Gospel Story Finder

Two years later Joseph F. Smith and his widowed mother were to set off across the plains of America with many other Mormon pioneers, and there, during the time on the plains, he learned many lessons in faith from his mother. Two are briefly sketched:
The first involved the loss of their oxen while crossing the plains. President Smith has called this “one of the first practical and positive demonstrations of the efficacy of prayer I have ever witnessed.” The impression it made on his mind was to aid him all through his life.
Upon awakening one morning, the Smiths found their best team of oxen missing. Joseph F. and his uncle, Joseph Fielding, set out and searched an entire morning in vain. Filled with fatigue and discouragement, they returned to camp. There they found Mary Fielding Smith on her knees, pleading for God to help them in this search, since the loss of the oxen would mean further delay in reaching their destination.
Arising from prayer, this youthful pioneer mother told her brother and her son to have breakfast and she would bring back the livestock. She started toward the river, despite her brother’s trying to persuade her that further search was futile. Ignoring first her brother and then a herdsman from a Missouri wagon train who tried to tell her that he had seen the oxen headed in the opposite direction that morning. Mary Smith continued her walk to the river. Then, turning at the bank, she motioned her brother and son to join her. As they did, they found the oxen fastened to a clump of willows, hidden from sight. Someone had apparently left them there, planning to return after the pioneer group had moved on.

There’s a hospital in New York called a foundling hospital that cares for orphaned infants. Their mortality rate some years ago was unbelievable. About two out of three died, no matter what the directors and doctors did in terms of constant surveillance, medical care, all the things that you do to keep a child alive. Two out of three still died.
And then they discovered a ward in that hospital where all of these little kids were flourishing. There was a light in their eyes; they would eat instead of ignore their food; they smiled and gooed, and their crying wasn’t a chronic sick cry. It was a “let you know what is needed” cry.
They couldn’t understand why these children were so hale and hearty—until they discovered old Anna, not a nurse but a washwoman. A huge, older woman, she would strap (she knew she shouldn’t, but she waited till nobody was watching) a little baby on each hip, and then while she was working along she would cluck, and put a hand under each baby’s head, and say nice things.
These children lived because they were loved! The others died because they weren’t. Love is a matter of life and death, and you’d better believe it!

Praying for Missy
One day after a big storm, my friend’s cat, Missy, was missing. We looked all over, but we couldn’t find her. I said that we could pray. My friends weren’t sure how, so I showed them. We all knelt down and each said our own prayer. Then we got up and started looking again. A girl ran over to us and said she found Missy! I was happy that I shared part of the gospel with my friends.

As I recall, Howard Washington Thurman once told a story about his mother, who lived in a community in which this White woman didn’t like the fact that she had a Black neighbor. And she would be mean to Mrs. Thurman. But Mrs. Thurman kept on going to church, rearing her children, being kind to everybody.

One day, [Howard’s] mother told him to get ready to go with her next door to see this lady who was ill. [Mrs. Thurman] cooked a bowl of soup, and they went over to the house. The lady said to her, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

And Mrs. Thurman said, “No, but the love of Jesus told me I had to do it.”

And then she said, “Howard, go back over to the house and get those roses I left on the table.”

He came back with these beautiful red roses. And the sick woman said, “Oh my. What florist did you buy those roses from?”

And Mrs. Thurman said: “I didn’t buy those roses from any florist. When you were unkind to me, you would throw the chicken manure from your chicken coop over into my yard. But you didn’t know that while you were throwing the chicken manure, God was preparing the soil for me to grow my roses.”

So that’s what we’ve got to do in the midst of evil. Take the manure but have the faith in God to use it to grow a garden of roses.

That’s what we have to do. Be kind, do the right thing, and love and respect all people. They are God’s opportunity for you to touch their messy situations and leave them better than they were before.

