Gospel Story Finder

All of Samuel’s creative planning paid off when he had some of his stories published. He turned in a writing assignment to a teacher, and she asked him for more of his stories. The teacher worked to have Samuel’s stories published as a book. They named it The Adventure Collection, and it was given out at a teachers’ conference. The teachers who attended the conference received a copy of the book to take back to their schools. Samuel even got to speak at the conference and autograph his books. Samuel says he was really happy. “I said to my dad on the way home that I didn’t want the day to end!”

But being an all-star can go to your head. Every now and then Scott has to remind himself what’s really important.
“Once you put the hockey jacket on it’s instant popularity,” he says after practice. Scott’s with his older brother, Troy. They sit cross-legged in their basement, trading hockey cards and playing video hockey. “Some of the guys think they’re pretty hot. Once in a while I might join them and put somebody down—let it go to my head. When I put somebody down I always end up thinking about my brother, Troy.”
Troy, 17, has had a slight motor-skills problem and learning disorder since birth. It’s not serious enough to affect his life much, but it does make him a little different from the other kids. “When he was in elementary school he got picked on a lot,” adds Scott. “I think about that and stop. I try to get the others to stop, too.”

I have to admit that when I got accepted to come to school here, I was much less excited about my going than my parents were. My friends and family constantly reminded me that I was so lucky to study abroad, but I was not looking forward to leaving home. As my parents and I tried to get my visa to come here, my feelings of staying were reinforced when I was denied a visa, twice. Getting denied twice didn’t stop my parents from trying the 3rd time but this time, I had to go to the U.S. consulate alone. My father was a mission president and they had a zone conference to go to. Before I left, my father asked me to pray and fast that the Lord’s will would be accomplished and to set aside my fears and selfish desires. He asked me to open my heart and mind to what the Lord would have me do. My visa interview was so short, I thought I’d been denied again, but then the officer stamped my passport and before I knew it, I had my visa! It was then that I finally realized and felt that studying at BYU–Hawaii was what my Heavenly Father wanted me to do. I’ve always had a testimony of the scripture found in 1 Nephi 3:7 that I know that the Lord won’t give me anything (a commandment or a trial or an opportunity) without also making a way for me to fulfill that commandment, endure that trial or take advantage of that opportunity.

When we were a young married couple our Bishop asked to give to the ward building fund, we knew that helping the Lord would bring blessing so we said yes. When my husband was called as the 1st counselor in the Young Men's presidency and I was called to be the Young Women's president with two small children and a full load of classes, we turned to the Lord for help and he helped us every step of the way and we grew as a result of serving the youth. Don't ever put the Lord second in your life and you will always feel comfortable turning to Him when you need Him.

A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.

Because of his great love for science, Henry Eyring encouraged each of his sons to major in physics as preparation for a career in science. It was while Hal was studying physics at the University of Utah that a conversation with his father marked one of those defining influences in his life. He asked his father for help with a complex mathematical problem. “My father was at a blackboard we kept in the basement,” Elder Eyring recalls. “Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hal,’ he said, ‘we were working this same kind of problem a week ago. You don’t seem to understand it any better now than you did then. Haven’t you been working on it?’”
A little chagrined, Hal admitted he had not. “You don’t understand,” his father went on. “When you walk down the street, when you’re in the shower, when you don’t have to be thinking about anything else, isn’t this what you think about?”
“When I told him no,” Elder Eyring concludes, “my father paused. It was really a very tender and poignant moment, because I knew how much he loved me and how much he wanted me to be a scientist. Then he said, ‘Hal, I think you’d better get out of physics. You ought to find something that you love so much that when you don’t have to think about anything, that’s what you think about.’”
The advice deeply impressed young Hal. He went on to finish his degree in physics, graduating not long after the end of the Korean War. During the war, the number of missionaries called from each ward had been greatly restricted. Further, by the time he graduated, Hal had already committed to a commission in the United States Air Force. So he entered the military without having served a full-time mission. But in a bishop’s blessing prior to his departure, Hal was promised that his military experience would be his mission.

Through our alumni campaign—we call it RISE—we have begun collecting the stories of more than 6,700 of our former students. Here is just one of them.
Arizona graduate Duane Oakes initially struggled to find his place at BYU. With only a few friends and no family nearby, he was contemplating returning home when he met a student-government advisor who told him he wasn’t going anywhere because she was going to mentor him. As he was helped, he discovered that he had a passion for helping other students and became involved. Through an educational career he has devoted himself to keeping the legacy going of the things he learned at BYU. He stayed involved.
Now Duane serves on the faculty of Mesa Community College and directs the Center for Community and Civic Engagement. He and his wife now lead the Arizona BYU Alumni Chapter in Phoenix. We love his story. We would love to hear your stories, and we invite you to share them at rise.byu.edu.

Katherine Wilkinson, from Utah, often stayed out late on Saturday nights. She said of one weekend, “My friends and I had gone to dinner, watched a movie, and stayed up talking well into the morning. It was probably after 2:00 a.m. when I finally went to sleep.
“On Sunday morning, I fumbled in the darkness to turn off my alarm at 7:30 a.m. but since church didn’t begin until 8:30 a.m., my sleepy self reasoned that I could reset my alarm for 8:00 a.m. When I finally got up, I had to rush to get ready on time. A two-minute shower and no breakfast later, I rushed out the door.
“Church seemed long. I could hardly stay awake during the meetings. I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until I would be napping at home. Not until Sunday School began did I realize that, in my rush, I had forgotten both my scriptures and the manual.”
Eventually Katherine decided she wanted to change so that she could enjoy the Sabbath day and keep it holy. “I pondered on my Sabbath day,” she said. “I’d gotten up too late, rushed to church only halfway ready, endured three hours of meetings (without a good attitude), and come back home to sleep. And that was hardly the first time my Sunday had gone that way. I realized I was depriving myself of the full blessings of Sabbath-day worship, especially the sacrament and what it offered me.
“Observing the Sabbath includes more than physically attending Church meetings; it means being there mentally and spiritually. I want to do that. President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) taught, ‘The Sabbath calls for constructive thoughts and acts, and if one merely lounges about doing nothing on the Sabbath, he is breaking it. To observe it, one will be on his knees in prayer, preparing lessons, studying the gospel, meditating, visiting the ill and distressed, sleeping, reading wholesome material, and attending all the meetings of that day to which he is expected’ (The Miracle of Forgiveness [1969], 96–97). As I’ve begun to change and honor this sacred day, I have felt greater blessings in my life.”

