even a human scoreboard. And since there was no ball, you just pretended where to hit it. The girls were always hitting home runs, and, of course, we won.”

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.

Illustration by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
I worked days, and my wife, Elen, worked nights. We hardly saw each other. We weren’t holding home evening or family prayer. We went to sacrament meeting, but we lacked commitment to the gospel.
We began to feel emptiness that came from focusing on the things of the world instead of the things of the Lord. We felt that Heavenly Father wanted more from us.
So we went to the Santiago Chile Temple for guidance on how we could improve. We both received the prompting that we needed to move with our little daughters from Santiago to the northern coastal area of Coquimbo.
We had never been there before, and we knew nothing about the area. But we quit our jobs, sold everything, and said goodbye to family, friends, and my university studies.
In Coquimbo, we didn’t know anyone, and we didn’t have any money. I found a job, but it barely paid the rent. We asked, “Why are we here?”
Elen wondered if there was something she could do to help pay the bills. One day she sewed a new cover for one of our old chairs. “I’m going to put it up for sale and see if someone buys it,” she said. Someone did buy it. Encouraged, Elen learned more about reupholstering furniture. She started advertising and began receiving work.
In 2016, I was called as bishop of our new ward. With my job, my resumed university studies, and my calling, once again I hardly saw my family.
“This isn’t working,” Elen said. “Why don’t you work with me? I’ll teach you how. You’ll be home, and you’ll also have more flexibility for your calling.”
I worried about quitting my job, but Elen suggested that we pray to Heavenly Father and say: “Here’s our business. We’re going to do it together. Please illuminate for us how we can make it work while Gregorio serves as bishop.”
Heavenly Father answered. Now, after years of hardly seeing each other, we’re adjusting to always being together. Sometimes Elen jokingly says, “Don’t you have some bishopric interviews to do? Come back in four hours!”
Here in Coquimbo, we have learned to have faith and live the gospel as a family, and we have been blessed. We moved to a city we did not know to serve people we had not met, and we have seen miracles we did not expect.

My friend gave me an invitation to her party! I was so excited—until I noticed it was on Sunday. My mom called her mom and explained that we made a decision many years ago that Sundays are a day of worship and a day to spend time with our family, and that I wouldn’t be able to go to the party. Then my friend’s mom changed the day of the party to a Saturday, just so I could come! I love my friends!
Emma F., age 8, Ohio, USA