Gospel Story Finder

Dad spooned peas onto Abby’s plate. “Do you remember why we do service each November?”
Mark remembered how sad they all felt when Ellen, his baby sister, died two years before. He still felt sad about it sometimes, especially during special family times or when Mom cried.
“I remember,” Mark said. “When it was almost Ellen’s first birthday, we were sad, so we made up ‘Ellen Projects’ to help people. Mom said serving helps us feel thankful for what we have.”
“And when we feel thankful, we feel happy,” Mom said. “Even when we are missing our baby.”

The Church is one of Sue’s greatest sources of guidance and comfort. At youth conference, the bishop challenged all the youth to pray for confirmation that the Church was true even if they already had a testimony.
Sue accepted the challenge although she had some reservations. “I felt I didn’t need to ask because I know the Church is true. But I wanted to tell my friends about my testimony before I graduated. They sometimes tease me about being a Mormon.”
Sue did pray, but the answer didn’t seem to come in a big way. Then she and some friends had to drive to the next town to have their pictures taken for graduation. Suddenly, she was in the middle of an intense conversation about the Church with a receptive friend. The friend asked, “How do you know that it is true, Sue?”
“All of a sudden it dawned on me that Heavenly Father was giving me an opportunity to say that I do know the Church is true. Here I was bearing my testimony, telling her this is the truth. It didn’t hit me until that night that it was the answer to my prayers.
The friend then asked if she could go to church with the Keller family. Soon she was attending seminary with Sue and receiving the discussions from the missionaries. “That’s been the greatest,” Sue said. “I’ve never done that with a friend before.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