He’s a rather handsome young man, with blue eyes and a quick smile. Seated behind his keyboard, Ryan Moody fiddles for a moment with a few adjustments, then easily slides into the introduction of a song. The music sounds as good as anything you hear on the radio, but it’s new. He says, “This is a song I wrote.” Then he begins to sing. Just listening, the song takes you out of yourself. The sound is rich and full, but personal as well. After a moment you can’t resist taking a hard look at Ryan. The music introduces another part of Ryan. It seems to free his spirit from the chair his body must stay in. The music reveals something about him that your eye doesn’t always see.

Born with spina bifida, or a hole in his spine, Ryan has spent nearly his entire 18 years in a wheelchair. At first, doctors feared he might be mentally retarded, but Ryan was a sweet, lively child who has grown into an intelligent, talented young man, a young man with some special talents for music and for people.

Ryan doesn’t regard his chair as an impediment but as a help. “I get around a lot quicker this way.” He gives credit to his friends for helping him not feel any different. “My friends don’t let me think about it at all. They always forget that I’m in a wheelchair because they’ll go over tons of grass or something that is hard for me to get over, and they’ll say, ‘Come on, Ryan. Whoops, we forgot!’”

Ryan is a priest in the Tigard Oregon Second Ward. He serves as first assistant in his priests quorum and as a home teacher. He enjoys helping the bishop with the less-active members of the priests quorum and plays the organ for church. The bishop says, “Ryan seems to know how to bridge the gap between the groups in our ward.”

Ryan recently received his patriarchal blessing, which promised him in part that he would be able to influence the lives of youth wherever they may be and convince them of the blessings the Lord has in store for them and the opportunities that are theirs. Ryan’s greatest wish is to serve a mission, although his condition will not allow it. “I can’t believe that others with the opportunity to serve a mission will not go,” said Ryan. “It’s the thing I would like to do more than anything.”

Ryan started learning about music when he was two years old. His parents put a set of stereo headphones on him and, instead of yanking them off, he was fascinated. He started piano lessons at seven and had to be pushed into practicing like most people. As he learned to play, he and his mother discovered his talent. “I never did like the endings of pieces in books. I would just start making up new endings.” Several years later they discovered that Ryan had perfect pitch. Then he started writing music and performing on a variety of keyboard instruments. He has won numerous awards for his musical talent—composing, performing, and singing. He was voted the most talented in his ninth-grade class.

Once when Ryan was giving a talk at a grade school, one student asked him how it feels to be handicapped. Ryan answered by asking, “Well, how does it feel to be human?” What Ryan couldn’t say in that particular situation was that the Church has really helped him. “I think a lot of disabled people get caught up thinking, ‘I can’t do this, and my life is just going to be a waste.’ Isn’t it 1 Samuel 16:7 that says the Lord looks not on the outer appearance, but on the heart? [1 Sam. 16:7] That’s kind of important to me.”

Music has helped Ryan reach out to others and set a good example. He teaches keyboard and composition classes in a special summer school program. One friend was very discouraged and turned to Ryan for advice. He told her to go home and turn the radio to a classical station instead of the usual hard rock she was accustomed to listening to. “She followed my advice,” Ryan said. “The next day she thanked me and said she didn’t feel one bit discouraged.”

As Ryan was participating in a school quartet, he found that the song selected for the group to sing had lyrics he objected to. Ryan talked to the teacher about changing the words, but the teacher became angry. Ryan was hurt by the teacher’s reaction. After school, the teacher asked to speak to him and apologized for getting upset. “She said that what I had done took courage,” said Ryan. “She said she admired me for standing up for what I believed in and that she was willing to work with me because she really wanted me in the quartet.”

Just like most teenage boys, Ryan likes girls. And girls like him. His dad teases him about how much time he spends on the phone talking to young ladies, and his mother says that when he goes to stake dances, he dances every dance. He’s become quite creative at moving his chair in time to the music. “I’m still working on the slow dances,” he says.

About dating, Ryan says, “Sometimes it’s kind of tricky because girls seem to like me, but dating is a different situation. They don’t want to shy away, but they do because they don’t always know how to act. When we do go out, it is really neat because they just help me get in the van and we go.” Ryan as some advice for girls when a guy in a wheelchair asks for a date. “Ask yourself, ‘Is he a nice person?’ and then go from there. If he is and you really like him, then just forget about everything else.”

My husband and I recently attended a commencement exercise for our oldest son, Tom, who was graduating from law school. On graduation day, as I strained to get a glimpse of Tom in the sea of caps and gowns, my eyes searched for his face, but my heart and mind were traveling through time to years gone by. My momentary vision was blurred by a flood of memories mixed with tears. Let me share just one of those memories with you.
I remembered a little boy of three who was trying to write his name. I had written T O M for him on a piece of paper and then left him to practice while I bathed the baby. A little later he proudly showed me his finished product: M O T, it clearly read. Because of my experience as a school teacher, I was aware that young children often read and write in reverse, a condition that sometimes continues into adulthood. Fortunately, it turned out that Tom’s problem was easily solved, but at that moment my mind was full of possibilities and solutions.
I suggested that he should write the T first. He came back again a few minutes later with the same result: M O T.
I put my hand on his to guide him, explaining that we would begin with the T first, but he pulled away from me insisting, “I always start with the T and you always say it’s wrong. I just can’t do it.” And with that, he tore the paper into little pieces and threw them away. He was in no mood for a writing lesson, so we went for a walk. Later that night, when he felt like trying again, we got out a new sheet of paper. He wrote his name in big letters (this time for his dad). I watched him from across the room, and he was right. He did start with the T. His problem was that he then moved to the left with the next two letters instead of to the right!
Before I had a chance to explain that our child’s self-esteem was at stake, his dad teased, “Oh, I didn’t know we had a little boy named Mot.” Well, at that point, the evening was all over for Tom. No amount of praise for the well-formed letters or suggestions that we would help him do it right consoled him. Right there, at age three, Tom believed he was a failure. As I sat by his bed and soothed him to sleep, I knew better. I saw potential in him that he could not see in himself. I knew, though he did not, that he would learn to write his name, but that was not the important point. Even if he never learned to write his name he would not be a failure in my eyes.
As I watched his little body relax into sleep and reflected on the day’s events, I felt very much the protective parent, and I wondered how often our Heavenly Father sees us in just that same way. Hasn’t he told us, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; … And when ye see this, your heart shall rejoice” (Isa. 66:13–14). How many times when we see ourselves as failures does Heavenly Father wish he could pick us up from despair, hold us in his arms and tell us that we are not failures, and that if we will have faith, he will help us overcome our trials?
Certainly it would have been easier for me to have written Tom’s name correctly every time he wanted it on something, but I knew that the only way he would learn would be for him to do it himself. My job was to show him how, to point him in the right direction. In the same way, our Heavenly Father wants us to grow through our own experiences. This means he probably won’t solve our calculus problems for us, pay our tuition, write our English papers, study our chemistry, or turn our roommates into perfect people. But he will help us and give us direction—if we ask for his help. As we do the work, our Father in Heaven will help lift our burdens. You might think of it as a joint effort. Remember the Lord’s promise to us: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
Eventually, Tom was writing his name everywhere (yes, all three letters in the correct order). We found Tom written in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house, on a piece of paper taped to his bedroom door, in crayon on the kitchen countertop, and in the dust over and over on our unwashed car. With that last accomplishment he proudly took me outside to show off what he had done. The look of triumph in his eyes made me certain that no amount of three-year-old spit and dust could possibly harm the finish on a car. I gave him a hug and didn’t even suggest that we would need to wash the car soon.