A boy called me a mean name at the end of a school day. It made me very sad. I felt like keeping it to myself, but that only made me feel worse. I felt like I should tell my mom. She talked to me and helped me feel a little better. Then I saw the January 2010 Friend on the kitchen table. I read the story “Words that Build Up.” The story made me feel happy inside. It helped me understand that it doesn’t matter what others think about you—it only matters what Heavenly Father thinks. I know I am a child of God. Knowing this helped me have courage to go to school the next morning.

Tiger Brown was the meanest man I’d ever met. During the first summer after my mission I worked a highway construction job. Tiger was the foreman. He was about 60, short and stocky, with a bulldog neck and face. His eyes were small and angry, like a bear’s eyes.
My job was to follow a machine that laid down asphalt mix and to make sure the surface was clean and level. Large rocks would make their way through the machine, ending up buried in the asphalt. I would have to pick them out with a shovel and fill in the hole with hot mix from the front of the machine. Then I’d rake it smooth so it matched the rest of the road surface. We were laying a new surface on a highway in the west desert of Utah that summer. In the middle of the day the temperatures would be a hundred plus in the shade, and with the steaming hot asphalt it was nearly unbearable. The machine would often drop several big rocks at once, and I’d have to run just to keep up.
About four times a day Tiger would come by.
"Hey!" he’d growl at me above the roar of the machine. He would walk up to me with quick steps, his head down, pawing the air with his arms moving like an attacking grizzly. He always wore the same clothes—a ragged blue denim jacket, old khaki pants, a worn-out flannel shirt, and a dirty baseball hat. If you didn’t know him and saw him in downtown Salt Lake, you’d probably feel sorry for him and offer him a dollar. On the job no one ever made that mistake or even had to ask how he got his nickname.
"That’s not the way you do it," he would mumble, grabbing the shovel out of my hand. For ten minutes he would do my work. He would attack it with a vengeance terrifying to watch. No matter how far behind I was he would catch up to the machine in a quarter of the time it would have taken me. There was nothing I could do then but stand, humiliated, watching until finally he’d hand the shovel back to me.
"I should have hired your grandma," he’d snarl, and then after a disgusted glance he would stalk off.
He watched his crew like a red-tailed hawk watches a covey of mountain quail. If there was ever any indication of something out of order, the work moving just a little slow, or if the new road surface wasn’t perfectly level, or if the asphalt mix wasn’t just right, he would swoop down with that eagle nose and those fierce eyes, yelling, "Hey!"
I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I had bad feelings for the man, feelings that almost bordered on hate. I felt that way until about the second month of work.
We’d finished a stretch of road and were getting the equipment ready to move to a new location. The place looked like an ant bed that had been kicked. The work was moving fast, and the crew was on the run getting their equipment onto the back of trucks and large trailers. Tiger came suddenly into the middle of this scene waving his arms and yelling.
"Hey! Hey!"
He stopped all the work and grabbed the driver of a large crane by the arm and directed him toward the hot mix machine. The hot mix machine was a 50-foot long cylinder used to mix gravel and hot tar. When the crane reached the hot mix machine Tiger had the operator lower a hook that hung by cable from the crane’s arm. With the entire crew watching and wondering if he’d finally slipped his gears, Tiger put his foot in the hook and jerked his thumb upward. He rose up to about 40 feet, level with the top of the hot mix machine.
After reaching the cylinder, he carefully bent down and picked up a small bird’s nest full of bald-headed baby birds. The proud and very worried parents, two kingbirds, were hovering over the nest. Tiger jerked his thumb downward. When he reached the ground, he walked over to a small cottonwood tree and gently placed the nest in its branches. He had several of us put barricades around the tree.
"Hey! Hey!" he yelled when he turned around. "Get back at it. You think this is a spectator sport? I should have hired your grandmothers."
Tiger still barely nodded when I said good morning to him, and he yelled at me and took my shovel when my work wasn’t up to his standards; but after the incident with the birds I saw him in a different way.
We broke the Utah record a few weeks later for the amount of asphalt laid in a day. The inspectors said it was as smooth and as good a surface as they’d ever seen. Whenever I drive over that highway I feel a sense of pride. Tiger believed in giving a good value of work for his dollar and he expected the same from his crew. I started looking past his faults to the good in the man. By the end of the summer I not only learned to respect Tiger, but I also learned to like him.
Since then I’ve found there are many people like Tiger, and I’ve had to look past their faults to see the good. Some have become very good and valued friends.