For a moment I stood on the front steps and stared through the rusty screen door at Mom as she hummed softly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her back was to me, so while I built my courage to enter, I watched unobserved, detached momentarily from the familiar scene.
A cool breeze whispered through the elm trees down by the pasture and across the corrals, bringing with it the faint smell of clover mingled with the distinct but not entirely displeasing odor of sun-baked manure and hay. A calf bawled imploringly from the barn, and a pesky fly pinged persistently against the screen door, demanding entrance.
I filled my lungs with the aromas from the kitchen, savoring the rich mixture of Mom’s baking bread, a tantalizing roast, and a trace of lilac that drifted in from the lilac bushes blooming just outside the kitchen window. The table, draped in the old familiar oil cloth that was beginning to wear ragged around the edges, was covered with scrubbed carrots, chopped lettuce, a greased cake pan, and a sprinkling of flour.
I sighed ruefully and pulled the screen door open. It whined a welcome and then chattered noisily behind me as I stepped inside onto the scarred but polished linoleum floor.
"Robert!" Mom called out with surprise, wiping her brow with a damp forearm. Though it had been just a few weeks since I’d seen her last, the gray in her hair seemed more pronounced, and there were deeper lines of worry and stress written across her face. "I had decided you weren’t coming," she said, stepping toward me with a half-peeled potato in her hand and kissing me on the cheek.
I pressed my lips into a wan smile and set my duffle bag on a kitchen chair. Mechanically I glanced at the hook behind the door and noted that Dad’s faded felt hat was missing. That hat was an extra appendage with Dad. He would have no more considered leaving the house without it than he would have gone without his pants or boots. Mom followed my glance and deciphered my thoughts. "He’s been gone all morning," she explained.
I nodded, reached for a carrot, reconsidered, and stuffed my hand into my pocket.
"We thought you would be here last night," Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the sink.
"I had a date," I replied sheepishly, avoiding her eyes. Actually I had spent the entire evening in my apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed, debating whether or not I should even come home, struggling with a nagging necessity to speak with Dad and yet perplexed by the simple how. I just couldn’t bear to witness his flesh waste away, the creases in his brow deepen, and his eyes groan in silent agony. I guess I hoped that by not seeing him he would always stay the way I remembered him, robust and full of life.
"Dad will be anxious to visit with you," Mom commented.
"Yeah," I muttered softly, pressing my lips together and nodding forlornly. There had been a time when speaking to Dad was the easiest thing in the world for me, but disease had made a stranger of him. I’m sure the inside of him was the same. But, oh, how the outside had changed, and it was this shocking outside, this terrifying shell of the man I had known intimately, which confronted me each time I returned home. I no longer knew the words or had the courage to form the words that would adequately express what was harbored so pointedly in my heart. Just when I most needed and wanted to communicate my feelings, I was driven into a frustrating and unnatural silence. I found myself turning away from Dad as though he were responsible for his condition. Each time I came home, I arrived determined to talk with him and brush away those difficult-to-explain feelings that had spring up from the seeds of my disappointment, but nothing ever worked out. Something was always awkward and wrong. And when I returned to school, I went with all my feelings churning inside me.
"You’ll be here the whole weekend won’t you?" Mom asked as she began rinsing off the potatoes and dropping them into a pan. I didn’t answer. I wanted her to hurry on to another question, but she waited and finally prodded. "You will, won’t you?"
"Well, most of it."
"You’ll go to church with us?"
I cleared my throat. "I have a test Monday. I’ll have to leave here early tomorrow afternoon. Finals are coming up." I laughed awkwardly. "I don’t want to blow it these last two weeks."
It was a lame excuse. We both knew it, but we pretended not to notice. I had changed. It was hard to believe, to hope, to pray, knowing that Dad was slipping away. I hadn’t turned into an infidel, gone inactive or anything that drastic, but there was definitely a portentous fracture in my faith.
I think Mom and Dad suspected, but they didn’t broach the subject. I don’t know if I could have told them had they asked. I didn’t really understand myself. Maybe I was trying to bargain with God, subtly announcing that my diligence was coupled with Dad’s recovery, that my faithfulness would be the payoff for his health.
"Your dad and I are speaking in sacrament meeting. It sure would be nice to have you there. I know you dad is counting on it."
"Where is Dad, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.
"At the lot, working on the wall."
"I should have known," I mumbled, smiling. "I’ll put my things upstairs and go out and give him a hand." I turned to go but then stopped. As much as I hated asking the question I knew I would have to. "How has he been?"
Mom’s hands relaxed their grip on the potato she was holding. It dropped and she let her hands sag limply in the sink. "Not very well," she bemoaned. "His spleen is so swollen. It literally bulges when he lies down. He gets so tired, and he’s so skinny. He can’t keep his pants up now. He has lost almost ten pounds since you were here last. He keeps losing weight, and he just doesn’t have any to spare. I tell him to get suspenders, but you know how he hates them."
Turning and facing me, she laid bare her fears. "Robert, he’s bad. I can’t help thinking of what Doctor Hart told us when we saw him the first time. He charted the disease. I hate to admit it, but this is the last stage. He hurts all the time. He doesn’t say so until it gets really bad, but I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes I see him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists and I know what’s happening inside of him. I just want to go off by myself and cry."
"He still hasn’t talked about seeing the doctor again?"
"No," she whispered with a wan smile, "and he won’t. You know that."
"And the medicine?"
She shook her head. "He’s convinced that the medicine makes him worse. He’s probably right. He got such terrible headaches while he was on it. He felt drowsy or nauseated and he couldn’t work, and you know that if you dad can’t work, he’s miserable."
I nodded and smiled knowingly. Idleness was just not a part of Dad. As long as I could remember he was immersed in projects. He always had something going on the farm, in the house, on a piece of equipment, or wrapped up in a new invention—a better way to pump water to the lot, a more efficient way to feed the cattle, a handier way of irrigating the garden. He was the only person I knew who relaxed by working.
Pain, hardship, failure—these were the lurking monsters of most men approaching retirement, but Dad could face those unflinchingly. Idleness was his fear, and now, in his weakened condition, he found it increasingly more difficult to hold it at bay.
"What does Adams say?"
"Dad won’t see him, not as a doctor. He likes him as a friend and a neighbor."
"Have you talked to Adams lately?"
Mom shook her head tiredly and looked out the window. "He says your dad should be dead," she answered slowly. "He doesn’t know what’s keeping him going. He says he could drop over tomorrow or keep going another month or so." Mom paused and looked at me. "I know what’s driving him. His work. That’s what scares me, Robert. He gets so exhausted now. He works for just a few minutes, and he’s completely drained. If he is ever in bed for more than a week or so …"
Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to end that foreboding sentence. We stood and stared out the window at the three milk cows ambling about the corral so we wouldn’t have to see the worry on the other’s face. Finally I picked up my bag and went upstairs to my room.
I sank on the bed, almost wishing I hadn’t come home. My eyes wandered about the room, seeing the things that had been such an integral part of me before going to college. I saw the pictures of my basketball and track teams. The trophies were still on the dresser where Mom kept them dusted and polished. The scrapbooks and the book of remembrance sat prominently on the shelf. My Duty to God pin was mounted on a plaque next to the mirror.
Eventually my eyes rested on the photo of Mom, Dad, and me the night of my Eagle court of honor six years earlier. That was where I always stopped. That was the pivotal point in my life. The week after that picture was taken, Doctor Adams made his doleful discovery. Dad hadn’t been feeling well for some time. He had spent the last 13 years in the bishopric, either as a counselor or bishop. We had just assumed he was run down. No one had ever suspected leukemia!
It was a shattering blow. Mom and the four girls didn’t attempt to disguise the shock, but I tried to be stoic. In reality I cowered behind a wall of impassivity. Behind that hastily built facade, my world teetered. It was so coldly unfair. I began to question the justice of God. Dad had been so good, so faithful, and now he was to be repaid like this.
"Robert," Mom called from the foot of the stairs. "I fixed a drink for Dad."
"Okay, I’ll be right down."
"Tell him dinner will be ready in about an hour. And don’t let him get too tired. He can’t be in bed tomorrow."
I grabbed a pair of patched jeans from the closet, dug out my work boots from under the bed, and headed for the lot. During the last two years Dad had leased most of the farm to our neighbor, Brother Maner, but he hadn’t been able to give up the lot. The lot was his first piece of ground, one he had bought from Grandpa when he was only 17. It had always been his prize. The best sweet corn in the whole county had been grown there. Of course, that was more a tribute to Dad than the lot itself.
Though the soil was rich, Dad seemed to harvest more rocks than anything else. There was no end to them. Soon he had piles of rocks all around the lot. But with those rocks, which anyone else would have cursed and discarded, Dad began to build a wall.
Every year he dug up more rocks, and every year he added to the wall. Building this rough, rugged wall became an art with Dad. He sighted and measured and leveled. He chose each rock carefully and set it into position with a precision that was unique to him. He met this challenge with the same zeal and meticulous care that he worked the soil, repaired his barns and fences, or performed his church duties.
There was only a hundred feet of unfinished wall when Dad learned of his leukemia. He began to joke that the Lord wouldn’t take him until he finished the wall. When Doctor Hart told him and Mom that he had between six months and a year to live, he smiled over at Mom and said, "I don’t know if I can finish the wall that soon. The Lord will have to give me some more time."
Dad had already lived six years since then. In fact, he had outlived Doctor Hart, who had died a few months earlier of a heart attack.
When I arrived at the lot that morning, I called to Dad several times, but there was no answer. I went to the bottom of the lot where the unfinished section of wall was, hoping to find him working, but the place was deserted. I stopped and stared at the gap in the wall. There was a 20-foot unfinished section. The rocks were there in a pile, but Dad hadn’t put them in place. I smiled and thought to myself, "He knows what he’s doing. He’s going to make sure there’s always a gap in that wall. If the Lord sticks to his end of the deal, I’ll be dead before Dad."
I set the ice water down and squatted on the ground in the shade of the wall. I closed my eyes, pressed my back against the rough but cool rocks and let my mind wander. A soothing peace prevailed as I remembered earlier days when I had come to the lot with Dad to hoe corn. I smiled. The novelty of the first spring work had always been so exciting, but the excitement soon dissipated. The sun warmed, and the plague of gnats descended. The swarming little insects had tortured me with their annoying, high-pitched whine and persistent biting. Many times I had thrown my hoe to the ground, screamed my agony, and clawed the infected air in frustrated anger. But Dad had always been there to encourage me and to wrap my itching head with his handkerchief to keep some of the gnats away. When they became unbearable, he sent me to sit in the shade while he finished my row of corn.
And there were the mornings I had followed behind him as he blazed a path through the towering stalks of corn, snapping off only the bulging mature ears and stacking them in his and my arms.
I recalled going to the lot in the spring and riding beside Dad on the tractor while he plowed, disked and harrowed the ground. I remembered trudging through the soft, black soil and lugging the myriad rocks that always found their way to the surface in the spring. I remembered watching Dad build the wall and listening to him as he told me Bible and Book of Mormon stories. I distinctly remembered the tears in his eyes when he had related stories of his own faith—the time his father had been healed, the time he had been working in the lot and had decided to go on a mission before marrying Mom, or the time on his mission when he had felt his bosom burn and had known for himself about God and the Church.
In my reverie I forgot the leukemia and the impending end. Here was complete contentment, and I suddenly longed to recapture those moments with Dad before he slipped away. I don’t remember how long I sat by the wall before deciding that Dad had already returned to the house. Finally I stood, brushed the dirt and dried weeds from my pants and left, fully expecting Dad to be waiting at the dinner table for me.
"Did Dad make it?" I asked Mom as I came into the kitchen with the jug of water still untouched.
"I thought you went to get him," she answered.
"He wasn’t there. I waited but …"
The blood drained from her face, and I added quickly to calm her sudden fear, "But he might have walked over to Brother Maner’s to check the fence. He does that you know. I’ll go look."
I made a pretense of calm and wanted to believe my own optimism, but an ominous gnawing in the pit of my stomach cautioned me to brace for the worst. I walked out of the house and across the yard, waiting until I had passed behind the barn and out of Mom’s sight before I broke into a sprint.
I didn’t find him. I was always thankful for that. I had often tried to imagine what I would do when I received word of Dad’s death. I had prepared myself for a phone call. I had never imagined meeting Brother Maner and discovering the dreaded truth etched on his contorted and sweating face. Even as he charged toward me, panting and red faced, I wanted to deny the obvious. Brother Maner had found him face down in the bottom pasture. He had been dead for about an hour.
The next three days were lost in a maze of confusing grief. I kept to myself and let my sorrow and disappointment fester. I didn’t want sympathy or pity. I didn’t want extended hands of comfort. I didn’t want sermons about life after death. I wanted to shake off my helplessness, grab death, strangle it, beat it with my fists.
The morning after the funeral I went down to the lot early. The sun was barely up, and the dew was thick on the grass. Dad’s corn was just beginning to push up through the soil. I walked around the lot twice, each time pausing at the unfinished portion of wall. It pulled like a giant magnet. As I stood and stared, the bitterness welled inside me, and I demanded an answer. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to be snatched away now with so much of his life unlived? And the wall? Why couldn’t he have finished the wall? He had eluded death so long, against such insurmountable odds. Why couldn’t he have been given a little more time?
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that morning. The sun’s spring rays were soothing. This was Dad’s kind of day, the kind he would have chosen to work on the wall. Slowly I moved toward the pile of rocks. Picking the largest one, I staggered with it to the gaping hole in the wall and set it down. "It’s not much," I whispered, "but I will finish the wall."
Fighting back a growing wave of grief, I attacked the hole in the wall. I dropped every available rock inside the open section, piling them haphazardly. I didn’t care how the repair looked to anyone else; I just wanted to fill the gap in a bitter attempt to assuage my own grief.
In less than an hour I was almost finished. Panting, I stepped back and surveyed my progress. The shoddy workmanship mocked me. I wasn’t finishing Dad’s wall. I was merely filling a hole, something Dad would have never done.
I picked up a rock and hurled it against my section of the wall. I flew at the wall in frustrated rage, pulling the rocks down and throwing them aside. I ran to the house for a shovel, and when I returned to the lot, I was determined to complete the wall Dad’s way.
Taking a shovel, I cut away the sod and leveled the ground where the wall would go. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and beads of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip. With calculating care I began choosing rocks for the wall’s foundation, this time with a meticulousness reminiscent of Dad. The larger, flatter rocks were set in place first to give the wall stability. The gaps between were filled with smaller, odd-shaped ones. It was like putting together a gigantic, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Each gap had to be filled before another rock could be set into place. The base was broad and tapered gradually upward, the rocks above tying in and holding firm the rocks below.
When I wasn’t certain how to proceed, I studied Dad’s part of the wall, perusing his rugged pattern. He had always made it seem easy, but soon I discovered the truth. Before long my back ached and my fingers were rubbed raw and the palms of my hands were scratched and caked with dirt. I wished for a pair of gloves, but I refused to stop and run to the house for them. The sweat now poured down my face and neck and trickled from under my arms. My mouth was dry; my lips, covered with a sticky film of dirt.
My body cried for a rest, but I had become obsessed, refusing to stop for more than short breathers and pauses to survey my progress. I refused to stop even for dinner. Mom brought me a sandwich and a jug of water, which I ate and drank while I planned the next tier.
"Don’t push yourself, Robert," she had cautioned. "It’s only a wall."
"It’s Dad’s wall. He wanted it finished."
"But there will be other days."
"There were other days. I’ll finish today." Shaking her head and pushing her fingers through her hair, she had finally turned and left me to my obsession.
Many times I rummaged through the pile of rocks, unable to find the right shape or size, and I was forced to search along the irrigation ditch for one that would fit the hole. By late afternoon I was at the brink of exhaustion. The muscles in my back and arms ached, and my clothes clung to me. My lips were chapped, and the back of my neck was scorched from hours in the sun; but I experienced an all-consuming satisfaction that eased the dull ache in my tired body. Dad’s pile of rocks had shrunk, and the final section of the wall had emerged.
Stiffly I stepped back to examine the wall. I compared my section to Dad’s. I nodded, feeling confident that no one would see a difference. Completely drained, I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes. The day’s work had purged much of the bitterness that I had allowed to poison me, and with that purging came a staggering realization. Dad had said he would stay until the wall was finished. Now, it was finished, and not even I could contend with that numbing reality.
I opened my eyes and looked at the wall. Slowly the rocks melted into a watery blur as tears filled my eyes. I tried to fight them back. I had dammed them off in angry defiance, but now there was nothing I could do to hold them back. They were painful at first, but with time they began to wash and soothe, and gradually the last traces of bitterness crumbled and dissolved in the briny flood.
Suddenly I remembered why I had come home for the weekend. I rebuked myself for not having come sooner and bridged the gap between Dad and me. I don’t know why I prayed. Since going to college and watching Dad slip away from me, prayer had been difficult and far from spontaneous, but this evening the prayer came naturally, as a comforting balm, a sincere plea for understanding, just enough to grasp and accept Dad’s passing.
It was in that troubled state of importuning that a new thought occurred to me with stunning force: I had not finished Dad’s wall. Dad’s wall had been finished long before. The wall he had labored so faithfully to build was his legacy to me, his monument built in my honor. The gap I had filled, patterning it so carefully after his, had been the beginning of my wall. I sensed that Dad had known that all along and had left this last section for me.
The tears ceased. It was as though Dad were with me once again, just as I had always remembered him. I knew then that he had not been snatched away before his time; I had just been left temporarily behind to finish mine. As I stared across the lot and observed the work of Dad’s lifetime, I knew I had many walls yet to build. Silently, I prayed that I would build as well as Dad.

