Gospel Story Finder

Elder Monte J. Brough of the First Quorum of the Seventy tells of a summer at his childhood home in Randolph, Utah, when he and his younger brother, Max, decided to build a tree house in a large tree in the backyard. They made plans for the most wonderful creation of their lives. They gathered building materials from all over the neighborhood and carried them up to a part of the tree where two branches provided an ideal location for the house. It was difficult, and they were anxious to complete their work. The vision of the finished tree house provided tremendous motivation for them to complete the project.
They worked all summer, and finally in the fall just before school began for the new year, their house was completed. Elder Brough said he will never forget the feelings of joy and satisfaction which were theirs when they finally were able to enjoy the fruit of their work. They sat in the tree house, looked around for a few minutes, climbed down from the tree—and never returned. The completed project, as wonderful as it was, could not hold their interest for even one day. In other words, the process of planning, gathering, building, and working—not the completed project—provided the enduring satisfaction and pleasure they had experienced.

One day when I was in fifth grade, my best friend and I went downtown. Afterward, we stopped at a convenience store. A man came to a window of the van and asked my friend’s mom for money to catch the bus that was leaving soon. She handed him the money and smiled.
While this was happening, I spotted a poor, lonely man watching us. He came up after the first man had left and asked for money because he was hungry. My friend’s mom turned around, looked at both of us girls, and took some food from our snack boxes. She handed it to the man.
He looked at her, puzzled and amused. She said, “Have a nice day,” to him, and we started back home. We asked her why she hadn’t just given him money, too. She said, “I think he just would have gone and bought beer or cigarettes, and I know he’s better off eating carrots and juice.”
This experience made me realize how much love she had for these two men.
My friend’s mom has passed away and is with Heavenly Father now, but this story lives in my heart and mind forever. I want to be just like her and Jesus Christ and love other people and serve Heavenly Father.

But then a very unusual thing happened. Every time I tried to code the job on my computer, I couldn’t get it right. I tried over and over again, but the computer wouldn’t accept the codes—codes I had used a thousand times before.
I felt I had to pray about this odd experience. After I prayed, I picked up the manuscript and suddenly had the strange sensation that my hands were dirty and greasy. I scrubbed my hands, then went back to work on the manuscript. As soon as I touched it, my hands felt filthy again, although it was printed on clean paper.
By this time 1 was so disturbed that I began to cry. Once more I went to my knees and asked the Lord to help me. When my prayer ended, I stayed on my knees for a little while and felt that I should read the manuscript—not from the beginning, but from the very last page.
In my eagerness to get this job done, I had never thought to read it. I found that it was a proposed student manual for state colleges throughout Denmark.
As I began the book from the back page, I was shocked to find on the second-to-last page the worst blasphemy of Jesus Christ I have ever read. And the author had used verses from the Bible to support his libelous claims. I wept to think that thousands of young students throughout the country I love so much would be exposed to this blasphemy.
Suddenly I froze. One voice within me said, “Don’t typeset this, Mette. You’ll forsake Christ if you do.” Another voice said, “The book will be printed whether you typeset it or not. And you will be able to pay your bills for the next month if you do the work.”
Again I had to pray for strength. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so much as I did in those days. Then I called the book printer and told him I was sorry but I could not do this job for him. He was surprised but admitted he hadn’t had time to read the manuscript himself. I asked if I could read the offensive passage to him. After I did, he asked if I was a religious person. I briefly told him of my background as a member of the Church. He respected that and asked me to return the manuscript so that he could find someone else to typeset it. I thought surely I had lost him as a customer forever.
Once more my mother, daughter, and I fasted and prayed. Four days went by with no orders, no work. During these terrible days, I almost regretted sending the job back. I pleaded with the Lord. I even accused him: “How can you forsake me now? I paid all I owed in tithing, I got an offer to carry me over, but returned it because of my faith in you. Where have I failed? Please help me.” Even my children would ask, “Mom, how can we go to church on Sunday if the Lord refuses to help us?”
Then on the fifth day, when even my steadfast mother had begun to doubt, the doorbell rang. The mailman standing outside said, “I’ve got so much stuff for you it will take me two trips.” He had brought me eight big typesetting orders from different customers all over Denmark, orders that would take me six months if I worked night and day.
Truly, we felt the Lord had opened the windows of heaven for us. Never after that time did I want for work. The book printer I had returned the manuscript to became my greatest customer.