Dasch couldn’t wait to play with Charlie!
Charlie was the class teddy bear. He was brown and furry. He had his own clothes. He even had a baseball hat.
Each weekend, one student took Charlie home. It was Dasch’s turn.
Dasch was excited. He had a baseball hat to wear too.
Dasch and Charlie had fun. They ate cheese pizza. They played video games. They had a sleepover.
On Sunday, lots of people visited. Dasch’s sister was leaving on a mission. She was going far away. Everyone said goodbye.
Charlie said goodbye too. His big weekend was almost over.
The next day Dasch took Charlie back to school. Dasch stood in front of the class. “What did you and Charlie do?” his teacher asked.
Dasch was nervous. He held Charlie tight.
Should he tell about the pizza? The video games? The sleepover?
Should he tell about Sunday? The kids in class didn’t go to his church. What if they laughed?
Dasch thought about his sister. He knew what she would do.
He took a deep breath. He told all about his weekend, even about his sister’s mission. He told how Charlie said goodbye.
Everyone clapped. They didn’t laugh at all!
Dasch smiled. He was brave just like his sister. Maybe he was a missionary too!

I think of a young man I know who, as a Christian, trying one church after another, could find none that taught of a modern prophet. Among the Jewish people he found reverent mention of prophets, and so he accepted and embraced the Jewish religion.
In the summer of 1964, he went to New York City and visited the World’s Fair. He entered the Mormon Pavilion and saw pictures of the prophets of the Old Testament. His heart warmed within him as he heard the missionaries speak with appreciation of these great men of ages past through whom Jehovah revealed his will. Then, as he progressed through the pavilion, he heard of modern prophets—of Joseph Smith, who was called a prophet, a seer, and a revelator. Something stirred within him. His spirit responded to the testimony of the missionaries. He was baptized. He served a mission in South America. He returned home and has since become the means of bringing his family and others into the Church. It is heartwarming to hear him testify that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God and that all who have succeeded him have been legal successors in this high and sacred calling.

One of the most special moments that took place at family home evening was when our son, Renan, was preparing to be baptized. Our two older daughters, Cynthia and Lilian, offered to teach the lessons for the month preceding his eighth birthday. My husband and I loved watching them teach the meaning and purpose of baptism—the same lessons we had taught them as they prepared for baptism. Four years later Renan followed the examples of his older sisters and taught lessons about baptism to his younger sister, Ellen.

Some years ago an associate of mine lost his beloved wife. She died after a lingering illness, and he watched in helpless agony as the doctors withdrew all hope.

One day near the end she told him that when she was gone she wanted him to marry again and he was not to wait too long a time. He protested! The children were nearly grown and he would go the rest of the way alone.

She turned away and wept and said, “Have I been such a failure that after all our years together you would rather go unmarried? Have I been such a failure?”

In due time there came another, and their life together has reaffirmed his faith in marriage. And I have the feeling that his first beloved wife is deeply grateful to the second one, who filled the place that she could not keep.

José Gonçalves da Silva suddenly awoke to people calling his name. It was dark, and he had no idea where he was.

“I was asleep when the bus rolled,” José recalls of the early-morning accident in January 2008. “Nobody could find me because I was in the back of the bus covered with luggage. Some of the brethren finally located me as they began to gather up the suitcases.”