Since being baptized in August 2024, Robert L., 18, of Kenya, has brought more than 50 friends to church—and baptized 25 of them!
Those were the totals when we talked to him a few months ago, anyway. They’ve probably gone up since then.
Robert L. of Kenya has invited dozens of people to church—neighbors, schoolmates, kids he plays sports with—everyone.
Naturally, Robert wanted to share his new blessings with others. He couldn’t sponsor anyone’s education. But he could certainly teach them the gospel!
He began inviting people to church—neighbors, schoolmates, kids he played sports with—everyone he knew. “I came one Sunday with, like, five, then on another Sunday I came with 10,” he says. “Then I sent the missionaries to them so they can understand and know that this Church is true and they can experience what I experience.”
It wasn’t long before some of Robert’s friends chose to be baptized and asked him to perform the ordinance.
The Church is growing fast in Africa, in part because of disciples like Robert. He baptized 10 people one week, 11 the next week, and “only” 4 the following week.
Robert invites friends to his Church branch, which meets in a tent in a grass lot.
More than a dozen of those newly baptized friends were with him at an FSY conference in Kenya last December, including one friend who had already baptized one of his friends.
See how the momentum builds? It feeds on itself!
Many of the people Robert has invited to church have chosen to be baptized, and they are inviting others to come as well.