This story took place in Nigeria.
Ephraim ran as fast as he could. His heart pounded. Each step sent clouds of dust into the air. He reached his arm out. He was so close!
“You’re it!” Ephraim said as he tagged his brother, Uchenna, on the arm.
“Ephraim! Uchenna!” Mom called from the house. “Time to come in. We still have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, Mom,” Ephraim said. He and Uchenna went inside.
Today was their younger sister Johanna’s birthday. They were having guests over for her birthday dinner. There was a lot to do.
Ephraim helped Mom make Johanna’s birthday cake. He liked to help Mom cook. Especially when they made cake.
Ephraim looked over at his brother and sister. Uchenna was working hard to clean the house. But Johanna wasn’t helping at all. She was just reading a book.
“Why isn’t Johanna helping?” Ephraim asked as he stirred the cake batter.
“It’s her birthday,” Mom said. “We’ll do all her work for her.”
“But that’s not fair! Johanna wouldn’t help me if it was my birthday.” Ephraim felt a little mad. He stirred the bowl faster, and bits of batter hit his face.
Then Ephraim grinned. He had an idea. He would make Johanna promise to help him on his birthday. If she didn’t promise, then Ephraim wouldn’t help today! Then it would be fair.
He told Mom about his plan. But she didn’t seem very happy about it.
“Remember to think about what Jesus would do,” she said.
Ephraim thought about Jesus. Jesus helped others, but He didn’t ask for anything back. Ephraim knew that Jesus wanted him to serve others, like He did.
“I think Jesus would want me to help Johanna without making her promise me anything,” Ephraim said.
“I think so too,” Mom said. She helped Ephraim pour the cake batter into the pan.
Mom put the cake into the oven. Then Ephraim helped Mom make meat pie for dinner. He was excited to have some.
Ephraim saw that Uchenna wasn’t cleaning anymore. He was playing a game with Johanna.
Ephraim felt mad again. Why was he the only one helping? Maybe he should get two pieces of the meat pie. And Johanna and Uchenna shouldn’t get any! It was only fair.
But Ephraim thought about Jesus again. Jesus would want all of us to have a piece, he thought.
Ephraim helped Mom finish dinner. He even helped set the table without being asked. He felt a lot happier. He knew that the Holy Ghost was telling him he had made the right choice.
When they all sat down to eat, they sang a birthday song to Johanna. Ephraim sang as loud as he could.
Mom cut the meat pie, and Ephraim quickly reached to grab some. But then he stopped.
“You can have the first piece,” he said to Johanna. “Happy birthday!”
Illustrations by Corey Egbert

My brother David (3) had a little bicycle. One day he left the bike out in the way of my dad’s car. His bike got run over, and the little axle was bent. David was sad. His bike was too broken to ride.
A couple of weeks later, I said, “David, let’s try to fix your bike.” We brought the bike out onto the driveway and tried hammering the axle to straighten it. It didn’t work. My little sister Heidi (5) came out. She had a bike like David’s, and that day her wheel had broken off. She told David that he could have the axle and the other wheel from her broken bike.
Then David scraped his knee and had to go inside. I took the axle off Heidi’s bike, and then I went and asked Dad to help us. I helped Dad get the tools to put one of Heidi’s wheels on David’s bike. Soon the bike was fixed.
I went inside to tell David. He came out, and he was really excited about his bike getting fixed. He did not care that his old wheel was black and the new wheel from Heidi’s bike was purple. He got on the bike and rode around the driveway really fast. Mom and Dad watched him ride, too.
I was happy that David’s bike was fixed. I felt glad that Heidi and I could help our little brother.

For several months I didn’t attend seminary. It was hard for me to get up early, and I thought it was all right not to go because it didn’t help me much in school.
One day my friend told me that the teacher had taken my name off the attendance roll. I thought about the valuable things I had missed in seminary. So the next day at 5:45 a.m., I made myself get up to go to seminary.
For the next couple of mornings it was hard for me to get up, but I put the effort into making it there. After that, I noticed I felt rested and alert, had a better attention span, and was able to absorb more information at school and actually remember it when it counted.
Seminary has been a good experience for me because it has made my days at school go more smoothly. Seminary has also given me a better understanding of the gospel and the Church, which will help me when I serve a mission.

I want to tell you of an incident that happened many years ago. Two of our sons, then little boys, were wrestling on the rug, and they had reached that line which separates laughter from tears. So I worked my foot carefully between them and lifted the older one back to a sitting position on the rug. As I did so, I said, “Hey there, you little monkeys. You’d better settle down.”
To my surprise he folded his little arms, his eyes swimming with deep hurt, and protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!”
The years have not erased the overwhelming feeling of love I felt for my little sons. I was taught a profound lesson by my little boys. Many times over the years his words have slipped back into my mind, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!” I was taught a profound lesson by my little boy.
Now the cycle of life has moved swiftly on, and both of those sons have little boys of their own, who teach their fathers lessons. They now watch their children grow as we watched them. They are coming to know something as fathers that they could not be taught as sons. Perhaps now they know how much their father loves them. Hopefully, they know as well why prayers begin “Our Father who art in heaven.”
All too soon their children will be grown with little “persons” of their own, repeating the endless cycle of life.

Twelve-year-old Will hurried through the stony fields of the English countryside, driving his sheep against the bitter wind. But when a crippled ewe slowed down again, he stopped and lugged her, puffing and panting, down to the fold where Cyr the shepherd waited.
Will had dallied too long with Brother Gregory again today, and he wondered what excuse he could give the master shepherd this time. Still, he had learned three new letters today! He could hardly wait for another meeting with the shepherd-monk. Brother Gregory seemed eager to hear what Will could tell him about life at the castle—where the great hall and the count’s chambers were and about the rich fur-trimmed robes the count wore. All these splendors impressed the monk, for in the monastery the brothers knew poverty and lived simply. Will didn’t think of Brother Gregory as he did the solemn monks he had seen before. He was witty and wise and a good friend.
“Late again, lad,” Cyr grumbled as Will eased the animal to the ground.
“The ewe has a bad leg, and I can’t leave her alone tomorrow. It looks like I’ll not be sharing in the Christmastide feasting.”
The older shepherd smiled, “I’ll tend the ewe, lad,” he offered. “I’ve seen many a Christmas feast, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see one or two yet. Besides, I’m waiting to hear more news of the Duke of Wormsley from the castle guard,” the older man added with a sly grin, as though he were keeping a great secret.
“What news?” asked Will, curious.
“He’s burned two outlying huts as a warning to Count Hector. You mark my words, there’ll be battle between the two lords over their inheritance.”
The following evening Will glanced about the great hall. Surrounding Count Hector, Lady Ursula, and other nobles at the large raised table were tables for lesser folks—wandering priests and lute-playing minstrels and traveling merchants and adventuring knights. Beneath these the peasants were gathered, Will among them. Attendants carried salvers heaped with food, and children scurried about underfoot. Dogs growled and snarled under the long trestle tables, waiting for choice scraps. Huge meat pies were served and peacocks and fragrant new bread, washed down by tankards of mead.
Suddenly, Will stared in disbelief. In his black hood and cassock, Brother Gregory sat gaily chatting with the guests around his table. But when he rose slightly to scoop up a second helping of meat pie, Will glimpsed a sharp glinting beneath the folds of the monk’s robes.
Beads of sweat broke out on the boy’s upper lip when he realized that Brother Gregory was carrying a dagger! Will knew that true monks did not go to Christmas festivals, nor did they carry daggers. The monk is an imposter!
Anxious about what might happen, Will slipped from his place into the kitchen. Attendants were hurrying in and out, and the place smelled hot and steamy. A cook motioned to a huge meat pastry and said gruffly, “You, boy. Take this in to the count.”
Will obediently grabbed the pie and hefted it to a corner of the busy kitchen. Then grasping a butcher knife, he quickly scratched into the crust the words BLACK HOOD in the same large block letters that the false monk had taught him. His eyes blurred from the steam and he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wondered if Brother Gregory had seen him too.
Holding the huge pastry high to shield his face, Will bore it in to the great hall and set it directly before the count. The lord and his group were laughing and talking, but when Count Hector leaned forward to grasp his goblet, he spied the words. Peering at Will, and then around the tables, he spotted the only black hood in the hall. Before Will could blink, Brother Gregory had whipped the dagger from the folds of his black robe. It zinged past Will’s ear just as the count ducked to one side. As the imposter raced for the door, an alert guard grabbed him around the neck and forced him down.
The week after the Christmas holiday was over, Will was silently packing a poultice on the ewe’s bad leg. Cyr watched admiringly with weary eyes. “I think you’ll do well as a shepherd, lad. It would be wise to be content in your place.” He shook his head. “I know that idea is painful to you now, Will, since your friend Brother Gregory disappointed you. It’s too bad he turned out to be a spy of the wicked Duke of Wormsley.”
Will shrank from the words and stared at the sheep’s festered leg, his eyes burning. Now that it was known that he had been used by the imposter-monk to gain information about the castle and its lord, he felt he would be shamed forever.
As Cyr went out of the fold for a moment, a page beckoned Will from the doorway. “The count wants to see you, lad,” he rasped.
A few minutes later Will sat on a stool in the count’s chambers, afraid to look at the man who had summoned him. After what seemed a terribly long silence, the count finally spoke, “The whole castle knows of your association with the Duke of Wormsley’s spy, lad, but I believe you meant no harm.” He paused. “Did he teach you to make those letters?”
“Yes, my lord,” Will whispered.
The count leaned forward and his bright eyes pierced through the boy like a knife. “Those letters you wrote saved my life!”
At the fervor in the count’s voice, Will looked up. Count Hector settled back in his chair and continued, “The monastery is without a shepherd these past days, and the abbot tells me that if I consent to let you tend their sheep, they’ll teach you more letters and such that the imposter began. He tells me that if this arrangement is made, in a few years I would have a new scribe to copy books,” Count Hector concluded. Will sat in stunned silence, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. The count snapped his fingers impatiently. “Well, boy?” he demanded.
“I—I think the plan is excellent, my lord!” breathed Will, his eyes bright. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

Years ago, a young girl confessed to my wife and me a very tragic period of her life. I won’t tell you about her life, but it was a tragic life, and I’ve never seen a girl with sadder eyes than this lovely girl of eighteen. And in trying to give her some comfort and hope for the future, I realized that we’re adding to our past; we’re building onto it each day we live. Life is not a rigid, fixed, quantitative kind of thing. It’s a growing, qualitative, whole thing. And the whole is greater than any of its parts, and gives meaning to its parts. My arm by itself hung on the wall is one thing; my arm as a part of my body and servant of my mind is another thing. An event in that girl’s past, or even ten events, were one thing at eighteen when she was in the depths of despair. And then she came into the fold, was baptized into the Church, found some faith in Christ, converted her husband, reared a fine family, and her life has been going like this ever since. This valley of failure in her life is one thing by itself; it’s another thing when it’s one dip in a long beautiful life. This idea makes life dynamic: it’s comforting and exciting to know that you can improve.

Subject: Lisa (Elizabeth)
Age: 13 years
Event: Discussion in the girl’s locker room of junior high school
“Lisa,” her friend Kara burst out excitedly, “I’ve talked to Ralph!”
“What did he say?” Lisa answered quickly, but then catching herself, she added cooly, “Not that I care.”
“He said that you said that he said that he didn’t like you, but he said that he didn’t say that.”
“He did so,” Lisa accused. “He told Mike who told Janice who told Shelley who told me.”
“He said that even if he did say it, which he didn’t, he was joking. He said that he does like you.”
“If he likes me,” Lisa asked, putting a fresh stick of gum in her mouth, “then why did he throw an eraser at me yesterday?”
“Silly,” Kara said knowingly, “that’s how boys show they like a girl.”
“It is?” Lisa asked.
“Sure. Larry Hill threw a water balloon at me last week, and I know he likes me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because his face gets red when he talks to me.”
“Oh,” Lisa considered. “I wonder if Ralph’s face would get red if I talked with him.”__________

My testimony and conversion to the restored gospel were strongly influenced by singing the hymns of Zion as a young boy. I grew up in the small town of Mapleton, Utah, and attended meetings in what is known today as the “old white church.” My 95-year-old mother still lives in Mapleton. When I visit her, I drive past the “old white church,” and a flood of sweet memories fills my mind. Among them is the converting power of the hymns we sang in priesthood, Sunday School, and sacrament meetings. My experiences were similar to that of President Hinckley when, as a deacon, he attended a stake priesthood meeting with his father. They sang “Praise to the Man.”2 Later he would say, “I had an impression that has never left that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God.”3 I believe that many of our Saints experience this again and again. Hymns play an essential role in spirituality, revelation, and conversion.
Hymns are “an essential part of our church meetings. [They] invite the Spirit of the Lord.”4 They often do this quicker than anything else we may do. President J. Reuben Clark Jr. said, “We get nearer to the Lord through music than perhaps through any other thing except prayer.”5
Two missionaries teaching an older couple in their home in Peru were interrupted by the arrival of the couple’s son, his wife, and three children. The elders explained who they were and what they were doing. The son was suspicious of the missionaries, resulting in an awkward moment. The junior companion prayed silently, “Heavenly Father, what do we do?” The impression came to sing. They sang “I Am a Child of God.”6 The Spirit touched the hearts of this family of five. Instead of two converts, all seven became members, influenced initially by a hymn.
Music in Church meetings and classes should facilitate a spirit of worship, revelation, and testimony. For sacrament meetings, the bishopric or branch presidency is responsible to select or approve music. They ensure that the music, the words, and the musical instruments are sacred, dignified, and will promote worship and revelation. Music becomes a performance when it brings attention to itself. Years ago, I was responsible for the music in a meeting where a special musical number was a performance. It was a disappointment. The spirit of worship was diminished.
Hymns “create a feeling of reverence.”7 The words reverence and revelation are like twins who like each other’s company. When the Seventy and Presiding Bishopric are invited to meetings with the First Presidency and the Twelve, we are reminded to arrive early and reverently listen to prelude music. Doing so invites revelation and prepares us for the meeting.
President Packer taught that a member who softly plays “prelude music from the hymnbook tempers our feelings and causes us to go over in our minds the lyrics which teach the peaceable things of the kingdom. If we will listen, they are teaching the gospel, for the hymns of the Restoration are, in fact, a course in doctrine!”8
The hymns of the Restoration carry with them the spirit of conversion. They came as a result of sacrifice. Hymns like “Praise to the Man,”9 “Come, Come, Ye Saints,”10 “Ye Elders of Israel,”11 “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,”12 “Redeemer of Israel,”13 and many others reinforce the great truths of the Restoration—such as the divinity of the Father and the Son, the plan of redemption, revelation, latter-day scriptures, the gathering of Israel, the holy priesthood, and ordinances and covenants. These nourishing hymns create an atmosphere that invites the Spirit, which leads us to conversion.
How incomplete and empty sacrament meetings would be without hymns of worship.14 Sacred among all hymns are those that capture the sacrifice and the shedding of the blood of Jesus Christ and His infinite Atonement.
My earliest memories of the healing power of the Savior are associated with sacrament hymns. This sentence is real to me: “I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me, confused at the grace that so fully he proffers me.”15
My understanding of the doctrines of the Atonement is connected to the hymns. This verse is illustrative:
How great, how glorious, how complete,
Redemption’s grand design,
Where justice, love, and mercy meet
In harmony divine!16
Singing hymns and listening to appropriate music begin at home. The First Presidency has reminded us:
“Latter-day Saints should fill their homes with the sound of worthy music.
“… We hope the hymnbook will take a prominent place among the scriptures and other religious books in our homes. The hymns can bring families a spirit of beauty and peace and can inspire love and unity among family members.
“Teach your children to love the hymns. Sing them on the Sabbath, in [family] home evening, during scripture study, at prayer time. Sing as you work, as you play, and as you travel together. Sing hymns as lullabies to build faith and testimony in your young ones.”17
Important lessons I have learned and seek to apply about hymns are:
Strive to be more punctual to meetings, sit quietly and listen to the prelude music, and experience reverence and revelation.
Exit meetings more reverently, allowing the postlude music to extend the spirit of the meeting.
Sing the hymns. I see some who have access to hymnals but do not sing.
Choose hymns appropriate to the meeting and messages.
Use hymns to introduce or to emphasize scriptures and gospel truths in lessons and classes.
Listen to the hymns more frequently in our homes, inviting the Spirit to prevail.
I pray that we may eliminate any inappropriate music from our lives and follow the counsel of the First Presidency: “Brothers and sisters, let us use the hymns to invite the Spirit of the Lord into our congregations, our homes, and our personal lives. Let us memorize and ponder them, recite and sing them, and partake of their spiritual nourishment. Know that the song of the righteous is a prayer unto our Father in Heaven, ‘and it shall be answered with a blessing upon [your] heads.’”18 Of these truths I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

There are many types of progress that one can make in life, but as I was recently preparing to teach Relief Society (for the first time ever), I started to wonder if I was lacking when it came to spiritual progress. I was teaching about a general conference talk given by Sister Jean B. Bingham, former Relief Society General President, about how making covenants helps to prepare us for eternal glory.1
I kept thinking, “Well, I can’t physically see or touch eternal glory, so how can I even know if I’m progressing on the covenant path?”
Lately I’ve felt a bit stuck. As a young single adult who has been baptized and received her endowment but hasn’t been sealed in the temple, I sometimes feel like I am at a standstill on the covenant path. I feel like I’m a board game piece that can’t move forward no matter how many times I roll the dice. I want to get married and make covenants with God and my eternal companion, but what do I do in the meantime?
How do I know if I’m moving forward?
I felt so inadequate to teach a lesson about the covenant path when I was uncertain of how I could move forward on the path myself. I had a lot of questions, so I started seeking out answers in the scriptures. And I was surprised to discover a treasure trove of truths. I truly enjoyed reading as I studied Gospel Topics, followed footnotes, and felt the Spirit guiding me to the specific answers I needed at that exact moment.
At one point I felt an overwhelming feeling of peace and actually looked up at the light in my room because I felt a sort of brightness around me.
That’s when the Spirit brought the words, “This is how,” to my mind.
Those words were the answer. I changed my perspective and realized that just by reading my scriptures I had progressed closer to Heavenly Father that day, and I could continue every day as I took steps to come closer to Christ. I recognized how keeping my covenants was helping me become more like Him, little by little.
I felt like I was finally moving my game piece forward on the board game of life.
Since that moment of personal revelation, I have made a more sincere effort to study and learn more about the gospel. I’ve changed my focus to daily progress to understand how my choices lead to eternal progress.
Elder Michael A. Dunn of the Seventy has taught that simply doing “one percent better”2 makes all the difference in progress. And looking back, striving to do a little better each day really has put my movement on the covenant path in perspective. And I’ve noticed many blessings:
Deeper love for the gospel
Excitement about scripture study and spiritual habits
More time to serve others
Deeper understanding of my divine potential
More hope and joy about life
Some days I feel like I am not progressing as much as I would like, and I am still faced with a lot of uncertainty about the future. But as I align my will with God’s, I feel gratitude for this time because I am learning and growing and deepening my faith, which means I really am progressing every day—receiving the blessings of God’s promises, focusing on the Savior’s gift of repentance, and moving forward on the path, one move at a time.

Football came to our country town later than most. The school board had neither the money for equipment nor a coach. Then the great day arrived. Our high school principal was able to buy twelve inexpensive football outfits, except the expensive cleated football shoes (we used our basketball shoes), and our coach was recruited from the faculty because he had witnessed a game.
We learned a few simple plays, how to tackle—or so we thought—and set off for our first game with Twin Falls, the previous year’s Idaho state champions.
We dressed and went out on the field to warm up. Their school band started to play (they had more students in the band than we had in our entire high school), and then through the gates came their team. The twelve of us—a full team of eleven plus one all-round substitute—watched in amazement as they kept coming through the gates—all thirty-nine of them in full uniform.
The game was most interesting! To say it was a learning experience is rather mild. After two plays we didn’t have any desire to have the ball—so we would kick it, and soon they would score. When they got the ball, they would run a baffling play and score. Our problem was to get rid of the ball—it was less punishing.
In the final minutes of the game they became a little reckless. A wild pass fell into the arms of Clifford Lee, who was playing halfback with me. He was startled, not knowing for sure what to do—until he saw the “Dallas Cowboys” thundering after him. Then he knew what to do. He was fast. He wasn’t running for points, but for his life! Clifford made a touchdown; six points went up on the board. The final score—106 to 6! We really didn’t deserve the six points, but with our torn shirts and socks and our bruises, we took them anyway.
A learning experience? Of course! An individual or a team must be prepared. In all things success depends upon previous preparation.

Matthew awoke in the cold and knew something was wrong. Outside the car window, the night sky was black. Not a single star was visible through the stormy clouds. A layer of crisp, white snow blanketed the frozen ground.
Matthew pulled his blanket tighter around him and tried to move over, but there wasn’t enough room. “I hope we get to Grandma’s house soon,” he thought, as he nudged his little sister so she would scoot over. The car jerked forward.
“What was that?” he asked.
From the driver’s seat Mom answered, “I don’t know. The car is acting funny.” The car jerked again, choking, coughing, and lurching down the highway. Then they started to slow down. Way down.
“Why are we stopping?” Nikki asked.
“Maybe we’re out of gas,” Ryan said.
“No,” Mom said. “We still have half a tank left. Don’t stop, car. Don’t stop,” she urged. “Keep going. Come on.”
The car lurched forward, chugging and sputtering.
Matthew’s siblings started waking up, and Chandi started to cry. Matthew thought she must be cold since the heater wasn’t running anymore. He brought her under his blanket and put his arm around her.
Mom was still chanting, “Come on, car. Come on. You can do it. Let’s go.” She was rocking in her seat, as if the movement could push the car forward. “Come on, keep going.”
Matthew and his brothers and sisters started rocking too. They chanted along with Mom, “Come on, car, come on. You can do it!”
The car inched along the highway, a silver snail in the pitch-black night, until it gave one last mighty lurch and stopped. Mom sighed and laid her head on the steering wheel.
Matthew could feel the cold from outside sneaking into the car. Chandi was crying again. He pulled her closer, wishing Dad were here with them. He was afraid.
Then, Matthew remembered something the bishop told him last month at his baptism. He said that Heavenly Father would help him with anything, if he asked in faith.
“Mommy,” Matthew said.
“What, honey?”
“I think we should say a prayer,” he said.
Mom turned around in her seat and looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “I think so too. Will you say the prayer, Matthew?”
On the side of the deserted highway, in the dark, silent night, Matthew’s family folded their arms and bowed their heads while he prayed. “Heavenly Father, we are thankful that our family can be here together. We are thankful for our safety. Please help us to be able to go again. Please bless our car to start, so we can get to Grandma’s house. And please bless us so we won’t be too cold. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mom sniffled. “Thank you, Matthew.” She turned back to the wheel. “OK, here we go. Come on, car!” She turned the key. The car gave a groan. Mom pumped the gas pedal. “Come on! Come on!” She turned it again. Two groans. Again, Mom turned the key, but this time, she held it. The car gave a cough, a groan, a cough, then started.
Everyone cheered.
“I knew it!” Matthew said. “The car is going because we had faith.”
It was a long time before the car, still puttering and coughing, pulled into a service station.
“Oh no,” Mom said. “It’s closed.”
Matthew pointed to a figure standing near the door with a handful of keys. “There’s a man inside,” he said.
As Mom went inside to ask the man for help, Matthew said a silent prayer. “Heavenly Father, please help our car get fixed so we can get to Grandma’s house. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Matthew and his siblings watched the man with the keys shake his head while he talked to Mom from under the hood of the car. “It’s a miracle you made it here,” the man said. “Your fuel pump was completely clogged. I don’t know how you got this car started again after it died.”
A little while later, Matthew asked, “Mommy, what’s a fuel pump?”
“It’s the thing that gets the gas to the engine so the car can go,” Mom answered.
“Our car wasn’t getting any gas?” Ryan asked.
Mom shook her head as she turned the key. The engine hummed to life.
“How were we moving then?” Nikki asked.
“Heavenly Father helped us!” Matthew explained.
Mom turned around. Tears glistened in her eyes as she said, “Matthew, thank you for reminding me that we needed to ask Heavenly Father for help.”
Then she asked Matthew to pray one more time. This time, Matthew thanked Heavenly Father for bringing his family safely to the service station.