When the bus driver lost control on a narrow stretch of winding road in southern Venezuela’s dense rain forest, José and other Latter-day Saints from Manaus, Brazil, were approximately halfway through their three-day trip to the Caracas Venezuela Temple. José suffered only minor injuries, but several brothers and sisters had to be hospitalized.

“It’s time you quit going to the temple,” concerned family members told José, who was 80 when the accident occurred. Undeterred, however, he declared: “I need to go to the temple. If the Lord allows it, I will return.”

He immediately began saving money for his fourth trip to Caracas, which he made in early 2009. For Brother Gonçalves da Silva, the 40-hour bus ride is easy compared to the three trips he previously made to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. For many years, the São Paulo Temple, located thousands of miles southeast of Manaus, was the closest temple to this city of two million people in the northern state of Amazonas. Then, in 2005, Manaus became part of the Caracas Venezuela Temple District.

During those years of traveling to São Paulo, “we would take a boat here in Manaus and spend four days getting to Pôrto Velho,” the capital of Rondônia State, José says. “Then we would take a four-day bus ride to São Paulo. My wife is not a member of the Church, and when I went to the temple for the first time in 1985, I went alone. I spent the night at the bus terminal in Pôrto Velho because I arrived late and there was no bus. The next morning I headed for São Paulo. It was a nice experience, but I arrived a little tired.”
He then spent three full days serving in the temple before making the eight-day return trip home. It takes him a year to save enough from his pension to cover the costs of traveling to the temple.
“It is a sacrifice to go, but it is worth it,” says Brother Gonçalves da Silva, who has done much vicarious work for his family. “I felt a special joy the day I was baptized for my father, when someone was baptized for my mother, and when I represented my father as my parents were sealed. It was a wonderful opportunity. All my brothers and sisters are gone now, but I have done the work for them during my temple trips.”
José believes that the sacrifice inherent in traveling so far to the temple will help Latter-day Saints in Manaus be grateful for the day a temple is dedicated there. “I am excited for that day,” he says.
Manaus had one small branch with 20 members when José joined the Church in 1980. Since then he has seen the Church blossom there to nearly 50,000 members living in eight stakes.
“When the announcement came in 2007 that a temple would be built in Manaus,” José says, “I wept for the great joy I felt, and I prayed that the Lord would allow me to live long enough to see the groundbreaking,” which occurred a year later. Now he prays that he will live to see the temple completed and his wife baptized so that they can be sealed.
“We don’t know when we will die, but we should be prepared and happy when that time comes,” Brother Gonçalves da Silva says. “I’m looking forward to returning to the presence of my Father in Heaven and my Savior, Jesus Christ. Being in the temple helps me prepare for that day.”

Paula says, “The standards I always saw my friend live were now mine. My friend’s testimony was now mine.” Not long after, Paula began to feel an intense desire to share with others what she had been given. When she had been a member for one year, she filled out her mission papers, met with her priesthood leaders, and received a call to serve in the Chile Santiago East Mission.
Valeria says, “As I watched my friend prepare to serve her mission, the Spirit touched my heart. I wanted to commit myself to serve God the way she was.”
“May I speak to you?” This time it was Valeria who had pulled Paula aside. “I’ve felt something special as you have been preparing to leave on your mission.”
Paula told her friend the same thing her friend had once told her: “It’s the Spirit telling you what you need to do.”
Valeria’s plans hadn’t included a full-time mission. She wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “I can’t do it alone,” she told Paula.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” her friend assured.
Later, when Valeria opened her call, she was surprised to be going to the same mission as her friend. Paula began serving in October 2002; Valeria joined her in February 2003.
During their missions they saw each other quite often at conferences and activities. They enjoyed catching up and sharing news from their separate areas. They never dreamed that in November 2003 they would be assigned as companions. Their friendship bloomed into a relationship that will last forever. They have gone from being friends to sisters in the gospel to missionary companions.
Sister Valeria Pontelli says, “At first I was afraid that working together might damage our friendship, but that fear faded the first day. This chance to work together has only strengthened our relationship, and our friendship has helped us in the work.”
Others agree. One woman, who used to be less active but has come back to church because of the efforts of these two missionaries, says, “You can’t help but love them because you can see the love they feel for each other and for everyone around them. They are my angels.”
It was hard for these two companions to say good-bye in March 2004, when Sister Paula Alvarez’s mission came to an end. She was nervous about returning to Argentina and all that the future might bring. These two sisters talked about her concerns as they walked to their appointments together. “I can’t do it alone,” said Sister Alvarez.
“Don’t worry,” came the familiar words from her companion, Sister Pontelli. “I’ll help you.”