One day I realized that I wasn’t reading my scriptures or doing some of the things I should be doing. I wasn’t being a good example to my brother and sister. So I decided to talk to my parents and my bishop about what was going on, to pray in the morning and at night, and to read my scriptures.

Sometimes I would pray to find answers to my questions through the scriptures. One morning, I prayed to have my eyes opened to something that I needed to know. I opened to Alma 38, where Alma is giving his son advice about things that you should and should not do. That really helped me out. This experience changed me because it opened my eyes to how much God loves us.

Doing what God wants me to do in the little things each day—including praying and reading my scriptures—helped me find these blessings.
Kade M., Hawaii, USA

I vividly remember a conversation I had with my roommates during my freshman year at BYU. One night at dinner we were discussing what we would give our mothers for Christmas. I had been raised in a very middle-class family, but I attended high school with wealthy, upper-class Jewish students. I had no other point of reference, so by the standards of my peers, my family was pretty poor. As I discussed gift suggestions with my college roommates, I mentioned that I was contemplating giving my mother a telephone for Christmas. She seemed to already have everything else she needed. One of my roommates said, “I’m going to buy my mother a store-bought blouse. I don’t remember her ever owning a piece of new, store-bought clothing.” Wow, was I humbled in a hurry! My naive eyes had awakened to the real world.