“Being adopted means having a family that loves you,” says nine-year-old Kimberly who was adopted and sealed to our family five years ago. Often adoptive parents think they will teach and guide the adopted child, but in our family Kimberly is the one who often does the teaching.
Kim recently entered two events in a track-and-field competition. She had never raced before but wanted to give it a try. She positioned herself on the track to compete with the 20 or so other girls her age in the 100-meter race. A shot rang out to begin the race and, with hundreds of spectators looking on, Kim started running. I was waiting near the finish line with camera poised to capture her coming down the lane, when I realized that she was in last place. I expected to see a disappointed little girl, but Kim had a huge smile on her face! When I retrieved her from the group of girls, she blurted out, “Mom, that was so much fun! When’s my next race?” She then rushed off to sit with her new friends.
Feeling shocked, but extremely proud of my daughter’s positive attitude, I took my place once again at the finish line to see her race in the 50-meter dash. The starter’s gun fired again, and I caught sight of Kim’s beaming smile as she ran with all her might toward me. As I watched my beautiful daughter cross the finish line, parents around me were jumping up and down, congratulating their own daughters. I stood calmly as a warm, peaceful feeling of gratitude filled my heart. Only I knew how far Kim had come in the years since she came to our home. She was once a frail, malnourished, and withdrawn child, and now her strength and confidence couldn’t be contained. She cried out, “I came in third, Mom!”
I gently replied, “No, Kimmie, you didn’t come in third. The winners are over there receiving their awards.”
“I meant I came in third to last, and I want to race again!” I hugged her tightly, and we both giggled out loud as we walked off the dusty track. I knew that Kim was the real winner and had been blessed with gifts and talents far greater than speed and agility. How blessed I felt at that moment to be her mother. I can only hope that I will face my challenges and trials in life with a smile on my face and the same positive outlook that Kim showed me that day. I thank Heavenly Father for bringing us together and pray that I can continue to learn from her example.

The Aaronic Priesthood bearers and the Young Women of the Springville 17th Ward, Springville, Utah, did the impossible. They painted an entire house without any major disasters. The house belonged to one of the older sisters in the ward, and the project was carried out as part of Springville Beautification Week.
“You could tell who participated in the cleanup day because they were all painted white!” said Carol Cronk, the president of the Young Women. The young people proved that work can indeed be fun as they felt the true meaning of service to others.

I think of a little story President Benson told us a short time ago when he told about being at a banquet back in the East. He sat next to a minister, and the minister said: “Mr. Benson, I’d like to visit with you after the banquet.” So they got in another part of the building, and he said: “Now there are two things in your church we would like to copy.”

Brother Benson said: “And what are they?”

“Well, first, it’s your missionary system,” he said. “You send your missionaries all over the world. You don’t pay them; you make them pay their way to their field of labor, maintain themselves while they are there, and all the Church does for them is to pay their return fare when they come back.” He said: “Now in our church, we have a missionary fund. But,” he said, “we offer to pay our men to the field of labor, to maintain them while they are there, and then to return them after they are released—and we can’t get anybody to go!”

“I want you to knock all the cement off these steel posts,” the boss said as he handed me the sledgehammer and stood back to watch me begin. Anxious to impress him with my eagerness for the task, I planted my feet in a wide stance, raised the sledgehammer high above my head, and brought it down hard on the barrel-sized keg of cement caked on the first leg of the extracted guardrail.

Six … seven … eight solid follow-up strokes to the same spot, but all I could feel was the stunning reverberation up the handle of the sledgehammer. Not a single chip of the hard cement seemed to yield under the blows. After resting the hammer head on the ground for a moment and rubbing my right shoulder, again I raised the hammer high above my head and repeated the effort, but with no better result.

I felt a little embarrassed as the boss watched a minute longer. Then, starting to walk toward the tool shop, he said, “I’ll get you something that may help.”

I took a firmer grasp on the handle, holding it a little lower this time to get a better weight advantage from the heavy steel head. Several more strokes, and now I could feel myself becoming angry. How could I strike any harder? Why didn’t the cement break?

“I hope he doesn’t get back before I’ve shown some kind of progress,” I said to myself, glancing toward the tool shop.

When I had told the boss on Monday morning that I had quit school to work for a few months so I could go on a mission, I had hoped he would be kind of proud of me. Instead he had said, “Why do you want to waste your time like that?” Ever since then he had seemed bent on going out of his way to make snide comments about the Church and other crude remarks that, I suspected, were designed to shock me. But he was the boss and the one who would let me stay or let me go.

I looked again at the long I-beam rail with 13 steel legs extending from it like a giant comb with most of its teeth missing. It had long ago served as a bumper guard, preventing cars in the parking lot from hitting the adjacent building. It had been installed by digging 13 large holes in the ground in a straight line, spaced at eight-foot intervals. A steel post was cemented into each hole, and the connecting bumper rail welded to each post. Recently the entire rail had been removed by having two large “hysters” extract the whole thing in one piece, and it was lying in the driveway with each post encased in a barrel-sized cement block.

As I heard boots scuff the loose gravel on the asphalt pavement leading from the tool shop, I let loose a wild flurry of blows. I was glad that a few beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. “Here, try this,” the boss said as he handed me a heavier sledgehammer. That wasn’t quite the kind of help I had in mind.

I smiled as I traded him the smaller hammer, but I could tell that he sensed it wasn’t a completely honest smile. He watched me for a few minutes more, and then without further comment, turned away to supervise the crew working on the remodeling project in the steel fabrication plant.

“The only difference between the hammers is that this one is heavier and harder to lift,” I grumbled silently as the steel head collided with the stone-hard cement. Finally one small chunk broke off. After several more strokes my arms started to ache, but the cement still remained intact.

At this rate I knew it would take me three days to complete the job. I also knew that if I didn’t show substantial progress by noon, I’d be out of a job and back standing in the labor lines at the Employment Security Office taking any kind of work available. Three days of that had made me especially anxious to keep this job.

Besides, it was 1954, and thousands of striking workers with families to feed were looking for short-term, full-time employment. How was a 20-year-old youth going to compete with them for the few jobs available?

It took only a few more hard but unsuccessful strokes to persuade me that I had reached my limit and that it was time for me to treat the problem as one needing more strength and wisdom than I possessed.

Resting the heavy hammer on the ground and trying to compose my anger and frustration, I felt the need and desire to discuss the problem with the Lord. Without either kneeling or closing my eyes, I started praying aloud to the Lord and explaining the task I faced. In a conversational but sincere way I reminded him that I wasn’t asking for the money so I could buy a yellow convertible. He had called me on a mission, and I knew he wanted me to go. This job had already been an answer to my prayers, but I needed to keep it. I didn’t expect him to send a host of angels from heaven with sledgehammers, but I knew he could help me.

Never in my life has a prayer been answered more immediately or clearly. Suddenly my mind was filled with a thought so lucid and strong that my heart started pounding. It was a simple solution, as I later considered it. To brighter or more experienced minds it might have occurred earlier, but to me it came as a direct answer to my prayer.

The compelling instruction said to me, “Instead of striking the cement, strike the steel.”

Still not fathoming exactly why, I raised the hammer and brought it crashing down five or six times on the steel post right next to the cement. As a large section of the cement cracked into big chunks and fell off, I realized that the blows to the steel had started a series of strong vibrations that were transmitted all along the steel shaft.

I quickly forgot the weight of the hammer. With new energy I struck the steel again and again, then moved on to the next post, amazed at the magnification of my efforts as the steel vibrated and the cement cracked.

Less than two hours later I had removed the cement from all 13 posts and stacked the large chunks in a pile. With the sledgehammer on my shoulder and a prayer of gratitude in my heart, I went to find the boss.

“I’ll need some help moving the railing out of the driveway,” I said, trying to conceal the excitement I felt inside. Thinking I was giving up on the project, he motioned me to follow him to the parking lot.

As we rounded the corner of the building and he saw the railing and the pile of cement, he stopped quite suddenly. His eyes blinked and opened wide. His chin started to drop a bit. For a full minute he stood silently, looking first at the railing, then at the cement. After a moment more he turned, motioned me to follow him again, and said, “Come on, I’ll give you another job.”

Nothing more was said about the incident, but the following morning when I arrived for work, he simply said, “Lloyd, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you like.”

I worked there for nearly three months before entering the mission home. He then let me come back to work again for another ten days until I departed with my group for the mission field. Never after that memorable morning did he, in my presence, make a disparaging remark about the Church or my plans to serve a mission.

It’s a beautiful sound when all the members of the London Ward in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, sing hymns with the organ music in their chapel. Thirteen-year-old Marvin Cardona is the organist. Anywhere there’s music in the London Ward, you’ll most likely find one of the youth from the ward providing the accompaniment.
It’s strange to think that only a few months ago the members in this ward would either sing without accompaniment in their meetings or play the Church-produced tapes of the hymns as they sang.
Everyone prefers having the young people in the ward play the hymns now. Andrew Cardona, 17, says, “Everyone actually sings in time now. Sometimes we were off a few beats [from the tape]. You feel the Spirit more now.” Jackie Famini, 13, agrees. “It’s nice to have someone play the piano instead of listening to the tapes.”
When the London Ward was split from another ward, there was no one left in the ward boundaries who could play the organ or the piano well enough to accompany the congregation. That’s where Elder and Sister Heap entered the scene. They are a missionary couple who realized that once they left the ward, there would be no one who could play the piano. So they decided to teach music lessons to anyone who was interested.
Almost all the youth in the ward signed up. “I heard about all the other people taking lessons, and I was interested because I wanted to play the piano,” says Sherri Cardona, 15. “So I asked Sister Heap, and she said yes.” Sherri now rotates with other girls in the ward to play the keyboard for Young Women opening exercises.
The youth in the ward are grateful to Elder and Sister Heap for all they’ve taught them. They say the Heaps were not only good music teachers but also good friends.

When her husband confessed betraying her, one sister prayed for help in forgiving him and sought relief as she studied the scriptures and attended the temple. “As I look back,” she writes, “I realize that it was during those long, prayerful moments that I tapped into a life-giving source of comfort from my loving Heavenly Father. I sense that he was not standing by glaring at me for not having accomplished forgiveness yet; rather he was sorrowing with me as I wept. He loved me. … I had always viewed the Atonement as a means of making repentance work for the sinner. I had not realized that it also makes it possible for the one sinned against to receive into his or her heart the sweet peace of forgiving” (“My Journey to Forgiving,” Ensign, February 1997, 43).