There is something very sacred about the time of birth. I remember so clearly the coming forth of each of my own children. My firstborn came after three years of desperate waiting. He was very small, only five pounds. I felt so responsible. It seemed like such a miracle and there was a great surge of gratitude. Now I had a baby of my very own. With each child came a sharper realization of life’s challenges and possibilities. Rocking my babies to sleep, I sang them the lullabies which came to my lips—soft, private words, carrying my dreams for their future. I have marveled at this miracle of potential that we cradle in our arms: the ultimate of creation, a human child.

I’ve always had anxiety. When I was 17, I noticed that most of my anxiety attacks occurred at church.
I was always told that if I’d read the scriptures, say my prayers, and go to church, I’d be happy. Well, that wasn’t the case for me. I’d enjoy the first few minutes of church, and then a panic attack would begin.
My bishop helped me realize that the spiritual expectations I had set for myself may be the cause. I thought I had to have the same miraculous spiritual experiences I heard about. It made sense to me that this pressure could cause my repeated attacks.
One day someone asked me, “Why do you still go to church?” I was taken aback. Why was I still going to church? I wasn’t forced to go. I didn’t receive any miraculous blessings. But I realized that I kept going because I knew the Church was true and that Heavenly Father wanted me to be there. My love for Him overpowered my desire to be free from anxiety.
Sometimes I wanted immediate blessings from Heavenly Father. I thought He’d bless me with fewer panic attacks just because I went to church. But I’ve learned that it doesn’t work that way. I often have to push through the attacks and attend church before I can see His blessings.
Now I’ve realized I can also ask for help from my parents and medical professionals. I still have bad days, but they don’t control me. Instead, they help me prove to my Heavenly Father that I love Him and that I’ll fight through this challenge with His help.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus Christ asked if His trial could be lifted, but in perfect obedience to our Heavenly Father, He pushed through the greatest trial of all. Because of this, I know He will give me the strength to endure my trials as well.
Heidi L., Hawaii, USA

1838 My brother Don Carlos and my cousin George A. Smith returned [from missions through Kentucky and Tennessee], having traveled fifteen hundred miles—nine hundred on foot, and the remainder by steamboat and otherwise. They visited several branches, and would have accomplished the object of their mission had it not been for the troubles at Far West.
When nearly home they were known and pursued by the mob, which compelled them to travel one hundred miles in two days and nights. The ground at the time was slippery, and a severe northwest wind was blowing in their faces; they had but little to eat and narrowly escaped freezing both nights.

At the family history library near his home, Josh Taylor was looking at microfilm of a census for Stephenson County in Illinois. He was looking for information about his great-great-great-great grandfather, George A. Stiles. It was seemingly needle-in-the-haystack time.

“It’s a fairly big county, and I wasn’t looking forward to looking through the entire thing,” admits 12-year-old Josh. “But I had prayed about it, and immediately page 261 came to my mind.” And there it was: information about his relative.

“Whenever a page number pops into my mind, I can tell if it’s going to have something in it or not because I feel this excitement. It’s hard to explain,” he says.

What isn’t difficult to explain is how Josh feels about family history.