George Peeples is my best friend. For 17 years, we’ve lived across the street and one house over from each other. We were born in the same month of the same year in the same hospital. When our moms went to Relief Society, George and I shared the same playpen. When George started kindergarten, I was his first seat partner. We got the chicken pox at the same time, and we both had a crush on Linda Helmers in the sixth grade.
We’re a pair, a team, bookends. And we plan to keep it that way. If everything works out, we’ll go on our missions at the same time, come back at the same time, find twin sisters to marry, and go into business together. We’re like brothers, maybe even closer. There’s not a person on the face of the earth that I know better than George.
That’s why I was more than a little surprised when George pulled me aside on Sunday after our priests quorum lesson was finished. What he said to me was totally unexpected. Brother Roberts had given a good lesson about living up to our potential and making the most of our lives by developing our talents and abilities. I could tell that it had made an impression on George.
“Casey,” he said, motioning for me to come closer. “We’ve got to talk.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I’m inspired,” he said.
“To do what?”
“The lesson today. Doing something for yourself and something for others at the same time. I’m getting this feeling, Case. A big feeling. I want to make a difference. I know it’s crazy, but …”
“But what?”
“Case, I’m going to run for student-body president.”
My mouth must have dropped open about six inches. George is a great guy, but a student-body president? That was hard to imagine.
“You don’t have to say it,” George beamed. “You’re surprised. Right?”
“I am surprised, George.”
“Here’s another surprise for you. I want you to be my campaign manager.”
I didn’t know what to say. Here was my best friend asking me to sign on as first mate of the Titanic. George was well liked, but not what I’d call popular. Maybe if he were all-universe in a glory sport, like basketball or football. George was a wrestler, and not a very good one at that. The only office he’d held in school was Science Club treasurer. This was not a man who brought Thomas Jefferson to mind. George didn’t have a chance.
My ten-year-old brother Matt came scooting down the hallway. “Dad says you need to get to the car right now,” he blurted out. I don’t know when I was happier to be pestered by my brother. “Gotta fly, George. I’ll call you later.” With that, I quickly headed toward the car. Very quickly.
“Can you believe it? George wanting to run for student-body president?”
I giggled. I was at home with my family at the dinner table, chewing pot roast and talking over the events at church. “Student-body president. Isn’t that a scream?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s so funny,” my dad mused. “He has a lot of ability. George is a friend to everyone. He brings out the best in others, a rare trait these days.”
Mom picked up the theme in a hurry. “You shouldn’t talk about George that way, Casey. You should encourage him to run, not poke fun at him behind his back.”
My pot roast suddenly tasted a little dry. “Uh, I am supporting him. He asked me to be his campaign manager,” I mumbled.
“Good for George. Just like him to place so much faith in you, son,” Dad approved. “You know what I like about George? He’s a good people person.”
“That’s Peeples,” Matt chimed in. “He’s a Peeples person.”
“Hey, how about that? Vote for George. The Peeples Choice,” my mother said triumphantly. “Is that a terrific campaign slogan or what?”
“The Peeples Choice. Cute, Mom.” I smiled weakly. As soon as the dishes were cleared, I was on the phone with George.
“You don’t even have to say it. You’re accepting the campaign manager’s position,” he chattered. “I knew I could count on you. See what you can find out tomorrow at Mr. Carello’s office. For a principal, he knows a lot about what’s going on. Then we’ll plot strategy after school over here.”
“Right, George. Strategy. It’s going to take a lot of that to pull this off.”
About four the next afternoon, I knocked on George’s door. His little brother, Ralphie, answered. Ralphie is seven years old and the unquestioned budding neighborhood genius. He was reading at three, wrote his first simple computer program at five, and his first complex program a year later. He’s got a round little face, like George’s, a bowl haircut, and oval tortoise shell glasses. “Hi Ralphie! Discovered any new subatomic particles this week?”
“Well, no Casey, but I do have a new ant farm. It’s fascinating. Do you want to see it?”
“Some other time, Ralphie. Big doings here today,” I said, walking to the family room where George was studying a city map.
“Casey! What did you find out?”
“Good news and bad news. First the good. Mr. Carello said he knew of only two people running for student-body president.”
“Only two? Me and who else?”
“That’s the bad news, George. The other candidate is Eric Torrington.”
George looked as though he’d swallowed a snail. “Uhhh,” he groaned. “The Eric Torrington? All-state quarterback? Honor roll student? The one who never has a hair out of place?”
Before I could answer, I heard a voice from the couch across the room. “Eric Torrington. Ohhhh. He’s so gorgeous.”
It was George’s ninth-grade sister, Libby. The mere mention of Eric Torrington caused her heart to skip a beat.
“Yes,” I sighed. “That Eric Torrington.”
“It felt so right yesterday, but maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” George worried.
“We can’t let the competition scare us off,” I reassured. “Look, if you were Eric, would you take George Peeples’s campaign seriously?”
“No. I really wouldn’t.”
“Neither will Eric. That gives us the element of surprise. And I know we can outwork him.” I was startled by how confident I was sounding. I suppose that people boarding the Titanic had smiles on their faces. “I’ve already got a great campaign slogan. ‘The Peeples Choice.’ There are a lot more people at school who never will be a star athlete. They’ll identify with you, not Eric.”
George was looking less discouraged. “The Peeples Choice. That’s good.”
“The credit for it really belongs to my mom.”
“And the surprise stuff. I do have a few ideas up my sleeve. Like tracting. You know, like the missionaries do,” George explained. “I got a list of addresses from the computer today. Every student at Westmont High is right here. I’ve already started to plot their homes on this map. We can try to visit as many as we can at their own house before election day. The personal touch. What do you think?”
“It’s worth trying.”
“Then we’re in this thing to the end?”
“Together all the way.”
“And not even Linda Helmers will come between us?”
“No way. And she moved to Montana four years ago anyway.”
George laughed. “Eric Torrington is about to be thrown for a loss.”
We stood at the corner of 19th and Oak Street, looking at a long list of addresses attached to a clipboard. “Mark Crane,” George said firmly. “Second house on the right.” We marched to the door and George knocked vigorously. A young man opened the door.
“Mark Crane?”
“Yes, I’m Mark.”
“Mark, I’m George Peeples, and I’ll be a senior next year at Westmont High. I’m running for student-body president and—”
Mark’s face brightened. “So you’re the guy. I heard someone was running against Eric Torrington, but I couldn’t remember who. What did you say your name is?”
“George. George Peeples.”
“That Eric is awesome,” Mark said admiringly. “Do you remember the game against Central a year ago? We were down by six points with two minutes left.”
“Hey, do I remember that game!” George enthused. “Of course. Eric was running to his left with a linebacker and a nose tackle hanging on his back. Then he sets up and throws the ball about 60 yards against the grain …”
“And our guy is wide open, makes the catch, and dances into the end zone. We kick the extra point and the game is history,” Mark rhapsodized. “Awesome.”
“Yeah, awesome,” George gushed. “That pass was a tight spiral, no wobble at all.”
“Sixty yards easy,” gloated Mark. Mark blinked at George. “So what did you say brought you here?”
“Oh. Right. Well, I’m running for student-body president against Eric, and gosh, if you don’t vote for him, then how about voting for me?”
Mark gave George an odd glance. “Yeah. Sure. So how will we do in football next year?” They talked about football for a couple more minutes, then parted amiably. George and I turned back toward the street.
“You don’t need to say it, Casey. I’ve got to be more assertive. Mark pretty much had me talked into voting for Eric.” He looked at me. “Tell me it will get better.”
“One door, one new friend. That’s not bad. It will get better,” I told him.
Looking back, it did get better. We never knew what to expect when we knocked on those doors. We talked with tall kids, short kids, skinny kids, not-so-skinny kids, people with blond hair, people with brown hair, and in a couple of cases, people with orange hair. Some simply told us they would vote for Eric. Some showed no interest in voting at all. And a few, I think, really took seriously what George had to say. Tracy McNeil was one of those people.
We’d been working a neighborhood for a couple of hours, greeted mostly by blank looks. We were worn down. George’s shoulders slumped. We approached a large, two-story house with green shutters. I rapped on the door, and a girl our age answered.
“Hello, I’m George Peeples and I’m running for student-body president.”
She smiled. “Oh yes. Some of my friends told me you’d been to their houses.” She was just a few inches over five feet tall and as thin as a drinking straw. She had long, light brown hair. “I’m Tracy McNeil,” she said.
“This is my friend and campaign manager, Casey Baxter,” George introduced me.
“Why are you doing this, George?” Tracy asked.
“You mean going to houses and asking people to vote for me?” She nodded. “On a day like today, I wonder myself. A lot of people don’t care, it seems.
“And you do?” Her question was polite, but with a point.
“Yes, I do. I want to make a difference,” George said earnestly. “I have some good ideas, like the scholarship committee. The way I see it, with a little work and relying on some expertise in the community, we could double the number of scholarships received by Westmont students. I want to see if my ideas will work. If I don’t run, I’ll never know what effect I could have had. Right, Casey?”
“Right, George.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something but were afraid to try?”
Tracy blushed. “Cheerleader,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to dance around with pompoms and yell silly rhymes in front of large audiences. It’s dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb. Why haven’t you tried out?” George asked.
“You have to be pretty and popular. I’m neither,” Tracy answered.
“I think you’re pretty,” George blurted out. “And if a little guy like me can run for student-body president against an all-state quarterback, then you can try out for cheerleader.”
A light clicked on in my head. “I remember your picture in the yearbook. You’re on the gymnastics team. You could do those cheerleader routines in your sleep.”
“Well …” Tracy wavered.
“You try out,” George demanded.
“Maybe,” hedged Tracy.
“Will you at least vote for me?” George wondered. “I have other good ideas, too.
“Eric doesn’t have any ideas. You have my vote. You earned it,” laughed Tracy.
When we left the doorstep, George’s mood was definitely on the upswing. “Tracy McNeil. A great human being. Intelligent. Attractive. And supremely insightful,” he rambled. “Case, by some chance do you think she has a twin sister?”
Still, George and I worried. You couldn’t walk down a hallway at school without seeing Eric’s football-shaped campaign tags. “Be a Winner. Join the Torrington Team,” they urged. We needed help. Even with the assistance of George’s parents and the dubious efforts of Libby, we couldn’t keep up.
I was at home one evening, halfheartedly trying to write a paper for English class when Brother Roberts called. He’s an architect, only a couple of years out of school. Our priests would do almost anything for him.
“How’s the campaign going, Casey? When I ask George, he only assures me that all is well. My instincts tell me otherwise.”
“It could be better,” I admitted. “Eric Torrington has a lot of support. Except for the wrestlers, he’s got every athlete’s vote in the school. Then there’s the hunk factor. Eric is one; George isn’t. George may not even carry his own family. Yesterday at school I saw Libby with a Torrington tag. Can you believe it? Like half the other freshman girls, she’s probably convinced herself that Eric is a secret admirer and is getting ready to ask her to the prom or something.”
“Not a good sign when you can’t count on your own sister’s vote,” Brother Roberts sympathized. “When are you and George going to meet again?”
“Tomorrow, about seven at his house.”
“Let me see what I can do to help.”
I was a few minutes late getting to George’s house the next night. Ralphie answered the door.
“Hey, Ralphie, been reading up on superconductivity lately?”
“Why yes, I have—an unbelievable force. George is in there. I was just going over his trigonometry with him.”
George sat in the family room, staring toward a shelf where Ralphie’s ant farm was located. “Oh hi,” he said wearily when I came into the room. He turned again to look at the ant farm. “You don’t suppose we’re any different from those ants?”
“Say what?”
“The ants and us. They wander around their little world, just like we do. They work hard, just like we do. And they won’t be elected student-body president, just like us.”
“George, you’ve been campaigning too hard. This is fairly obvious, but you are not an ant.”
The doorbell rang. We heard a commotion at the front door. Then Brother Roberts strode in carrying a dozen pieces of cardboard. Behind him streamed in our priests and the entire Laurel class.
“George, Casey,” Brother Roberts explained hastily. “This is your instant campaign committee. I’ve got a pretty good hand in art and everyone here has been cutting paper and pasting since their kindergarten days. These materials are scraps from work. We’re here to help you.”
George started to sputter something. One of the priests, Brett Young, held up his hand. “George, you’ve proved your friendship to us many times. Just think of it as returning the favor. Now stand back and let us get started.”
George sat down, looking slightly lost. In three minutes, a little factory was set up with a dozen kids bouncing around like popcorn in a popper. George watched, almost in a daze.
“Still feeling like an ant?” I shouted across the room.
“Not at all. I’m feeling like, well, the Peeples Choice!”
Three hours later, the Peeples campaign was in possession of four beautiful banners, a dozen posters, and 200 campaign tags.
The priests and Laurels also left behind one important intangible—a big dose of enthusiasm. “The confidence is back,” I told George. “Let’s go knock on some doors.”
“We’ll help,” Brett volunteered. “You won’t make it to every student’s house by next week. We can split into twos and cover the ground you won’t get to.”
Looking back, that night was the turning point. At school the next day, you couldn’t look anywhere without seeing “The Peeples Choice” hanging from a wall or ceiling, or proclaimed on a tag on someone’s clothing. We were gaining momentum. “It looks like you and Casey are giving Eric a run for his money,” Mr. Carello told us in a hallway. I saw Eric a few times that week. Underneath his cool, poised exterior, I detected a trace of anxiousness. As an athlete, he knew what could happen when the opposition mounted a fourth-quarter charge.
Suddenly, it seemed, the day before elections arrived. We had our last meeting. “We’ll finish the door-to-door work this afternoon,” reported Brett. “We’ll be close to visiting 90 percent of all Westmont students by the time you sit down for supper.”
“Great work,” George acknowledged happily.
“What about your campaign speech?” I asked George. Before the elections, an assembly was held and all the candidates addressed the student body. “Do you need help with it?”
“I don’t think so. I talked it over with Dad, and he said the best speeches are those that come from the heart. I’ll work on it tonight.”
“You’d better,” Brett advised, “because the assembly is the first thing tomorrow.”
“Nobody knows that better than I do,” George replied.
I lost track of George that afternoon. It was just as well. The campaign had taken a toll on my homework. So when my last class was over, I did the heroic thing and trudged to the library. I studied until about 6:00 P.M. and then made my way down the quiet hallways.
I passed by the gymnasium. A door was open. Inside, a girl was practicing a cheerleading routine, ending with some very polished handsprings. I watched until Tracy McNeil finished only a few feet away from me. She looked up, startled to see someone watching her. “Caught in the act,” she said, her face flushed from the workout. “Tryouts are in two weeks. I need a little work.” She frowned, feigning anger. “You know this is all George’s fault. He gave me that little boost. And whether I make the cheerleading squad or not, I’m glad that I’m trying. Better to know than always wonder,” she said, letting out a breath of air that ruffled her bangs.
“George does seem to bring out the best in people,” I said. “Need a campaign manager? I’ve put together quite a machine for George.”
“A campaign manager for cheerleader?” She laughed. “No, I don’t think so. But if I change my mind, you’ll get a call.” Tracy was done practicing. Since it was getting dark, and since I knew George would approve because he’s also a gentleman, I walked Tracy to her house. “Good luck tomorrow,” she wished before disappearing behind her front door.
I arrived home 20 minutes later, convinced that I never was that crazy about Linda Helmers in the sixth grade anyway.
Excitement rippled up and down the hallways at school the following morning. Everyone was talking about the elections. You couldn’t turn anywhere without seeing a horde of students wearing Touchdown Torrington or Peeples Choice tags.
In the school auditorium, the first row was reserved for all the candidates. I took a seat right behind George. He looked sharper than I’ve ever seen him. He wore a new, gray, pin-striped suit with a red necktie.
“This is it,” I said, settling in behind him. “Got your speech?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m going on instincts. I’ll know what to say when I get up there.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Trust me. Whatever I say will be right from the heart. I hope.”
The assembly started. Mr. Carello announced the candidates for president and said that Eric would lead off. Eric strode confidently to the podium, amid some encouraging shouts from around the room. He had on a white linen sport jacket, beige slacks, and a light blue shirt. He looked, well, like Eric. Cool. Sophisticated. Very in.
“I’m a natural leader,” he began. “I’ve proved it on the field, and now I’m ready to prove it off the field. When it’s fourth and inches and the game is on the line, you want someone who can take charge. I’ve been there. And hey, I took charge.”
He went on, playing the football theme to the hilt. Some of his pals in the audience let out an occasional whoop or whistle. “So you want to be a winner? Vote Torrington. Join the Torrington team. And together, we’ll be invincible,” he concluded. Right on cue, a bunch of his friends immediately jumped up and started clapping.
“Some campaign manager you’ve got,” I groaned to George. “I didn’t even think ahead to plant some people in the audience to give you a standing ovation.”
“No problem,” George said serenely, standing. He walked to the podium slowly. He stood there for several seconds, saying nothing. My stomach did some Tracy McNeil-like backflips. There were some nervous coughs. Finally, George began to speak.
“Over the last few weeks, I’ve visited many of you in your homes. Based on those visits, I’ve concluded one thing: You are winners now, and you don’t need to prove it by voting for one candidate or another …”
Cheering simultaneously broke out all over the auditorium. George smiled and waited for the noise to die down. “I know what it’s like to come to school and wonder if you’re important. To me, all of you are. We can make this school a place where we look forward to coming each day, to learn, and to see friends. I’m running for student-body president because, together—” George paused and nodded slightly “—we can make a difference.”
George elaborated on his plans—to expand the student store, to form the scholarship committee, and his idea for an intramural sports league where desire, not ability, was the only qualification for participation. You could have heard a cricket chirp as he spoke—it was that quiet. It was clear to anyone who was half-awake that George’s ideas and plans far surpassed Eric’s efforts. Then George finished. “Just do this. Think about the two candidates. Then vote for the one you think will truly best serve you.”
Applause erupted. I noticed someone standing behind me and to the left. It was Mark Crane, the very first person George and I talked with. Brett was on his feet, quickly joined by other friends from church. It was contagious. Tracy stood, and most shocking of all, Libby and some of her pals began clapping and shouting. From the back of the long, large room thundered the most thrilling sound of all. A chant, growing stronger. “Peeples … Peeples … PEEPLES! … PEEPLES!!!” Shivers shot up my spine as George walked back to the front row.
“Can you believe it?” I shouted to George, who grinned and turned to face the student body, his hands held high over his head.
For the first time, I believed that George might actually win.
George would have been a great student-body president, maybe the best ever at our school. If only he had the chance. Close doesn’t count in elections; neither does who is most deserving. Mr. Carello’s face told it all as he came out of his office to announce the results after school. He looked slightly disappointed, a fact not lost on George.
“He doesn’t even have to say it,” George whispered glumly. “Eric won.”
Mr. Carello cleared his throat. “For student-body president, Eric Torrington, 353 votes, George Peeples, 344. Congratulations, Eric. A burst of backpounding broke out in Eric’s corner of the room. George walked over, smiling to hide his hurting.
“Thanks, George,” Eric said, shaking George’s hand. “You gave me a big scare. Another day or two, you would have won. You’re a class act, Peeples.”
Mr. Carello pulled George aside. “You gave it a good try. I do plan to follow up on some of your ideas. We’ll need a student leader on the scholarship committee. I hope that you’ll consider the position.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carello.”
Friends consoled George. We left after ten minutes or so, starting the long walk home. Rain began to fall.
“You did great, George. Nobody gave you a chance, but you almost pulled it off. And look at the good things that came out of it. You made some friends. Tracy will be a cheerleader, no doubt. You gave people confidence. And that was the best priest and Laurel activity we’ve had in a while.”
“I suppose you’re right, Casey, but it’s hard not to be disappointed,” he said.
Normally I can fight off noble urges pretty well, but I was getting desperate to cheer up my friend. “I think Tracy would like you to ask her out.”
It didn’t even phase him. “That’s nice,” George mumbled.
We were quite a pair, walking in the rain, our heads down. After what seemed like an hour, we reached our street. “Look George, you should be proud. You weren’t elected, but you’re still a winner.”
He nodded a little. “Thanks for your help. You were a great campaign manager. Right now, though, I need to go somewhere quiet and think through some things. I’ll be fine, but it may be a few days before I smile again.”
He turned to his house, a forlorn figure on a gray evening. I went to my room, stretched across my bed, and spent a few reflective seconds thinking of the day’s events.
My peace was short-lived. It was shattered by an explosion coming from the Peeples’s house. I bounded off the bed and dashed down the stairs to the street. I saw Libby bolting from the house, looking disgusted. “You’ve done it this time, Ralphie! For a kid so smart, how could you do something so dumb! Dad’s going to ground you until your mission!”
Ralphie tore out of the house right behind his sister. I grabbed Libby’s arm. “What in the world is going on?”
“It’s Ralphie, the boy genius,” she hissed. “Mom’s picking up Dad at the airport. Ralphie’s been told a million times not to use his chemistry set when they’re gone. But he got into it and there was a horrible bang. I mean cups and plates fell out of the cupboards, and books off their shelves. And his ant farm. It fell and cracked, and now there’s about 50,000 ants running everywhere. Ralphie’s never going to get out of this one!”
I rushed by the panic-stricken Ralphie into the house. I turned to the kitchen. The sight was unforgettable—George, wet hair plastered on his forehead, in his soggy suit, down on the floor with the sugar bowl in his hands, sprinkling white granules and urging, “Here ants! Come and get the sugar! Ummm, good!” He looked up at me and hurriedly explained, “Got to capture these ants before my parents get home. Ralphie’s entire future is at stake. Just don’t stand there, help me!”
I started to chuckle, and then George, realizing how it must have all looked, began giggling. He sat back in a mess of sugar, a couple of ants clambering up his red tie. We laughed until we both had headaches.
“George, I don’t even need to say it.”
“Go ahead anyway, Casey.”
“You are someone who makes a difference. And always will.”
With that, I grabbed some sugar in my hand and started calling ants in the very best way that I could.

When I was 19 years old, one of my best friends was married. The wedding was wonderful, she looked beautiful, the groom was handsome, and they were happy. I, on the other hand, was a little distraught. I was caught off guard by what she was doing. She was altering my vision for her—and for me. I definitely wanted to get married, just not yet. I thought we were both so young, and here she was marrying not only before graduating from college, but before she had the chance to travel much or engage in intellectually stimulating career opportunities. I was up the night prior to her wedding, anxious about what would happen in her future, while she was sound asleep, rightly confident in her decision.
As I look back on my reaction, I have to smile. What was I thinking? I look at her life now: she has two lovely children and a loving home. A few months after her wedding it became clear to me that she had made the right decision, and it is even clearer now. I recognize that she was prayerful and thoughtful and trusted in God’s promptings to her.

It all started a few years ago when the young men and women of the ward began to hear of the not-so-happy experiences some children around the country were having as they went out on Halloween night to trick-or-treat. Remembering how much they as youngsters had enjoyed the traditional activities of this night, they felt it somehow wasn’t fair that their younger brothers and sisters should have to miss out. And so a new tradition was born.

The first year the party was held, only the Primary children and their parents were invited, but about halfway through that evening the young people realized they were leaving out almost half the children of the neighborhood. The next year everyone under 12 and their parents were invited. “This year we brought nine nonmember neighbors,” said Adrienne Brantzeg, a Laurel. Two of those were six-year-old Martin Seraphin and his mother who had recently moved with their family to Salt Lake City from New Jersey. “He’ll remember this until he’s 43,” Mrs Seraphin said of her son. “I can’t believe there are young people who would go to all this work just to serve the neighborhood children.”

And they do go to a lot of work. Planning begins during the last two weeks of September. Youth and adult leaders meet to make assignments. Traditionally, the Laurels are in charge of food (a light dinner), the Mia Maids handle publicity and decorations, and the Beehives plan and direct games. The priests, teachers, and deacons put together the spook alley that wanders through several rooms on the second floor of the meetinghouse, and the priests build the cardboard tunnel slide that swoops the children from the end of the spook alley, down the stairs, and into the foyer of the chapel. All are asked to help with cleanup.

After the assignments are made and specific class members are put in charge of different items and activities, adult leaders can take a deep breath and relax. “My Laurel adviser kept calling to check on how the food was coming,” said Cyndi, “but she didn’t have to worry.”