It was a unique service project for a unique Christmas season. Many families in the northern California bay area were still busy rebuilding their homes after last year’s tragic earthquake and hadn’t given Christmas decorations a thought. But the girls in the Hayward Fourth Ward, Hayward Stake, had. They decided to make Christmas decorations for earthquake victims in the surrounding areas.
The girls made napkin holders, Christmas tree decorations, and Christmas wall hangings. Each piece was one-of-a-kind, and the recipients were thrilled with them, since many of their own decorations had been destroyed by the quake. Their project spread the true Christmas spirit to both the givers and the receivers.

My father and I were soon assigned as home teaching companions. One of our first assignments was to visit the mission president and his wife. They were very gracious. My father brought a lot of traditions from our previous faith. But they were kind, not critical, in explaining why things were done in different ways in the true Church. We were the home teachers, but we learned a lot from the example of our mission president.

A picture forms on my monitor involving a father aboard an airplane on a short business trip. He has with him his five-year-old son and is almost wishing his son were not there because it is a very rough trip. There are downdrafts and updrafts and head winds alternating with tail winds, and some passengers are feeling a bit queasy. Apprehensively, the father glances at his son and finds him grinning from ear to ear. “Dad,” he says, “do they do this just to make it fun for the kids?”
Good parents and family and leaders and friends do go to great lengths to make it fun for the kids, but the fun they are thinking of is wholesome fun; it hurts no one, and it lifts the spirit and is good to remember tomorrow and through a lifetime and forever. It never detracts from the real, long-term joy we came into this world to experience.

“I look ugly,” I said, staring into the mirror in disbelief.
Gazing back at me was the same right eye as always. However, covering my left eye was the worst black eye I had ever seen.
“It’s not that bad. Really,” my friend Emily said unconvincingly.
I rolled my good eye at her and put the ice pack back on.
Only five minutes earlier my left eye had received an accidental but well-placed whack from my friend Janna’s elbow. Immediately my hands flew to my face, and I tried to stop myself from falling. Janna apologized. I could hear my friends surrounding me to find out if I was OK.
Though I was in pain, I didn’t realize what had actually happened until I moved my hands and heard every person in the room gasp.
“What?” I asked. No one answered.
I ran to the mirror. Within seconds of the contact, the skin around my eye had swelled to four times its normal size. Bright red blood filled the bruise.
“How am I going to face everyone?” I said, grabbing an ice pack from Janna’s hand. She bit her lip and apologized for about the hundredth time. I held the ice firmly to my eye, hoping the bruise would go away by the next morning.
Unfortunately, while some of the swelling did go down and the redness disappeared by the next morning, the puffy bruise had turned to a deep rose color. I looked ugly, and I felt even uglier.
I tried to cover my eye with makeup, but it just made the bruise look purplish. And nothing could help the swelling. I finally threw a hat on and wore it so I could just barely see from under it.
That day at school, I felt as though everyone were staring. I refused to look anyone in the eye. For days I couldn’t think about anything else, despite my friends’ attempts to cheer me up.
On Sunday I was grouchy because I couldn’t wear my hat to church. But everything changed during a lesson in Sunday School.
“Pray to see yourself as He sees you,” the teacher said, speaking about the Atonement and individual worth.
I touched my bruise, thinking to myself, “He sees me as a girl with an ugly black eye.” Then, as I stopped pitying myself, my perspective changed, and I wondered, “How does Heavenly Father see me?”
Tears filled my eyes as I reflected on the love He has not only for others but for me. “He sees me as His daughter, who is worth the life of His Son,” I realized.
I felt the Spirit testify of the great worth of my soul as a daughter of God. I remembered a scripture I had learned in seminary. I opened my scriptures and found it in 1 Samuel 16:7: “Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; … for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” What I looked like on the outside was not as important as who I was on the inside.
My mind-set changed again as I looked around the room and felt an immense amount of love for the people I saw around me. The warmth of Heavenly Father’s love filled me, and for a moment I think I saw my classmates, in a small way, as Heavenly Father sees them—as His children.
I felt peace and comfort the rest of the Sabbath day, now not caring what others were thinking. I loved them, and I looked them all in the eye—with both of my eyes.

President David O. McKay told of a meeting of the Council of the Twelve Apostles where a question of grave importance was discussed. He and the other Apostles felt strongly about a certain course of action that should be taken, and they were prepared to share their feelings in a meeting with the First Presidency. To their surprise, President Joseph F. Smith did not ask for their opinion in the matter, as was his custom. Rather, “he arose and said, ‘This is what the Lord wants.’

“While it was not wholly in harmony with what he had decided,” President McKay wrote, “the President of the Twelve … was the first on his feet to say, ‘Brethren, I move that that becomes the opinion and judgment of this Council.’

“‘Second the motion,’ said another, and it was unanimous. Six months did not pass before the wisdom of that leader was demonstrated” (Gospel Ideals [Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1953], p. 264).

Just for the fun of it, the youth of the Knox Ward in Melbourne decided to show their appreciation for their parents by treating them to dinner. They organized a special evening they called, “The Fabulous Fifties and the Surging Sixties.”
A youth committee selected a menu that would fit the theme; then a large group prepared and served a three-course meal. They played music from the appropriate decades, and parents and kids alike were encouraged to dance. For the adults, it brought back fond memories. For the kids, it made new ones.

“Oh no, it’s Asa’s turn to drive to the bishopric meeting,” I heard my dad grumbling to my mother.
“He’s just trying to do his share,” Mom said.
“I know. But it’s always so uncomfortable to ride in that old truck of his. There are springs in the seat that stick out and rip my slacks, and cat hair all over. He’s just too proud to skip his turn and let one of us drive.” He was still grumbling when he went into the bathroom to tie his tie.
Asa Newcomb was my father’s counselor in the bishopric. He was a middle-aged farmer, and the years had not been kind to him. His old truck was a ’49, rusty-blue cab, with a wooden bed and rails that went halfway down along the sides. My father and Asa had been counselors together before Dad was made bishop, and so Dad had been riding in the truck to meetings for quite a few years.
As a kid I had enjoyed riding with Asa’s boys when we went on Cub Scout outings, and later when we were Scouts his was the easiest truck to load with our equipment. But now I understood more of what Dad felt. It was not too pleasant to show up at the movies or a dance in that big, old truck that rattled your teeth during the entire ride and tore small holes in the back of your pants.
Maybe it was because of the truck that Dad had such a thing about pride. He was always lecturing us on being too proud or not having enough humility. In fact, we were a family of six children, and Dad was a history teacher at the local junior college, so we all felt we had plenty of humility. It was perhaps a humility imposed upon us by circumstances, but it was humility all the same. Dad always felt that Asa was “too proud” in insisting on taking his turn to drive. “A more humble man would recognize the problem and not insist on making us all uncomfortable,” he would say.
That night while Dad was at his meeting, our furnace blew up.
My two younger brothers, Ned and Phil, and my three-year-old sister, Amy, and I were in the living room watching a special on TV. My two older sisters, Beth and Ann, were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mother had just gone out to deliver a loaf of newly baked bread to a neighbor. Almost as soon as we heard the explosion, fire ripped through the corner of the kitchen above the furnace. My sisters screamed, and Ann was hit on the head by a piece of flying debris. The shock of the explosion threw all of us to the floor, and the youngest ones started crying.
“Get them outside,” I yelled at Ned. He lifted Amy, grabbed Phil by the arm, and then ran out the front door. I ran to the kitchen doorway. Beth, with tears streaming down her face, was trying to pull Ann away from the flames that were already starting up the walls. I ran in and helped her lift, and together we dragged Ann through the front door and onto the lawn. Mother and our neighbors all along the street were running toward us. In a few moments I could hear the wail of the fire siren in the distance and remember thinking that either the explosion had been heard all over town or someone had called the fire department in a hurry.
Even with the speed with which the fire department arrived, most of the house was in flames. The paramedics checked Ann and then took her to the hospital for observation even though she was now conscious. She had a big gash in the side of her head, and she kept saying, “My new haircut! It cost me $7.50.” My mother was holding Amy, Phil was huddled close to her side, and we were all crying.
The firemen poured water onto the house, and by the time Dad rushed out of his meeting and home, the fire was out.
That night we slept at Aunt Verna’s. We heard that the living room structure was all right, and part of the upstairs, but all the furniture was ruined by water and smoke damage, and Dad’s study containing his books and papers was completely destroyed. I think that was what hit him the hardest.
We had the clothes we were wearing, and maybe, after some rummaging, we would be able to find a few other things. It rained hard all night, and Mother said it was a blessing because that would mean the fire was really out.
The next morning we held a family council around Aunt Verna’s kitchen table. The first thing Beth said was, “I’m not going to wear someone else’s hand-me-downs!”
“We don’t know yet that you’ll have to,” Dad said.
And Phil said, “And I don’t want any old broken toys like they fix up at Christmastime.”
“I think we’re all rushing things,” Dad said. “We need to get out to the house and see what’s there first.”
“Helen, telephone,” Aunt Verna called from the living room. My mother had been answering the telephone all morning; usually it was someone calling to offer help or food.
This time it was Ann. Mother had called the hospital twice during the morning to see how she was. Ann could come home anytime we could go get her. Aunt Verna and Mother went in Aunt Verna’s car, and the rest of us got into our car and went back to our house to begin salvaging what we could.
The first thing we saw when we rounded the corner on our block was Asa’s truck. It was parked in front of our yard, and there was Asa and his oldest boy pulling the charred furniture into the driveway.
We got out of the car, and Dad walked up to Asa. “Asa,” he said, “you can’t take time away from your spring planting to do this today; we can manage.”
“No, Robert,” Asa said, slowly. “I knew where I was needed today. You’ve got a good, strong family, but I want to do whatever I can.”
That became the phrase of the day. Whenever anyone else showed up to help, it was always with the phrase, “I want to do whatever I can.”
The Relief Society president was there when my mother burst into tears over the exploded fruit and vegetable bottles and the melted wheat containers. The president must have said something to someone, because soon people started coming to the house with cases of canned goods. They would stack them in the garage, which was pretty much intact, and then shake Mom and Dad’s hands and leave. Dad was obviously running out of things to say to people and seemed to be repeating over and over, “You shouldn’t have. How can we ever repay you?” And all day that truck of Asa’s was in front of the house—except for the times that Asa and Dad would decide that a load should go to the dump.
My junior league baseball team showed up about the time that school let out and helped clean up the mess in the front yard. We were invited to dinner at three different homes and finally ended up at our next-door neighbor’s. After dinner Dad went back to the house to work while the rest of us watched TV and tried to relax. I followed him to the house a few minutes later.
He was sitting on the empty back steps with his face burrowed in his hands. I sat down beside him, and he looked up.
“John,” he said. “I don’t know how we can accept all this charity. Something inside me says that we should do these things ourselves.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “everybody seems to want to do something for us.”
“I know,” he answered, “but we’ve got to do for ourselves, too.”
Just then a little gray-haired lady came around the corner of the house. She was Sister Adams, a widow I had home taught. She had a cloth shopping bag in her arms.
“Bishop Andrews,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish these things first.” She opened her bag and got out three pairs of homemade pillowcases, the kind with embroidered girls wearing big skirts on the front and flowers and crocheting around the edges. “I think you’ll need these when you get back into your house. I’ve heard that insurance never goes far enough to cover things like linens.”
Dad stood up. “Sister Adams, you shouldn’t do this. Aren’t these the kind of things you sell to that store downtown? You can’t afford this.”
“Why, Bishop Andrews,” she said, almost indignant, “after all these years of doing for others, haven’t you learned that one needs to do these things? I need the blessings, and this is something I can do.” She turned quickly to me. “And you, John, you’ve been over to my place dozens of times to rake leaves or shovel snow. I need to do something for this family.” Then she turned to go. “You of all people should know, Bishop, that sometimes it’s better to receive than to give.” She walked away and left us there, and Dad sat down again on the steps, the pillowcases in hand.
That night in our prayers Dad thanked the Lord for all the blessings that the day had brought and especially asked that we could accept with love all the things that others wanted to do for us.
The next morning when we drove over from Aunt Verna’s, Asa’s truck was in front of the house again. He was standing and surveying the damage, and there was a big bag of potatoes on the back of his truck.
“With the help of a couple of men in the ward, we ought to be able to get things roughed in and part of your roof on, Robert, before too long. That way the insurance money will go further.” I could see Dad was thinking this over.
“Asa, why are you doing all of this?” he asked. “You don’t have the time to spend away from your work and your family.”
“I’m a proud man, Robert,” Asa said slowly, “and things have been hard for us for a long time now.” He turned away for a moment. “And, Robert, you’ve allowed me my pride. And you’ve taught me what a humble man is. You’ve always been open with me and accepted me on my terms. Now I have to try and be a little like you. A humble man helps his neighbor, like you’ve helped me. You remember that year you helped me get the potatoes in after I hurt my back? Well, understand that I’m not repaying that kindness. I’m trying to duplicate it; and because you’re a humble man, I know you’ll accept my attempt at being a servant for once.” His speech finished, he turned back to studying the house.
Dad sniffed twice, and I had to wipe the moisture from my own cheek. On his way down to the truck to get the potatoes, he called back, “Asa, I wonder if you could give me a ride in your truck over to the college. I need to check my mail and things, and my wife needs the car.”

I grew up in a Protestant home and so I knew that the Sabbath was a holy day but I had not been taught—nor did I ever enquire—what the term ‘holy’ really meant. I never went to public entertainment or took part in public activities on the Sabbath, perhaps mainly because I went to a Christian boarding school for seven years and had grown up in South Africa, where at that time, all shops and public forms of entertainment were closed on the Sabbath. So, I didn’t have to make a choice about those things.
Later in my life, the missionaries came and shared the plan of salvation with me. I received a testimony of the truth and was so thrilled at what I was learning that from that day forward I had no problem in my conviction to keep the Sabbath day holy—but the practice of doing so was not always easy.
I was married at the time I began meeting with the missionaries and my husband did not share my enthusiasm for the Church—yet he was a good man with high principles and a Lutheran background. But I was challenged on how to stay true to my Sabbath day convictions without causing grief and discord within my family. During this “wilderness” time for me I received important advice that my family was most important and that I should do whatever I could to keep us together.
Baptism was withheld from me and so I did not have the constant companion of the Holy Spirit to guide me. But I loved my family and so I embarked on a course to stay true to honouring the Sabbath whenever possible and where I could, yet allowing myself to join in my husband’s social activities if he planned these on the Sabbath—without complaint. These activities were mostly contained within our circle of friends and sometimes they involved business or public functions.
Even after South Africa no longer adhered to keeping the Sabbath day holy, I chose never to fill my car with fuel or purchase household or personal goods on the Sabbath, something that was encouraged by my husband. An activity that my husband did enjoy was watching Formula One motor racing on TV on a Sunday afternoon and he wanted me to share his interest, which I did. Our home was generally peaceful on the Sabbath and we both liked to listen to good classical music and which I intermingled with sacred music. I also found, when it was appropriate to my conditions, to keep my Sunday dress on. This helped me mentally choose fitting activities and behaviour while staying in harmony with my family circumstances.
I had challenges at first in going to church and chose to attend only sacrament meeting and Sunday School—so as not to be away from home for too long. On Saturdays I always pre-­prepared a good Sunday meal and any animosity from my husband at my Sunday absence from home was soon forgotten. This was the pattern of my life for 22 years and there was in the end a greater harmony and acceptance of my limited Sabbath day values, but fully integrated in our lifestyle. Eventually, heartened by my husband’s changing attitude, my journey in the Church culminated in my baptism. Now I could have the companion of the Spirit to help guide me in the future.
I now felt freer to follow my feelings for keeping the Sabbath holy—this time with the Holy Spirit’s promptings. I also started attending full Sunday church activity without problems. I allowed myself to indulge in the driving urgency to search out my family ancestors and in so doing stimulated my husband’s interest by asking his mother to record memories and pictures she had of her family. She produced, as a legacy, a beautiful handwritten book with photos. This became a motivating activity on Sundays in which my husband showed interest. (The digital age was not so advanced as it is today, so it was a very time-­consuming activity.) This led to writing many letters to family members and institutions in other countries searching for information—and the Sabbath day allowed me time to do this, although I had to temper my enthusiasm so that it did not dominate my entire Sunday to the exclusion of family time.
Sometimes Sabbath observance was difficult as my husband in his work did a lot of travelling outside the country and liked to have me with him. If there was a church in any of the towns we visited, and nothing was planned, he was always agreeable to my attending sacrament meeting, but at the same time I never curtailed his plans for a social get-­together if he chose to do so. Overall, the Sabbath became a firm family unity day for us.
Now, I am widowed, but sealed in the temple to my husband, and I still find the Sabbath a delight. Not only do I enjoy full Sunday church activity, but I relish the thought of doing family history research in this new digital age and preparing names for temple ordinances. I am fascinated in getting to know my ancestors by researching and writing their stories and sharing copies with extended family members. I love the couple of quiet hours of morning scripture study uninterrupted by any other demands. I relish an hour or so of rest, listening to a mix of gentle light classical and sacred music. And, on some Sabbath days I connect with long-­distant family members by phone, email, or digitally.
It has been a journey, but I have learned that, truly, the Sabbath can be a delight.

Years ago, as a young missionary, I was assigned to a group of seventeen small islands in the South Pacific. At that time, the only means of travel between islands was by sailboat. Because of misunderstandings and traditions, it was difficult to find people willing to listen to us. However, one day a member told us that if we would be at a certain harbor on a particular island when the sun set the next day, a family would meet us there and listen to the discussions.
What joy that news brought! It was like finding a piece of gold. I was working alone at the time but quickly found four other members who were experienced sailors who agreed to take me to this island the next day.
Early the next morning the five of us started out. There was a nice breeze that moved us swiftly along the coast, through the opening in the reef, and out into the wide expanse of the vast Pacific Ocean.
We made good progress for a few hours, but as the sun climbed higher and the boat got farther from land, the wind began to play out and soon quit altogether, leaving us bobbing aimlessly on a smooth ocean.
Those familiar with sailing know that to get anywhere, you need wind. Sometimes there are good breezes without storms and heavy seas, but often they go together. Sailors do not fear storms, for they contain the lifeblood of sailing—wind. What sailors fear is no wind, or being becalmed.
Time passed. The sun got higher, the sea calmer. Nothing moved. We soon realized that unless something changed, we would not arrive by sundown. I suggested that we pray and plead with the Lord to send some wind. What more righteous desire could a group of men have? I offered a prayer. When I finished, things seemed calmer than ever. We continued drifting.
Then one of the older men suggested that everyone kneel and all unite their faith and prayers together, which we did. There was great struggling of spirit, but when the last person opened his eyes, nothing! No movement at all. The sails hung limp and listless. Even the slight ripple of the ocean against the side of the boat had ceased. The ocean seemed like a sea of glass.
Time was moving, and we were getting desperate. This same man now suggested that everyone kneel again in prayer and each person in turn offer a vocal prayer for the whole group. Many beautiful, pleading, faithful prayers ascended to heaven. But when the last one finished and everyone opened their eyes, the sun was still burning down with greater intensity than before. The ocean was like a giant mirror. It was almost as though Satan was laughing, saying, “See, you can’t go anywhere. There is no wind. You are in my power.”
I thought, “There is a family at the harbor that wants to hear the gospel. We are here in the middle of the ocean and want to teach them. The Lord controls the elements. All that stands between us and the family is a little wind. Why won’t He send it? It’s a righteous desire.”
As I was so wondering, I noticed this faithful older brother move to the rear of the boat. I watched as he unlashed the tiny lifeboat, placed two oars with pins in their places, and carefully lowered it over the side.
He looked at me and softly said, “Get in.”
I answered, “What are you doing? There is hardly room for two people in that tiny thing!”
“Don’t waste any time or effort. Just get in. I am going to row you to shore, and we need to leave now to make it by sundown.”
I looked at him incredulously, “Row me where?”
“To the family that wants to hear the gospel. We have an assignment from the Lord. Get in.”
I was dumbfounded. It was miles to shore. The sun was hot, and this man was old. But as I looked into the face of that faithful brother, I sensed an intensity in his gaze, an iron will in his very being, and a fixed determination in his voice as he said, “Before the sun sets this day, you will be teaching the gospel and bearing testimony to a family who wants to listen.”
I again objected, “Look, you’re over three times my age. If this is to be, let me row.”
With that same look of determination and faith-induced will, the old man replied, “No. Leave it to me. Get in the boat. Don’t waste more time talking. Let’s go!” At his direction we got into the boat, with me in the front and the old man in the middle, his feet stretching to the end of the boat, his back to me.
The glazed surface of the ocean was disturbed by the intrusion of this small boat and seemed to complain, “This is my territory. Stay out.” Not a wisp of air stirred, not a sound was heard except the creaking of oars and the rattling of pins as the small craft began to move away from the sailboat.
The old man bent his back and began to row. Dip. Pull. Lift. Dip. Pull. Lift. Each dip of the oar seemed to break the resolve of the mirrorlike ocean. Each pull of the oar moved the tiny skiff forward, separating the glassy seas to make way for the Lord’s messenger. Dip. Pull. Lift. The old man did not look up, rest, or talk, but hour after hour he rowed and rowed and rowed. The muscles of his back and arms, strengthened by faith and moved by unalterable determination, flexed in a marvelous cadence like a fine-tuned watch. It was beautiful. We moved quietly, relentlessly toward an inevitable destiny. The old man concentrated his efforts and energy on fulfilling the calling he had from the Lord—to get a missionary to a family that wanted to hear the gospel. He was the Lord’s wind that day.
Just as the sun dipped into the ocean, the skiff touched the shore of the harbor. A family was waiting. The old man spoke for the first time in hours and said, “Go. Teach them the truth. I’ll wait here.”
I waded ashore, met the family, went to their home, and taught them the gospel. As I bore testimony of the power of God in this church, my mind saw an old Tongan man rowing to a distant harbor and waiting patiently there. I testified with a fervor as great as any I have ever felt that God does give power to men and women to do His will if they will have faith in Him. I told the family, “When we exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, we can do things we could not otherwise do. When our hearts are determined to do right, the Lord gives us the power to do so.”
The family believed and eventually was baptized.
In the annals of history, few will be aware of this small incident. Hardly anyone will know about this insignificant island, the family who waited, or the obscure, old man who never once complained of fatigue, aching arms, painful back, or a hurting body. He never talked about thirst, the scorching sun, or the heat of the day as he relentlessly rowed uncomplainingly hour after hour. He referred only to the privilege of being God’s agent in bringing a missionary to teach the truth to those who desired to hear. But God knows! He gave him the strength to be His wind that day, and He will give us the strength to be His wind when necessary.

The winter of 1922 spanked Bentley, North Dakota. A whack of freezing winds mean enough to make your eyes water followed swats of icy rain. Finally the cold set in deep, relaxing into magnificent pillows of snow twelve feet high. The drifts froze so solid that a brave man or loyal horse could climb them like hills—if he could get out the door!
For once, Albert was glad to have five brothers and sisters. It was easy to stay warm when the family gathered to read in front of the potbellied stove. If only Mama wasn’t so depressed about winter! She hadn’t smiled in a week. Even the breakfast prayer had been quieter than usual. “I miss getting mail,” she said a few minutes later, staring into the rag rug.
“Mmm,” Papa said. “Not worth getting frozen. And I’ve just warmed up after morning chores.”
Mama sighed. “We’re out of matches. And salt.”
“All right.” Papa rummaged in his pockets for coins. “Which of you boys will go get Mama’s mail?”
“Me!” Albert shouted, dropping his book to the floor.
“I’m older,” Ernest said. “And Kuchen needs exercise.”
“Kuchen’s my horse,” Otmar spoke up. “I’ll go.”
“Albert will go,” Papa said. “Here’s thirty cents. Get salt, matches, and the mail. Ride Kuchen.”
The path Papa had cleared to the barn was shrinking as the wind swept snow across it. Knowing that a saddle would be too cold, Albert mounted Kuchen bareback and plunged into the drifts. Five miles was not a bad ride, unless—like today—the temperature was forty degrees below zero. Kuchen knew the way, even though most landmarks were buried in snow. They met two other riders heading back from town, so when Albert arrived, his ruddy face and iced eyelashes were not an odd sight to the grocer.
“Hello, young fellow! What do the Kilzers need today?”
The boy tugged at the hat half-frozen to his head and answered, “Our mail, please. Oh—salt and matches too.”
Mr. Strubert tucked a packet of letters into the burlap bag, then turned and deftly climbed a ladder to a top shelf. Albert wandered up and down the aisles. Buttons, fabric, patterns, crackers, tinned fish—wait! A wonderful splash of natural green glowed inside the glass icebox. Six beautiful heads of lettuce, barely brown on the edges, were stacked in a pyramid. Albert hadn’t seen a leaf of lettuce in months. If only Mama could taste some! She loved crisp chunks of lettuce, even plain. In summer, when she made Papa’s sandwiches of thick bacon, she’d slip a lettuce leaf in, then munch a few leaves herself.
“That’ll be ten cents,” Mr. Strubert announced.
“How much is a head of lettuce?” Albert asked.
“Pretty expensive—twelve cents.”
Albert’s whole body warmed with the thought of Mama’s smile when she’d see the lettuce.
“I’ll take it!”
For the whole five miles riding back, Albert clutched the neck of the burlap bag with one hand, and Kuchen’s mane with the other. One mile from home his teeth ached with the cold. A half mile away his fingers seemed frozen together in their mittens. At the barn, Albert carefully rubbed Kuchen warm and dry, giving her an extra pitchfork of hay for her efforts. He trudged back across the path now covered in a foot of snow. Triumphantly he unhooked the iron door latch and entered the great room.
“Gone a while, boy,” Papa said, not looking up from his book. “Getting higher out there?”
“Yes, sir,” Albert answered, placing the eight cents change on his father’s reading stand, then heading to the kitchen.
Mama stood at the table, rolling out sourdough for bread. Albert was too impatient to wait until she noticed him.
“Here’s your mail, Mama. And a surprise too!”
She looked up as Albert dumped the burlap bag upside down on the table. The perfect ball of lettuce hit the table with a crash and broke into a thousand crystal green pieces. It had frozen solid on the ride home!
“What was that?” Otmar called from the loft.
“Who broke what?” Papa shouted.
The twins still napped, but little Opal cried at the uproar.
Albert could not stop his tears. “Oh, Mama, I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “I wanted to surprise you. I know how you love lettuce.”
Mama hugged Albert so hard that he finally felt warm again. “It’s a treasure! Don’t cry.”
“B-b-but it’s all broken. And it cost twelve cents. Papa will be—”
“Papa will be nothing. Don’t worry. I love it! It’s a reminder of summer on this dark, cold day. Your gift is perfect! You are a very special son.”
Albert knew that she meant it. After all, she kept the frozen fragments in the ice chest till spring. She called them her winter emeralds and smiled every time she saw them.

Daniel Jacobs, who recently returned from his mission to Tallahassee, Florida, remembers being part of the original temple-going group. Even though he sometimes had to get up early to go, he never thought of it as a sacrifice. “How could it be a sacrifice when we felt so good doing it? All we had to do was wake up, and we had all the energy we needed,” he remembers. “It was a powerful lesson to me—that making time for the gospel is not a matter of convenience. You show your devotion to the Lord by putting His work first, and He blesses you with the strength to do it.”
He says that lesson helped him endure the challenges he faced on his mission. “When things were hard, I would think back to that experience and put more effort into serving the Lord. I know He will support me as I do His work.”

When my family moved to Japan, it was scary moving to a new place and making new friends. On my first day of kindergarten we were doing an art project. We had to trace our hands on paper. I noticed that a boy at my table was having a hard time tracing his hand. I wanted to help him, but I was nervous. Then I remembered that in family scripture study we had been talking about how Jesus loved and served others. I helped the boy trace his hand. It made him happy, and I felt happy too. Heavenly Father blessed me to not be nervous and helped me make a new friend too!

Trenton and his family were watching TV together. Trenton saw a boy on a commercial who did not look happy.
That boy looks very sad. Why is he so sad?
He’s sad because he doesn’t have food and clean water or other things he needs.
We should help him.
That’s a good idea. What do you think we should do?
We should make sure he has some food and clean water so he can be happy.
Good thinking. We could give some money to the bishop so he can use it to help somebody in need. What do you think?
Trenton was excited to help. He raced to his room and looked in his piggy bank. He poured out the coins and ran back to Dad.
Dad, I want to give this to the bishop so we can help somebody.
I want to help too.
Boys, that is a very kind thing to do. I think we all can share some of our money with those in need.
On Sunday, Trenton, Eric, and their parents each gave the bishop a donation envelope with some money in it. The bishop shook their hands. Trenton was happy to know that he was serving Jesus Christ and that he was helping someone in need.

I was 57, newly divorced, with little work experience outside the home, and desperately in need of a job. I had raised four children, and here I was alone after 32 years of marriage with a bit of college behind me and great trepidation in front of me to have to find a job at my age.
I sat waiting to interview for a position as a scheduling and productions specialist with the county library district, all the while thinking I must be out of my mind to believe I was qualified for such a position. I had just convinced myself to get up and leave when the secretary suddenly said they were ready for me in the conference room. I felt sick but straightened up, said a silent prayer, and stepped forward.
Two articulate and professional people told me that experience in certain areas was vital for this position and began to ask me about my experience. This job required a person who could make arrangements for large conferences, including announcements, invitations, catering, and cleanup. Did I have the experience needed? I was thinking I didn’t when my mind suddenly captured an image of a stake Relief Society conference. I had been a counselor in the stake Relief Society presidency. From that experience I had learned how to organize large gatherings and shop for bulk food for large groups. I could honestly say I had experience doing exactly what was required.
The interviewers continued: “Are you proficient on the computer? You will be corresponding with patrons and will be required to keep a schedule of conference room use.” All I could think of was how grateful I was to all the people who had taught me to use the computer so I could create the ward bulletin and calendar and write the stake newsletter. Yes, I was proficient on the computer.
“You will be expected to develop programs and provide classes for the public. Would you be able to teach classes to children and adults?” they asked. All those homemaking and Cub Scout crafts I had done sprang to mind. I explained that I had taught classes to children and adults my entire adult life. I knew I was creative and artistic and felt sure I could come up with interesting programs for children and adults.
I was thrilled when I got the position. I loved the work and tried to do as I would in a Church calling: magnify my work, go the extra mile, and not whine about overtime. I developed computer classes in English and recruited a young student to teach the classes in Spanish. I taught arts and crafts classes and hosted numerous authors and prominent speakers. I decorated the library for every holiday and displayed related books.
One day someone called me at work, claiming to be from the governor’s office and wanting to know if I would be interested in a position as the governor’s assistant. I laughingly asked, “Who is this?” He explained that the call was legitimate and invited me to come the next day for an interview. I went with a sinking feeling that it could be a joke. It wasn’t. The interview went well, and I was hired on the spot.
In my new job I used the skills I had gained from years of speaking in church. The governor could not attend all the events to which he was invited; therefore, his staff members were expected to speak in his place. All those talks in church and from serving in leadership positions had given me the experience I needed to speak in public alongside senators, local and national dignitaries, and celebrities. I served as the governor’s assistant for seven years until we both retired.
Where would I have been without the wide range of experience I had received while serving in Church callings? All that I have learned as a servant of the Lord in His Church has given me a life rich with blessings. Not only was I helping others while serving, but I was also growing by leaps and bounds. I am deeply grateful for the gospel and have a solid testimony of the value of service in the Church.

The Young Women of the mountain Home First Ward, Mountain Home Idaho Stake, made a quilt featuring the Young Women motto in the center. The corner blocks were class symbols, and the remaining blocks represented the Young Women values. Each girl selected a value and then a design to represent that value on her block. The girls embroidered or cross-stitched their designs. They learned to quilt as the blocks were assembled. The finished quilt was presented to the outgoing ward Young Women presidency.