“Genealogy is addicting,” the Rexburg, Idaho, resident says. After school and on weekends, you’ll find the sixth grader working as a family history assistant at the Upper Snake River Valley Family History Center at Ricks College. Because he’s so young, some folks find it hard to believe he knows so much. After all, family history is a bit perplexing. That is, until they ask him a question and discover he really does know what he’s talking about.

“Once I’ve helped them, they will sometimes come in and ask, ‘Does Josh know something about that?’” he says. Even one of his trainers, Elder Melvin Dickerson of Rexburg, a former full-time family history missionary, was a bit skeptical at first. “We don’t run a baby-sitting service,” he said more than once.

But Elder Dickerson quickly changed his mind when he discovered Josh was serious about the work. “He learned very fast,” he says. “He just gobbled everything up. He was incredible, and still is.”

While the use of computers is sometimes a stumbling block to some researchers, Josh is adept. Dickerson adds, “He is still a young child in some ways, but when it comes to family history, he knows how to do it and how to run the computers.”

Josh describes genealogy as a puzzle. “I have names and I find dates. I have children and I find parents,” he says. “It’s like pieces of a puzzle, and when you complete it, you shellac it and put it on the wall. When quizzed on his own genealogy, he can recall the names of family members back at least 12 generations.

Each day after school, Josh returns home from school and does his homework. Then he showers and changes into a dress shirt and tie for his two hours of work at the library.

“I feel it’s important to get dressed up. I am kind of a missionary,” he adds. “Going there each day is about what I expected it to be except for the spiritual things that I have gained. That’s been totally unexpected.”

Josh’s interest was sparked in early 1996 when many of his fellow fifth-grade classmates were attending a school-sponsored ski school. Instead of skiing, the 10-year-old signed up for an alternative minicourse on genealogy offered by the school. Josh’s mother, Judy Taylor, initially was concerned that two hours of genealogy each week would be too long for her young son. But he soon was hooked and found himself wanting to stay longer and longer at the local family history center.

While his parents, who teach music at Ricks College, were touring with the college orchestra a few months later, Josh stayed with his grandparents for a few days in Logan, Utah. His grandparents, who were serving as family history missionaries, took him to the family history center, where he learned more about the computer programs used by genealogists. Later that year, Josh read in his ward newsletter that Church leaders were looking for more local family history missionaries.

“That caught my attention, and I thought it would be fun,” he says. Josh then prayed about what to do, finding his answer that night while reading his scriptures.

“Right then I knew it was my answer, so I went to see my bishop,” he says. Bishop Kendell Nielsen of the Rexburg 15th Ward says he was a bit surprised, but encouraged the boy to pursue his desire. Josh soon was asked to work at the family history center located at the Rexburg North Stake Center. He has now switched to the family history center at the college, where he serves as an assistant for about seven hours each week. His parents say they have seen signs of maturity because of their son’s work.

“It’s made him a better student,” Sister Taylor says. And it’s dramatically helped his spelling. Before he’s allowed to go off to the center, he’s told his schoolwork must be done. “So it gets done pretty quickly,” Josh’s mom adds.

Josh was recently honored by his school as Student of the Month in English, a subject in which he had struggled previously. His father, David Taylor, adds, “We’ve noticed a dramatic improvement in his social skills.”

Josh tells of a time when a woman was trying to find her long lost brother. When she found the man’s name listed in the Social Security death index, the woman broke down and cried. She didn’t realize he was dead. “You don’t know what to say,” Josh says. “I let my grandma take over.”

When he’s not helping others, he works on his own family line. Recently, he found an ancestor for whom the family had been searching for years. At that point, one of his relatives remarked, “He really does know what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”

Josh’s interest has spurred other family members to work on genealogy too. His mother, who in the past didn’t have the time, suddenly finds herself at the center more often. And his other set of grandparents also have begun researching their family line.

His grandmother Martha Taylor of North Logan, Utah, says their common interest in family history has tied the family together. “I find it’s been a real bonding thing between us,” she says. “It’s given us so much to talk about and to build a relationship around.