“I spent an entire afternoon making 350 individual Jello salads in plastic cups,” said Monika Guertler. “And after the party was over, and I looked at the Jello puddles here and there on the floor, I still felt it was worth it!”

Mia Maid president Allison Wright and her classmates hand-made and delivered invitations to all the homes within the ward boundaries. Over 300 people attended, with approximately 100 being nonmember children and their parents. “It’s a great chance for us to associate with and get to know those we don’t usually meet through Church activities,” said Marianne Miner. “I was in charge of the punch and chips, and I got a big cauldron-looking pot, put dry ice in the punch to make it smoke, and asked one of my neighbors to dress up like a witch to serve it.”

The Beehives, with Kim Astin directing, decided on five games, some of them successful repeats from former years. “We played Pin the Grin on the Pumpkin, Bite the Apple, Pop the Great Pumpkin’s Balloon, Keep Your Nose Clean (wet sponges are thrown at a member of the ward who stands behind a large cardboard partition and sticks his head through a small opening), and we also had a cakewalk, which works something like musical chairs,” said Kim.

Each year the young men try to make the upstairs spook alley even better than the year before. This year each of the quorums was in charge of a room. “It was pretty spooky,” one little clown was heard to say, “but you don’t have to go through it alone.” The young men make sure that one of their number or a young woman who isn’t busy at the moment accompanies each child through so that no scares are taken too seriously. And many children brave the alley not only because of their “big” friends who help them through, but also because if they don’t go through the spook alley, they don’t get to go down the cardboard slide. The Moffat brothers, Kayle and David, have always volunteered to build the slide. Kayle built it with David’s help for a couple of years, but now he is serving as a full-time missionary and David is handling it alone. David says that by the time he gets his call in a year or two, Kayle will be back and able to take over again.

Do the children seem to miss the trick-or-treat activities of the past? “We think they’d miss our party more,” said the deacons. Weeks before Halloween each year, neighborhood children and their grateful parents, member and non, ask if there’s going to be another celebration.

“Altogether it’s a great tradition,” said Marianne. “You feel happy and satisfied when you see that everyone has enjoyed themselves.” “You feel like you’ve accomplished something,” added Cyndi. “And every year,” said Monika, “you feel as if it is the best party so far.”

Will they do it again next year? You bet! After all, everyone likes to feel happy, and it’s an even deeper and more lasting happiness when there’s a little bit of tired, a good amount of work, and a whole bunch of share involved. Start your own tradition of service and make it a habit! According to the young men and young women of the Valley View Sixth Ward, you not only create a warmer, friendlier, safer neighborhood, you create a better you.

It was a Thursday night, and I was not exactly in the best mood. The day had gone from bad to worse. Not only was I late for seminary because I had slept in, but in the bustle of getting to the car, I managed to forget my math homework. The whole day continued in this miserable pattern until I came home, pounded upstairs to my room, and slammed my door, daring anyone to disturb me. No one did.
Now with chemistry homework half complete, I slammed shut my book and sat against the bed I had not even had time to make. I felt nothing but empty frustration and anger. What did I do to deserve this? Why was everything going so wrong? I thought wallowing in self-pity.
I glanced at my scriptures and suddenly remembered I had forgotten to read. I flipped them open. I stopped and felt rebellion building within me. Why should I bother? I thought. I had dragged myself out of bed at a ridiculous 5:30 A.M., to get to seminary and all for what? So I could forget my homework and have one of the worst days ever?
I was at my breaking point. Deep down I knew my troubles and poor attitude were my own fault. It was just so much easier to blame someone else. I was contemplating what to do next when a brave soul dared to knock on my door.
“Time for prayer!” shouted Ronnie’s sweet four-year-old voice while still pounding with all his might. I groaned and unlocked my door, emerging from my cave of self-pity.
“Hello, beautiful!” my dad said, kissing my cheek. I only scowled as we walked into my parents’ bedroom where the family had begun to congregate—all seven of us.
“There you are, Catherine. I have hardly seen you all day,” Mom said to me just as Baby Candace, as we like to call her, entered the room. I was greeted by the adorable two-year-old with a bubbly, “Hi, Ratren,” and a hug around the knees. I always find it amazing how much love is stored in that tiny body of hers. I felt slightly better, but I was still annoyed with the way my day had been going. Then I began to think of all the tests waiting for me Friday. I turned to my dad and, with a touch of that attitude which accompanies most 15-year-olds, asked, “Can we just get this over with?” (Luckily, my father was in a better mood than I was.)
“All right then, let’s see,” Dad said looking around the circle and counting as he went, “Where’s Steven?”
“Steven!” Ronnie shouted, cupping his small hands to his mouth as though his 11-year-old brother were across the street rather than in the next room. With that, Steven came bounding in, did a half-somersault, and took his place in the family circle. I only rolled my eyes.
“Now,” Dad began again, “whose turn is it?” I sat back on my heels hoping he would not call on me. The last thing I felt like doing was praying.
“Me turn, me turn!” shouted Candace, waving her hand wildly in the air.
“I guess it is your turn, Candace,” Dad said, smiling. “Do you want Mommy to help you?” Candace nodded and scooted closer to Mom.
“All right then, fold your arms, Candace,” Mom said gently. The small girl glanced around the circle to make sure all eyes were properly closed before she began. I was totally unprepared for what followed.
Before Mom began her usual whispered prompts, Candace started all on her own: “Heavenly Father, tank dee for Mommy, Daddy, Tistine, Ratren, Steben, Nonnie, and me, Tandace. Dat we are a family togeder. Help us choose da right.” The room was silent, except for the voice of a small girl speaking with her Heavenly Father. She had no thoughts of personal gain, only asking a blessing for Daddy at work and to help us “choose da right.” From the mouth of a two-year-old came one of the most humble and pure prayers I have ever heard. I was filled with shame as she closed, “Name of Jesus Christ, amen!”
We gave hugs and praises for the wonderful job Candace had done. After good-night kisses, I once again departed for my room. I gently closed the door and walked over to the corner where my scriptures lay waiting.
In Matthew 18:1–4, I read, “At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
“And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
“And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
Tears gathered in my eyes. For the first time, I knew the meaning behind this scripture. Yes, my day had been tough, but only because I had allowed it to be. I realized that throughout life, trials would come and go, but if we humble ourselves to become “as little children,” the Lord can help us get through anything.
After kneeling by my bed to pray, I opened my door and crept into the room where Baby Candace was supposed to be sleeping. “Hi, Ratren!” she shouted as she jumped out of bed, throwing her small arms around my neck. “Shhhh. I love you, Baby,” I said to her, as I tucked her under her sheets.

In another stake, Relief Society president Mickie Neslen realized that financial security helps strengthen families. She and the stake presidency prepared a stake home, family, and personal enrichment meeting that traveled from ward to ward. It began with a spiritual lesson on finances. Afterward, the sisters were invited to visit five different stations with 15-minute presentations by knowledgeable sisters:
“Budgeting” featured various ways to keep track of and manage money with notebooks, envelopes, or software.
“Money-Saving Tips” consisted of simple ways to save money each day.
“Finances for Kids” demonstrated a variety of ways to teach finances to children, including interactive games.
“Preparing for the Future” reviewed information about disability insurance, assisted living, nursing care, and other retirement concerns.
“The Cost of Credit” pointed out the dangers of debt and how to avoid it.
These enrichment meetings helped educate and strengthen the sisters in many important ways.

“Good morning, birthday boy!” Mama said. “Come and get some birthday breakfast.”
Marcus jumped out of bed and hurried to the kitchen to eat his sweet oatmeal and berries. “Thanks, Mama!”
After breakfast, Marcus ran to his room and reached under his bed for his box of drawing things. Marcus loved oatmeal, he loved soccer, and he loved race cars. But most of all, he loved drawing.
Marcus pulled out his notebook and markers. He started drawing a race track with a bright orange race car zooming around.
Pretty soon his race car was almost perfect. All it needed was some cool red stripes. He pulled the lid off his red marker. But it was all dried up!
Oh no! Marcus thought. I wanted to make the stripes red!
He grabbed the blue marker. Oh well. I guess blue stripes will be OK, he thought. But the blue marker was all dried up too.
Marcus frowned. He definitely needed new markers. Usually he got a new set of markers for his birthday, but Dad had just lost his job. His family didn’t have a lot of money right now. So Marcus would just have to wait. At least he would still get a birthday cake tonight.
With a sigh, Marcus put his drawing things back in the box and slid it under his bed. Soon his friend Peter would be over to play.
When the doorbell rang, Marcus ran to the door.
“Happy birthday!” Peter said. “We’re the same age again!” Peter was exactly one week older than Marcus and lived nearby. Marcus loved having a birthday in the same month as his friend.
Marcus and Peter played soccer in the backyard. Then they built rocket ships out of boxes. Marcus had so much fun that he almost forgot about the markers.
Then there was a knock at the door. “Marcus,” Mama called. “Auntie is here to see you!”
“Happy birthday, Marcus!” Auntie said. She handed him a present wrapped in bright paper.
Marcus tore off the paper and couldn’t believe what he saw inside. A new set of markers! And even better, there were two of each color.
“Thanks, Auntie!” Marcus gave her a big hug. Then he ran to his bedroom to finish his race-car picture. Peter watched him add the last red stripe. It was perfect!
When the day was over, Marcus lay in bed and thought about his fun day. He got to play with his best friend, and he got new markers!
But a thought kept bothering him. Peter was really quiet when Marcus opened his birthday present from Auntie. Did my present make him sad? Marcus wondered.
Then Marcus remembered something. Peter’s dad had lost his job too. What if Peter didn’t get any presents on his birthday? That thought made Marcus sad. But maybe there was a way he could help.
The next morning, Marcus woke up early. He found the crumpled wrapping paper from his present. He pulled out his markers and wrapped one of each color in the paper. Then he put the present by Peter’s front door and hurried away before anyone could see him.
When Marcus got home, he looked at his set of markers. There was only one of each color now. Marcus sighed. Then he pictured Peter unwrapping his surprise and smiled. Maybe Peter would come over to play after he found his present. Then they could draw race cars together!

A few years ago my brother gave me some of the mission statements that his brothers in the Hanford California Third Branch had written. Here are a few lines from those statements:
I want to lift the hands that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees.
Is anything too hard for the Lord?
I will always say, “Here am I, Lord, send me!”
At first glance, nothing seems unusual about these statements. The men of the Hanford Third Branch, however, are those who hold their services in the California state prison at Avenal. Every week, and sometimes multiple times a week, President Ralph Morrill would faithfully visit the brethren of the Hanford Third Branch. Most of society consider these men to be without hope, but not President Morrill. He inspired these men to write mission statements and to have hope for the future. He visited my brother, David, in what would be his darkest hour—the day David learned that his meek and gentle teenage son had lost his life in a senseless act of violence.
Because of President Morrill’s service, my brother, David, has transformed his life. Since David was released from prison almost three years ago, he has helped bring many of his friends to the gospel of Jesus Christ. He has earned four semesters of 4.0 grades and will graduate from the local community college this spring. I will be there to celebrate his graduation, and so will President Morrill.
President Morrill has invited many men of the Hanford Third Branch to devote their lives to preparing to enter the house of the Lord, where “the power of godliness is manifest.”

Just over thirteen years ago, my wife at the time, through a series of choices that led her to question her testimony, ultimately decided to leave our marriage and our family and to move out of state. She said that I could have the house and our six children.

I found myself a divorced, single father trying to balance employment, my calling in the bishopric, fatherhood, and an attempt at being "mister mom." My four daughters were 15, 10, 9, and 7 years old at the time, and my two sons were 12 and 5. Boy did I ever need help. I prayed several times a day pleading with the Lord for guidance and direction.

A short time later, a good sister in my ward mailed a note to me which had a profound effect. It said that I should remember, "This is not life, but only an event in life. Pain and suffering are required; misery is optional." I realized that I could not change the situation, but I could control how I reacted. I concluded that I would have to exercise as much faith as I could and place my trust in the Lord to get through this ordeal, recognizing Christ as my rock and my foundation.

During my trial of being a single dad, I learned to do a lot of new things. I learned to cut my children's hair. I learned to use a curling iron on my girls' hair. I learned to take my daughters on those special shopping trips as they matured. My children survived my cooking and my girls' sometimes endured bangs that I often cut too short, but we learned to work together as a team. We placed our trust in the Lord and faithfully continued having daily family prayer and family scripture study, and weekly family home evenings. Through faith, obedience, and an increased trust in the Lord, my children and I were sustained through this difficult period.

A little over a year after the divorce, my parents were visiting and on the morning they were preparing to leave, I asked my dad for a father's blessing. I was promised that if I trusted in the Lord, I would find a new companion. With fear and trepidation, I jumped into the dating game. In a few months I met a wonderful woman. I could quickly tell that she loved the Lord. After a five-month courtship, we were married and together we began the process of blending our two families. I gained a beautiful new daughter and two more handsome sons. My wife and I have been blessed in this effort to blend our families. It has not always been easy, but as she and I work together in a three-way relationship with Jesus Christ and place our trust in Him, we are confident that we will succeed.