“He knows computers much better than I do,” Sister Taylor adds. “On the other hand, I slow him down and tell him to do it thoroughly.”

Blaine Bake, director of the family history center at Ricks, says, “I wish I were in his shoes. He’s at the beginning of his life, and I’m at the winding-down stages, and there are going to be so many technological changes. Now that he’s 12, he’s looking forward to doing the temple work for some of the ancestors he has researched.”

But family history isn’t Josh’s only interest. He plays percussion in the school band and has acted in several theater productions at Ricks College. Last year he also placed first in his division in the Idaho State History Fair.

As for the miniclass in genealogy where his interest all started two years ago? This past winter he taught the class.

It was soon to be Christmas. My twin brother and I had reached the age when we knew the “truth” about Christmas. Our family’s humble circumstances had always provided little help for Santa Claus. Max and I had decided between us that we would ease Mother’s concern about it and so confided in her our knowledge. She merely replied, “Well, is that so?”
Christmas Eve came. The family decorated the tree, made candy and popcorn balls, and placed our homemade presents beneath the tree. Dad sent us boys downstairs to bed, indicating that we were to stay there until he called us in the morning. Still laughing and giggling from the fun and excitement, Max and I followed our older brother, Lynn, down the stairs. With some effort on our part and some added encouragement from our father, we finally quieted down. Sleep came at last.
It seemed I hadn’t been asleep long when Max awakened me with the news that it was 7:15 A.M.—time to hurry up to the living room. Our excitement and noisy efforts hurrying up the stairs awakened our father. As we reached the kitchen door we heard his somewhat irritated voice saying it was only 25 minutes before 3:00 A.M. (we had read the clock backwards) and we were to get right back into bed and wait as we had been told earlier!
We turned back toward the stairs. It was then that we saw it! Even in the very dim light it was beautiful! We sat down in the dark of the stairwell and described to each other a most unexpected surprise—a Hiawatha Streamer bicycle! The fact that there was just one, that there were 20 inches of snow outside and no place to ride, or that we couldn’t read which of the children it was for somehow didn’t matter.
It seemed that we sat there on the stairs for hours, counting each tick of the clock and anxiously awaiting the call of our father. Finally we heard Dad’s heavy footsteps as he walked from the bedroom toward the stairs. He hardly needed to beckon us to come.
There it was—“TO THE TWINS FROM SANTA”—the most beautiful bicycle we had ever seen. It was cream-colored, decorated with a bright red stripe and shiny chrome fenders, and completely outfitted with headlight, tool compartment, fender rack, reflector, and spring seat. We could hardly believe it was ours! Soon my brothers and I were clearing a pathway in the snow and were riding the sleek new Streamer. Cold hands and toes were ignored. What a wonderful time we had!
In my excitement and almost total preoccupation with our wonderful Christmas gift, I had failed to notice that there were few other gifts beneath the tree for other members of the family. Christmas stockings contained an orange in the toe, a few nuts, and some hard candy. Hand-wrapped pieces of honey candy and homemade fudge completed Santa’s treat.
That evening as we went to bed, Max and I talked about the day’s event—the bicycle. We planned how we would use the bike. We would get a paper route. We would have transportation to work during the summer, and we would be able to ride to school during the winter. It could be put to so many uses! Then our wonderment returned. Where had the bicycle come from? We knew Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to buy it. We were also aware of the wartime shortages. Who had made this prized gift possible?
It wasn’t until several years later that we learned the beautiful, heartwarming truth. The sacrifice and concern of a loving mother, brother, and sister had made possible that unforgettable Christmas. Our brother had worked extra hours at a creamery after school. Our sister had done housework for a neighbor. Our mother had saved money from her early-morning work at the cannery during the harvest months. They had each worked extra hours and had sacrificed their time, their earnings, and their own Christmas gifts to provide a special Christmas for the young twins.
The happiness of that Christmas was surpassed only by the discovery of their secret and their love and sacrifice for us. Here was the true spirit of Christmas—an older brother and sister lending unselfish support to parents, desiring to give anonymously that which they’d never had themselves, seeking no credit or praise for their act, expecting no reciprocation. This example of the love of children for parents and brothers I shall always cherish and value as a priceless gift.
The bike is gone, long ago worn out by two robust boys. Its shininess faded through constant use and enjoyment. The years, however, have only increased the glow of true Christlike love between family members. This act of love, and others like it, created ties that have brought our family members to the aid and support of one another many times and under every circumstance.
How valuable are the truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ taught to us in our homes. They strengthen us, bring us everlasting joy and happiness, and, if lived, bind us together in an eternal family relationship.

Youth all over the world are drawn to temples. In Lima, Peru, I met a father and three of his daughters outside the entrance of the temple. I saw the light in their faces. Two of the daughters were severely disabled and sitting in wheelchairs. The third daughter, while attending to her sisters’ needs, explained she had two more sisters at home. They too were in wheelchairs. They were unable to travel the 14 hours to the temple. The temple meant so much to this father and his daughters that four of them had come to the temple that day—two of them simply to observe the one who could be baptized for the dead and perform that sacred ordinance. Like Nephi, they “[delighted] in the covenants of the Lord.”5

Simone has other favorites too. He loves animals and always wanted to have a pet of his own. Not long ago, his dream came true! “My brother and I got two dogs!” he said with a smile. “We named them Birba and Quinzia.” Birba (which means “naughty”) is a small basset hound; Quinzia is a boxer.
Simone and his brother, Emanuele, love to play with the dogs and take them for walks around their neighborhood. Of course, having pets also means taking care of them. But Simone’s mother, Christina, says that he is very willing to do that. “He also helps with other chores around the house,” she adds, “and because I work outside the home, that is very important to me.”

You and your mom are on a scavenger hunt as part of a Primary quarterly activity to help you appreciate all the natural goodness Heavenly Father has given us. You have a list of things to check off when you find them. In addition, letters of the alphabet have been hidden in some of the places.
You are the first team. Go to Start. Follow the directions along the way, and you will find the letters. As you find each one, write it in order on the blanks at the bottom of your list. The letters will spell a word that tells what you’ll be enjoying after the hunt.
No letter here, but fill your canteen at the water fountain, check off “Water” on your list, and go to the big oak tree.
Write down the letter in the hole, check off “Oak Tree,” and hurry over to the pond.
That isn’t a letter—it’s a frog on a lily pad. Check off “Lily Pads” and look for the large boulder.
That isn’t a letter, either—it’s a snake. Rest here a bit while you check off “Boulder,” then find a pile of leaves.
Jump in, then write the letter on the brown leaf, check off “Leaves,” and head for another big pile—acorns this time.
No letter here. The squirrel wishes you’d go away so he can finish storing these nuts, so check off “Acorns” and head for the hollow log.
Another letter for your checklist. While you write it and check off “Hollow Log,” your cap blows off. Luckily, you see it at the apple tree, where you should go next.
On a low branch, there’s an abandoned nest with a green apple in it but no letter. Check off “Nest” and try the next place, over by those moss-covered stones.
Aha! Another letter! Write it and check off “Mossy Stones.” Do you see the wild strawberries? The last letter may be there. …
Nope—no letter, but the berries taste wonderful. You eat just a few so that the others can have some too. Now check off “Strawberries,” then look under the big pine tree.
Hurray—the last letter! Write it down, don’t forget to check off “Pine Tree,” then hurry over to join the leaders and wait for the other children.
Scavenger Hunt List
Water
Oak Tree
Lily Pads
Boulder
Leaves
Acorns
Hollow Log
Nest
Mossy Stones
Strawberries
Pine Trees
___ ___ ___ ___ ___
Answer: