Gospel Story Finder

In a village in South America a group of visitors observed descendants of the Incas using pieces of broken glass and tin can lids to shear their sheep. The visitors invited some of the local leaders to join with them in the center of the village for a demonstration of metal shears. The villagers discovered with interest that with the new tool they could shear ten times as many sheep in the same amount of time. They bartered for some of these shears and have used them since. Effective teaching brought significant changes.

During the night a little bird had been blown from its nest by the high winds in the storm. Apparently hatched just a few days earlier, it had few feathers, but enough to be identified as just a common sparrow.
As it lay there awaiting whatever fate would come, a young woman walking to her car in the parking lot saw the little sparrow and picked it up. Feeling sympathy for the helpless little bird, she took it home to care for it. She prepared a nest in a basket with soft tissues, which were changed often to keep a clean and comfortable bed for the little bird.
She fed it often each day, watching it gain strength, and within a few days it opened its eyes and could see for the first time. It saw the girl who fed it and the family who lived in the home. It heard and became accustomed to the sounds around it, and it was not afraid.
As the days passed, it was able to hop about, and it was taken from the basket and put into a clean birdcage.
The sparrow trusted the girl and the family, and when it wanted food, it would chirp and flutter its growing wings rapidly, and when the cage door was opened it would hop out onto the girl’s hand and sit there patiently while she fed it.
It would sit on her hand as she walked through the house and even when she went outside. To help it become accustomed to the outside world where it soon would have to live, she would take it out on the lawn where she and her sister would sit under the tree and visit while the bird would look and observe all around it.
It came time for the girl and her sister to go to girls’ camp, so the bird went with them and spent the week on Cedar Mountain with the girls. It was there that it tried to fly for the first time, flying from the girl’s hand to the low branches in a nearby tree.
The bird was glad to come back to the familiar hand and security of the girl’s love, and although it was learning to fly, it did not leave. When the girls’ camp was over, the bird came home with the girls and continued its flying lessons.
The girl, realizing the bird must soon join its own kind, took it out on the front lawn and encouraged it to fly away. It flew across the lawn to a small pine tree, where it perched and looked around. The girl left it there, assuming it would now join the other birds, and she returned into the home.
It wasn’t long before a chirping could be heard outside in front of the home, and when the girl went out to see what the bird was chirping about, it flew out of the tree and landed back on her hand, and she fed it.
For the first few nights the bird would come back to the house and want to come in with the family for the night. Soon, however, it began to stay out with newly found friends, living in the trees close by the home. When the girl would go outside and whistle, it would respond and return and land on her hand, and my daughter, Trinilee, would feed it.
That little bird and my daughter taught me a great lesson in faith and trust. Although it was just a fraction of the size of its human friend and could be in great danger for its life amongst humans, it trusted her and had faith it would not be harmed and would be fed by her—and it responded to her beckoning call.
Have you ever wondered about our faith? Do we have that kind of trust and faith in the Lord? Do we respond to His beckoning call to serve and be fed at His hand?
We should strive to be in His presence and to respond to His call, yet many of us lack the faith and the trust to come unto the Lord when He calls. He is calling us today to be faithful and to trust Him, that He might feed us.
The Savior, speaking through the Prophet Joseph Smith, said to John Whitmer: “And now, behold, I say unto you, that the thing which will be of the most worth unto you will be to declare repentance unto this people, that you may bring souls unto me, that you may rest with them in the kingdom of my Father. Amen” (D&C 15:6).
I believe our Heavenly Father, and I trust Him. When He reveals to us, speaking through our living prophet today, that we need to do more and that more of us need to become involved in the work of bringing souls unto Christ, then we need to step forward and say, “Here am I; send me” (Isa. 6:8).
I truly love my Heavenly Father and our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, and I am grateful for the many blessings and opportunities They have given me. I pray with all my heart and soul that I can measure up to the plans They have for me, whatever those plans may be.
I pray we will all show the kind of faith and trust in the Lord that the little sparrow demonstrated in my daughter and that we will respond to the call of the Lord.

When I was Relief Society president for the Luton Ward, I encouraged the ward to collect clothes and other goods for asylum seekers and refugees. I took the goods to the county of Hertfordshire and gave them to refugees there. I started feeling a bit guilty about this, because I was taking donations from ward members into a different county when I knew that Luton itself had a massive population of refugees and asylum seekers that needed help.
I decided to find out who was working with asylum seekers and refugees in Luton so we could give them the goods the ward collected. I attended a National Churches Together meeting and asked. They told me that Care4Calais and another church or two, were helping. I contacted Care4Calais and I also found out how to apply to Churches Together in Luton. A week or so later, I heard back from Churches Together and they told me my application was rejected. I felt so upset. All I wanted to do was help whoever was helping asylum seekers and refugees. So, I phoned the director of Churches Together in Luton and explained to her how shocked and saddened I was. She relented and gave me the number of the Reverend of All Saints and St. Peter’s Church, the main church in Luton helping and supporting the large population of asylum seekers there.
I contacted Reverend David Kesterton and set up a meeting with him. We asked about his church and what they were doing to help, and how our church could multiply their efforts in the work they were already engaged in. At first, he was very hesitant, because he feared we would go in proselyting. We assured him we would not and he agreed to work with us.
We started meeting with the Reverend and put together a proposal to the church to secure some funding. All Saints was opening their doors to asylum seekers twice a week for drop-in sessions where an individual could get a cup of coffee and cake, needed clothing, as well as advice, ESOL support, someone to listen to them, or just an entertaining round of chess to break up the monotony that they feel. They had recently run out of funding. The Church agreed to give £15,000 to provide much needed warm clothing and toiletries as well as vouchers for underwear, school uniform and shoes. We were all thrilled.
To kick off the project, we invited the Reverend to come and speak in the Luton Ward during the second hour of a fifth Sunday meeting. He talked about the support he and his church were giving and how we could be of help. Members of the Luton Ward were encouraged to start volunteering at the drop-in sessions. The youth planned an activity to sort out their overflowing and disorganised toy cupboard, as well as purchasing needed toiletries from local supermarkets for asylum seekers. The Reverend was amazed to see all the youth there bringing toiletries, and even more amazed that the leaders had made purchasing toiletries a competition for the youth. One ward member even volunteered to be Father Christmas for their drop-in session right before the holidays.
We are now coming to the end of this lovely project. A wonderful relationship has developed between the Luton Ward and All Saints and St. Peter’s Church, and I think the Reverend has changed some of his old opinions of us as members of the Church and is more willing to work with us and see our commonalities. He has been very grateful for our help.

It seemed impossible for Pat and Peggy to make any friends in the strange big city where they had just moved.
One night Father noticed their sadness. “Let’s have a party,” he suggested.
At first Pat and Peggy were delighted. They talked excitedly of ice cream and cake and big red balloons, but then they stopped. “Who can we invite to a party?” they cried. “We don’t have any friends.”
Father’s eyes twinkled as he answered, “Oh, we won’t worry about inviting friends right now. Let’s have an Enemy Party. We’ll just invite all those unfriendly boys and girls in your class at school and see what happens.”
That is exactly what Pat and Peggy did. Almost everyone came who was invited, and when they left, they all said it was the best party they’d ever attended.
Even though everyone had a wonderful time, Pat and Peggy never had another Enemy Party. They no longer knew anyone to invite, because suddenly they had only friends at the new school!

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.

Another bishop was concerned about the trend he noticed in ward fast and testimony meetings. Members were bearing few testimonies of Christ and His gospel; instead, they were sermonizing, giving travelogues, sharing personal experiences that were not related to the gospel, and talking about family outings and activities. The bishop understood that those topics were important to the speakers. But they were not testimonies of Christ and His gospel. He asked the ward council, “How can we teach the importance of using testimony meeting for testifying of Christ and His restored church without offending our members?”
After a little time and some comments by the sisters, the council suggested that the bishop should teach the members what a testimony is and what it is not. In addition, the council concluded that the quorums and auxiliaries should discuss the purpose of testimony meeting, and home teachers and visiting teachers should review this subject with individual families during their monthly visits. The bishop now reports, “Our testimony meetings are much better. The witness of Christ and His love for us is expressed by the members, and the spirituality of our ward has improved greatly.”

Six-year-old Catherine sang as she followed Joseph and his plow down the long brown furrows, dropping yellow kernels of corn into the newly turned soil:
One for the cutworm,
One for the crow,
One to rot, and
One to grow.
Joseph called over his shoulder, “If Alvin doesn’t get back with some money, all that corn will go to the land agents. And from what I hear, they’re not about to share it with a cutworm or a crow or anything else.”
Catherine had heard her father talk about land agents, but she wasn’t sure just what they were. “What are land agents, Joseph?” she asked.
Her brother pulled the ox to a halt and explained, “They’re men who sell property. If there is a drought or your crops don’t sell and you can’t pay the mortgage money, they come and take the farm back.” Then he paused for a moment, remembering his father’s dawn-to-dark labor when they’d first cleared the land of trees to plant crops.
The whole family had helped tap the thousand sugar maple trees in the spring. Joseph also remembered the split-wood chairs and baskets and the straw brooms his father had made to sell to help pay for the farm. His father had even hired out as a hand for other farmers to bring in precious money. But still there wasn’t enough.
Catherine brought her brother back from his recollecting. “Are they going to take our farm, Joseph?”
“It looks like it, unless we can raise some more money. Alvin is still out on his job as a carpenter’s helper with a crew that’s building log houses, and Mother has been selling a lot of her painted oilcloth covers.”
“I’ve helped Mother sell cakes and gingerbread and root beer on public days,” Catherine said, beaming.
“Well, we’ve all helped. But it hasn’t been enough.” Joseph sighed as he slapped the reins against the rump of the ox. “I wish I could do something more.”
“You’ve been helping to clear trees and plowing and planting the corn and pumpkins. That’s a big help.”
“Sure. But we need money. And we need it right away.”
Catherine let out a deep breath and sat down on the broken black earth. “Will we have to let the land agents take our farm?” she asked.
“If we can’t pay all the mortgage money, we will. And the law backs them up. But it just doesn’t seem right after we’ve spent two years clearing trees from sixty acres of land and planting crops and building a four-room log house besides. They’d only turn around and sell it again for a heap of money, and we wouldn’t get a penny for all the improvements we’ve made.”
Catherine understood now why some folks said the land agents were really land robbers. The thought was still in her mind when a large black crow flew down and began to scratch for the newly planted corn. Her frustration erupted. Skirts flying, she chased after the bird, shaking her fist.
“Get out of here you old domineker!” she yelled as the bird flapped off in panic. “I won’t let you take our corn!”
Young Joseph had to laugh at the sight of her, and his laughter skipped across the clearing into the open window of the house. His mother was just lifting the lid on the cooking pot in the fireplace when she heard it. She smiled and felt a sudden sense of relief. How she wished she could stir some of it into the venison stew. They needed all the laughter they could get these days.
She left the stew sputtering against the pot lid as she called to her family. “Supper’s on!”
Later after supper, Joseph’s father, as always, felt for his spectacles. When his hand found the lower right-hand pocket of his vest, that was the signal for a reading from the Bible and for family prayer.
That night the family had an extra long prayer. Father Smith thanked Heavenly Father for His “mercy which endureth forever.” Then he pleaded for help in somehow obtaining the money that was needed. When all members of the family had added their amen, they sang the usual hymn:
Another day has passed and gone,
We lay our garments by—
The song was interrupted by a loud knock. Mr. Smith opened the door and invited a neighbor from down the road to come in.
“Much obliged, Joe. I came to ask if you’d let me hire one of your boys for a few days. I need to dig a well.”
Alvin was away working and young Joseph knew his father needed Hyrum to help cut trees. “I could do it, sir,” he said eagerly.
His father smiled. “Joseph’s able. He’ll give you a good day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“I know your boys are good workers. They’ve worked alongside their pa until they’re better than most men. That’s why I’m here. Young Joseph will be fine.”
Joseph was so happy that he had to take a big breath to keep from shouting out loud: The Lord is surely opening up the way. Things are going to work out. I’m sure of it. He was so sure that he wasn’t a bit surprised when Alvin arrived home a few days later with the money he had earned. Just the same, it was a tense moment when the whole family gathered to count their savings. Is it enough? they wondered.
Joseph held his breath as the cash was totaled. It was enough; they’d made it. Tears and laughter mingled as they realized that Alvin’s earnings added to what Joseph and the others had been able to raise would save their farm!
(To be continued.)

Another incredible thing in Punta Arenas is found at the central plaza. On the same monument as Hernando Magellan is a bronze Patagonian Indian with a very shiny toe. The toe has been polished by the touch of passersby because it is reputed to be a very lucky toe. It has even received a few kisses because a legend maintains that any visitor who busses the magical digit will someday return to Punta Arenas. Few people take the good luck offer seriously, but it seems to be almost a matter of civic pride to give the toe a pat from time to time. One day in the springtime when the plaza was alive with flowers and budding trees, the patters were young Latter-day Saints. They were waiting for a bus to take them to one of the many tourist attractions around Punta Arenas. Their goal was Fuerte Bulnes (Fort Bulnes), the first Chilean fort on the Strait of Magellan.
When the bus arrived, they went singing on their way. On their left was the alternately cloud-gray and silver Strait. On their right the brambly hills gave way to dark tarns and forested slopes. As they went, the hills moved closer to the sea, until they rose almost straight up to formidable cliffs. And atop one of the cliffs, far above the Strait, was the fort.
Fuerte Bulnes looks like something out of the Old West, with its palisades of sharpened logs encircling guard towers, cannons, barracks, and a guardhouse. The young visitors examined swords and muskets, sent imaginary cannonballs seaward against desperate enemies, and climbed down a rocky trail to admire the sea, which for a moment was as blue and placid as an alpine lake.
In the fort museum they relived Magellan’s discovery of the Strait, almost exactly 457 years before. They were intrigued by the real-life drama of other early explorers and settlers, including the tragic story of nearby Puerto Hambre (Port Hunger) where a whole settlement perished from starvation.
On their way back to Punta Arenas, the group stopped for a leisurely stroll by the shore and a visit to an Indian fishing village. They searched for sea shells on the pebbly beach among the remains of king crabs and old boats. They also watched with interest as an Indian boatwright patiently tamed raw timbers into the ribs of a fishing boat.

Ken Bradford, 15, of Santa Fe, New Mexico, really made a difference by standing up for what he knew was right.
Ken had won two gold medals in wrestling and his coach told him he had an excellent chance of taking first place in his division at the state meet.
When Ken found out that part of the meet would be held on the Sabbath, he told his coach he would not be able to participate in the Sunday matches. Ken came in first in the Saturday matches, but he received the second-place medal in the meet because he did not finish the competition.
The following Monday, Ken’s coach said that he would change the rules so future tournaments would not be held on Sunday.

The Kandlers were the first Mormons in Eugendorf. Their close friend, Hermann Martinz, who joined the Church just a year ago, describes the difficulty they encountered: “Brother Kandler was working as a roofer and a plumber. When the townspeople found out he had joined the Church, his employees quit work, and he lost a contract to re-roof the large cathedral in town. But the stake patriarch told him not to worry, that because he was so brave, the Lord would bless him. The town boycotted him—no more jobs in Eugendorf. But now he’s got so much work in neighboring villages and in Salzburg that it doesn’t matter.”
Becoming Mormon also caused temporary setbacks for the children. “I was in a Catholic High school. When they found out we had been baptized, I was not able to return the next year,” Helga explained. Ruth, who had already registered and made a down payment on her school fees, was told she could not attend, and was not given a refund. “But the ward members helped us and made sure we knew we at least had them for friends. They helped my dad in his work. They talked to us about new schools. They showed us they cared,” Helga says. The other villagers didn’t mean to be cruel, the Kandlers explain; they just didn’t understand. “They thought we’d fallen away from God,” Brother Kandler says. “But now, with a little time to get used to us, they can see we’ve actually grown closer to him.”
Soon the family was doing well again and the girls were registered in new schools.
Now the Kandlers have moved into a new, large apartment above a store, with a spacious backyard for their garden.

“I need help!”
Lizzy heard Mom yell from the kitchen and ran to see what was wrong. Mom was standing by the stove, where she had been putting jars of apricots into a pot of water. One of the jars had broken, and the glass had cut her hand deeply.
Lizzy grabbed a clean towel and wrapped Mom’s bleeding hand while Daniel, Lizzy’s older brother, found his keys so he could drive Mom to the hospital.
When Mom came home hours later, she explained that the glass had cut through an artery, a tendon, and a nerve. The doctors had been able to fix her hand, but Mom was supposed to keep her hand dry and hold it above her shoulder for several weeks.
“We’ll all need to help out even more until Mom can use her hand again,” Dad said.
“What if we don’t know what to do?” Lizzy’s younger sister, Jamilyn, asked.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mom said. “I can’t use my hand, but I can coach you if you need help.”
Jamilyn and Lizzy looked at each other and smiled. It sounded like fun.
The next morning after family prayer, Dad left for work.
“I don’t want the rest of the apricots to go to waste,” Mom said. “How do you girls feel about canning fruit today?”
Mom explained how to clean the jars and fill them with apricot halves. Lizzy liked mixing the syrup and carefully pouring some into each jar. Jamilyn wiped the rims and tightened the lids. Soon most of the apricots were stored in glass jars. Lizzy wondered what they would do with the mushy apricots that were left over, until Mom said they would use them to make jam. Lizzy grinned as she and her sister mashed up the apricots. She loved homemade jam!
“This is the best jam I’ve ever eaten,” Mom said during lunch as she munched on a peanut butter and jam sandwich the girls had made for her.
After lunch, the girls were eager to learn what other grown-up chores were on Mom’s “to do” list. Lizzy helped Mom pay the bills. Jamilyn folded laundry. They had just finished pulling weeds from the rose garden when Mom introduced their final adventure of the day: making dinner. The menu included spaghetti, meatballs, and salad.
“What about your breadsticks?” Lizzy asked. Lizzy loved Mom’s homemade breadsticks that they always ate with spaghetti.
“They’re a little tricky to make,” Mom said. But Lizzy and Jamilyn begged Mom to teach them the recipe.
When Dad saw the golden breadsticks and juicy meatballs at dinnertime, he thought Mom had broken the rules about her hand.
“No, the girls did it all!” Mom said proudly.
Before long, Lizzy and Jamilyn could do housework and cook nutritious meals without much help from Mom. Daniel helped out with the evening chores, and Dad went grocery shopping after work. By the time Mom could work around the house again, she found things had changed at home.
“I’ll make dinner tonight,” Lizzy said. “I’m in the mood for spaghetti, and I like my recipe best.”
“Do you need any help with the breadsticks?” Mom asked.
“No, thanks. Jamilyn wants to make them, and you might get in her way,” Lizzy said with a smile.

In Athens, Greece, Ismena downsized by moving into the grandparent apartment in her home after her husband passed away. She gave the main house to her daughter, Helena, and her family. “It makes more sense for the growing family to have the larger place,” Ismena says. “I asked my sister Delphine to live with me, and we love caring for the grandchildren while Helena and her husband are at work. Many nights we have dinner and scripture study with everyone.”

“C’mon, Benjy, cut me a slice,” my little brother, Jake, whispered to me as we hid in the bushes and looked down at Mom’s peach pie.
I looked over at my friend Jared who was kneeling next to Jake. His eyes were locked onto the peach pie. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, took out my pocketknife, and pushed the blade into the flaky crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Slowly I carved a jagged line across the pie.
“You don’t think we’ll get caught, do you?” Jared whispered as I handed him a piece of pie dripping with yellow peach filling.
I shook my head, not a bit sure; but I didn’t want Jared and Jake to know that. “No,” I rasped. “No one will ever know. Mom made five pies that she asked us to deliver. She probably won’t remember that we were supposed to give a pie to Brother Piper.
In no time at all we were licking the last of the stickiness from our fingers.
“I think my stomach’s going to bust,” Jake moaned. “I’ve never eaten so much pie in my life.”
“I wish we hadn’t eaten it so fast,” Jared complained. “It doesn’t taste as good when you have to eat a huge piece of pie in three bites.”
“Yeah,” Jake moaned again, rubbing his stomach. “I feel kind of sick.”
I nodded, feeling sick, too, but it wasn’t just because we had eaten a whole pie. Deep inside I knew that the main reason that I felt sick was that we had eaten a stolen pie. As I looked at the empty pie pan, I wished that we had taken the pie to Brother Piper.
We all stumbled from the bushes and headed for home, with the pie plate hidden under my shirt.
Mom was in the family room when we slipped into the house and tiptoed to the kitchen. We washed the pan and slipped it into the cupboard. Then we dashed for the door.
“Oh, Benjy,” Mom called out just as we reached the front door, “Did you deliver the pies?”
I gulped and caught my breath. “Everybody was happy to get your pies, Mom.”
“And what did Brother Piper say?” she asked excitedly. “It’s his birthday today. I’ve been promising him a peach pie for weeks. He didn’t think I’d remember.”
“You promised Brother Piper a peach pie?” Jake asked.
Mom nodded and smiled. “I’ll have to call him later this afternoon and wish him a happy birthday.”
“I thought you said she’d never know!” Jake accused me as we tromped down the front steps.
“Yeah,” Jared whined, “we’ll be caught for sure. Now what are we going to do?”
“How was I supposed to know it was Brother Piper’s birthday?” I snapped. “Besides, it was your idea too.”
“We have to get another pie,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “and before Mom calls Brother Piper.”
“I know!” Jared spoke up. “My mom’s at a Primary meeting. Let’s go to my place and make a pie.”
‘We don’t know anything about making pies,” Jake said.
“Well, we’ll have to learn!” I spouted.
“What do we do first?” Jake asked as we crowded around Jared’s kitchen table.
“I’ve watched Mom a few times. All we have to do is make the crust, fill it full of fruit, and throw it in the oven.”
“But how do we make the crust?” Jake asked.
“Get me a bowl and some flour and shortening,” I growled. “Do I have to do everything? We just mix it up, roll it out, and slap it into a pie pan.”
While Jared poured in the flour and Jake scraped in gobs of shortening, I took a wooden spoon and tried to mix the two ingredients together. It was a lot harder than I had thought.
“It doesn’t mix too well, does it?” Jake commented.
“Maybe it needs some water. Pour in some water,” I ordered.
“It looks better than when we started,” Jared said a few minutes later, “but it still doesn’t look much like piecrust.”
“It’s not piecrust,” I snapped. “Not yet. It’s just dough. Maybe if we roll it out, it’ll look better. It’s when Mom rolls hers out that it really looks like a piecrust.”
The dough kept falling apart and lumping into gobs, but we kept at it, pounding it with our fists, poking it with our spoons, and squeezing it with our fingers. When we finally got it into the pie pan, there were still a few bumpy spots, and the edges were kind of ragged.
“Now what do we do for the insides?” Jake asked.
“Do you have some peaches?”
Jared slapped the flour from his hands and looked in the pantry. He came back with a big can of peach halves. “Will these do?” he asked.
I nodded. “They’ll have to do.”
We spooned the peach halves onto the crust, then drank all the juice. We couldn’t make one big piece of dough for the top crust, so we put on a lot of little pieces and pinched them together.
“It doesn’t look much like one of Mom’s pies,” Jake mumbled.
Jared nodded. “It needs something.”
“Cinnamon and sugar!” I proclaimed, grinning. “Mom always puts cinnamon and sugar on top.”
Jake grabbed the sugar, and Jared grabbed the cinnamon, and they both began to sprinkle.
“Is that enough?” Jared asked.
I shook my head. “This pie needs lots of cinnamon and sugar to cover up the bad places.”
It was late in the afternoon when we finally pulled the pie from the oven.
“It doesn’t look exactly like the one Mom made,” Jake said.
“It doesn’t look like anything anyone would want to eat, either,” Jared said.
“Maybe Brother Piper doesn’t know a good pie from a bad one,” Jake said.
“He probably doesn’t,” I commented hopefully. “He likes brussels sprouts. Anybody that can eat brussels sprouts can eat this pie.”
“Maybe we’d better cover it with a napkin,” Jared said. “We can hand it to him and leave before he sees it. He’ll just think that your mom had a bad day. Anybody can make a lousy pie once in a while.”
The pie was still warm when we dragged our feet up Brother Piper’s walk. I swallowed hard as I rang the bell. Jared and Jake crowded behind me.
“Well, hello, boys.”
“We brought you a pie,” I burst out, pushing the pie into his hands. “Mom wanted us to bring you a pie.”
“Well, how nice of her, Benjy. She said that she was going to make me one, but I thought that she’d forget. You don’t know how much I love your mom’s pies.”
We started to go.
“Don’t leave, boys. Come in and have a piece of pie with me.”
“Well, we really”—I was getting a sickening twitch in my stomach—“We … uh … don’t want to eat your pie.”
“Oh, of course you do. Everybody wants some of your mom’s pie.”
Before we knew it, we were sitting at Brother Piper’s table. After he pulled the napkin off the pie, he just stared at it. Then he looked at us and back at the pie.
“Everybody has a bad day,” Jake said. “You can’t make a perfect pie every time. Not even Mom.”
Brother Piper shrugged and took a knife to the pie. The whole top of it crumbled into a hundred pieces as soon as the knife touched it. Brother Piper glanced over at us, but we didn’t look up. We kept staring at the pie. The peaches were all shriveled and brown, and the crust was too doughy in some places and too floury in others.
We all tried to eat some of it, but it was no use. Looking at it was bad enough—eating it was impossible. Even Brother Piper put down his fork and took a big drink of water. “Did your mother really make this pie?” he finally asked, poking at the stuff on his plate.
I knew that I couldn’t lie about it. I didn’t even want to. “Mom made you one, but we ate it. When we found out afterward that it was your birthday and that Mom was going to call you, we made you this one. Are you going to tell her?”
Brother Piper laughed. “You did bring me a pie. Was the first pie pretty good?”
We nodded glumly as I added, “But it was no fun eating a stolen pie. It just made us sick.”
“Well, I’ll just tell your mom that she made a great pie. After all, she did, didn’t she?”
I nodded and looked down. “We’re sorry, Brother Piper. It won’t happen again, honest.” Jared and Jake nodded their heads in agreement.
A few minutes later we shuffled into my kitchen. Mom smiled when we walked in. “I saved you something,” she announced. “You know how you’ve always wanted your very own pie?”
We nodded.
She walked over to the counter and picked up a big, beautiful peach pie. “I made this one just for you,” she said.
I could feel my stomach do flip-flops. The last thing that I wanted was another piece of pie. I looked at Jared and Jake, and they looked back at me. Their faces seemed a little green.
“Mom,” I said, holding my stomach, “I don’t think we’ll eat it, if it’s all right with you. But,” I added quickly, “Brother Piper would love one of your pies.”
“But he’s already had one of my pies. I thought that you liked my pies,” she said, looking a little hurt.
“We do like your pies, Mom. In fact, we ate Brother Piper’s pie.”
“But it didn’t taste very good,” Jake chimed in. “It wasn’t your fault,” he added quickly. “It’s just that stolen pies don’t taste very good.”
“Yeah,” I said, “so we’d better take this one to Brother Piper. The one we made for him was awful.”
“You made Brother Piper a pie?”
Jared shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it a pie. It looked more like a bad disease.”
“But we learned a lot,” I spoke up. “From now on, when you ask us to take a pie to someone, you can be sure we’ll do it. And that’s a promise.”

But I was yet to learn how significantly personal general conference could be. Our stake received tickets for the general Relief Society meeting in September 2008 at the Conference Center. I was excited to mingle with the sisters in our stake, anticipated the inspiring music and talks, and was especially humbled to think that we would hear a message from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. I hung on every word, vigorously took notes, and committed to put into practice what we were charged to do. I felt this was a wonderful prelude to the general sessions to follow the next weekend.
Then my world shattered. While at work the following Thursday, I received a telephone call from my doctor informing me that the tests I had had the previous week indicated cancer.
The next days were a blur of doubts, fear, anxiety, sadness, despair, and agony. So many emotions churned inside me that sleep did not come and my tears flowed constantly. I had never felt so afraid.
When Saturday morning came, I intended to listen to conference while doing other tasks. Staying busy, I hoped, would help focus my mind away from my trial. But I found myself putting down the laundry and letting the dishes sit in the sink as I was drawn to the television. My heart almost skipped a beat as Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles began the first session with this statement: “We can’t predict all the struggles and storms in life, not even the ones just around the next corner, but as persons of faith and hope, we know beyond the shadow of any doubt that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and the best is yet to come.”1
Surely, I thought, the next topic would be on moral cleanliness or the Sabbath day. But each succeeding message was also one of hope in times of trial!
Sunday was a peaceful day as our family united in prayer and fasting on my behalf. I continued to hear words of hope just as I had the previous day, with a powerful concluding message in the afternoon from Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “I testify that the Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all of the trials and hardships that any of us will encounter in this life,” he said. “At times when we may feel to say, ‘Hope you know, I had a hard time,’ we can be assured that He is there and we are safe in His loving arms.”2
Perhaps it was the fasting or the prayers or simply my humble emotional state, but from beginning to end, I felt this was my own personal general conference with an audience of one.
The following days, weeks, and months brought many challenges as I faced tests, surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments. I wish I could say that I never felt despair during those 12 months. I did. But during those times, I also felt sustained by the prayers and fasting of ward and family members, priesthood blessings given by my father, and the faith of my mother. I read the Book of Mormon completely during the first few months of treatments, knowing that comfort can come through the word of God.
But on the darkest days, I always went to my well-worn copy of the November 2008 Ensign and reread those words that came from a loving Father through inspired servants and directly to my fearful heart. I was amazed at a phrase I hadn’t remembered President Thomas S. Monson saying in his opening address: “Our Heavenly Father is mindful of each one of us and our needs. May we be filled with His Spirit as we partake of the proceedings of this, the 178th Semiannual General Conference.”3
I had gained a testimony of that truth. Heavenly Father was mindful of me that weekend in October. He knew of my need of hope in His love and hope in His plan for me. He spoke and I listened.
Note: Sister Singleton finished her cancer treatment in June 2009, and the cancer has not returned.

“They told us that being in the series would strengthen our testimonies,” said Cyndi Andreason, who plays Lisa Parker, “but I didn’t understand how it would.” She was soon to find out. When they began filming, Cyndi was going through a period of questioning. “I was active in the Church and I did everything,” she relates, “But I had a lot of doubts. I wondered if it was really worth the effort.”

After working more than 300 hours on the series, Cyndi realized that it was, indeed, worth the effort. “I saw what can happen when you don’t follow the teachings of the Church, and I didn’t want that to happen to me,” she said. Cyndi is probably more like the cheerful, obedient character she plays than anyone else in the series, except maybe for Dan Wilcox, who plays the part of Benjamin Parker, Lisa’s cousin.

First, from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994): He described an assignment he had received from the President of the Church following World War II. President Benson was to leave his wife and family and go to the devastated members of the Church in Germany and other nations. Through the God-inspired welfare program, he literally fed the hungry, comforted the weeping, and lifted closer to heaven all with whom he met. Years later, at a dedication service at Zwickau, Germany, an elderly member, with moist eyes, said to me, “Please tell President Benson that we love him. He saved our lives: mine, my wife’s, my children’s, and many, many others’. He was as an angel sent by God to literally restore to us hope and confidence in the future. Tell him we love him.”

It was the week before Christmas, and Billy Otter lay in bed wishing for a pair of snowshoes. He brushed the tumble of straight black hair back from his brown face as he listened to the snip snip of his mother’s scissors. She was at work, cutting out moccasins from a deerskin.
Father had died of a lung disease three years ago, and since then Mother added to a meager pension by making beaded articles to sell to tourists who came to the Cree reservation. Her soft cough as she worked deepened the worried creases on Billy’s forehead. I must get some snowshoes so I can do the trapping for her, he resolved. It is too cold in the bush, especially when she’s sick.
“Your breakfast is on the warming shelf of the stove, son,” Mother called when she heard him stirring. Billy stretched and yawned widely. He got up and crossed the small, one-room cabin to warm himself by the wood stove while he dressed. When he had finished pulling on his clothes, Billy took his bannock biscuits (of unleavened oat or barley flour) and herb tea to the table. As he munched, his dark eyes watched the flash of his mother’s needle. “Mother,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’m going to help you.”
“How is that, dear?” she asked.
“By snaring the rabbits for the fur trim on the mittens and moccasins.”
“I appreciate that, Billy, but there’s no money to buy snowshoes for you, and mine are too big. You can’t get through the deep snow in the bush without them.”
While his mother sewed the bright beads to the deerskin, Billy sat thinking. Finally he said, “Old Joe Carver is the wisest Indian on the reservation. I’ll ask him what to do.”
When Billy arrived at Joe’s cabin, he found the old man sitting in his rocking chair, carving. A growling bear was taking shape from the birch block held between his knees.
“What brings you to visit, young man?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“How can I get a pair of snowshoes without any money? I need them to snare rabbits for my mother.”
Joe’s wrinkled copper face, framed by gray braids, creased even deeper as he thought. Then his gravelly voice intoned, “There is one way. Make them like our fathers did.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“I need a new pair myself. I’ll make them and show you how. We’ll start this afternoon.”
After lunch the two friends walked down a packed trail into the woods. The cold snow crunched under their feet as they strode along. Joe swung his axe in rhythm with his strides, stopping occasionally to examine the trees.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“A straight young birch.”
Soon they found a tree just the right size, and Joe cut it down and limbed it. Then Billy helped him drag it back to his cabin.
“What do we do next, Joe?” Billy asked excitedly.
“First we must cut this birch tree into three-foot lengths.”
“Can I do it?” Billy asked.
The old man handed the boy a large saw. Billy’s arms ached as he pulled and pushed it. Then the sawteeth caught and wouldn’t move in either direction.
“Here, let me help you,” offered Joe. “You must saw at a right angle or the teeth will bind.”
After Billy finished cutting the first length, and then two more, the old man ripsawed the curved sides away, leaving long square pieces. These he divided down the length into four sticks, each one about an inch thick.
By this time the sun was low. “Come back after supper,” the old man suggested, “and we’ll start the next step.”
After a supper of rabbit stew, Billy arrived at the old man’s cabin and saw a big tub had been placed on the stove. Now Joe was carrying pails of water from a hole chopped in the lake ice to fill it.
“Let me do that, Joe,” Billy offered. After he had lugged four more pailsful of water, Joe laid the long sticks of wood across the steaming tub.
“Why do you put them there, Joe?” Billy asked.
“We must soften the wood by steaming, so it will bend without breaking,” the old man answered. “While we wait, help me cut this moose hide into strips.”
As Joe slit the skin in a circular pattern with his knife, Billy gathered the thick velvet rope into a pile. Then the old man put the strips into the boiling water to soak.
Joe selected a golden strip of wood from a pile by the door and sawed it in half. Next he nailed the short pieces between two long slats from the tub.
“That looks like a ladder,” Billy said.
“Wait and see,” replied the old man.
Patiently the Indian curved the tips together, and Billy held them while Joe secured them with moose hide. The procedure was repeated on the other end.
“They have a snowshoe shape now, but how will you keep them on?” Billy asked.
“Tomorrow you will find out, when our moose hide babiche (pliable rawhide thongs) has soaked enough.”
The next morning when Billy arrived, the old man was weaving the babiche between the sides of the snowshoe. He showed Billy how to wrap the babiche around the frame and pull it tight. Finally a firm, flat net stretched between both frames.
When they had finished, Joe steamed the front tips again. Then he tied them around a log to form a curl. “Let them dry,” he said. “Tomorrow they will be ready.”
The next day, there lay two golden ovals with curved tips. The moose hide mesh had dried taut as a strung bow. Billy handled them longingly.
Suddenly his face fell, and he turned to Joe. “I’ll never be able to make a pair myself.”
“But with my help you can,” Joe said encouragingly.
“Not in time for Christmas, though,” Billy sighed. “I guess it’s sort of silly, but I’d really counted on getting some then.”
“Maybe Santa Claus will find the reservation this year,” Joe said, and they both laughed.
But on Christmas morning only boots and a shirt lay under the tree. Even the oranges and candy did not ease Billy’s disappointment.
That afternoon there was a knock on the door. When his mother opened it, Joe greeted her with a shy Merry Christmas.
“Come in,” Mother invited.
“Thank you,” Joe answered. “And how is your Christmas?” the old man asked, turning to Billy.
“No snowshoes,” Billy said sadly.
“Well then, maybe you’d better look outside.”
Billy opened the door. There leaning against the cabin was a pair of golden snowshoes with red tassels!
“They’re just my size! Where did you get them?” cried Billy excitedly.
“Each night after you left, I worked on them,” Joe explained. “I knew your heart was set on having them for Christmas. Now we can run the traplines together.”
Billy’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he laughed and reached down to strap on one of the snowshoes.

When Joseph Fielding Smith was ten years old, his mother woke him in the middle of the night.
Mother: Sister Thomas is having her baby, Joseph. I need you to take me to her quickly!
Joseph readied their mare and hitched her to the buggy.
Joseph: Come on, Old Meg.
Joseph: Too many babies are born on cold winter nights, Mother.
Mother: Try to make Old Meg go faster, son!
When they arrived, Joseph waited for hours while his mother helped Sister Thomas.
But when the baby came, the midnight journey and long wait seemed worthwhile.
Mother: Isn’t she beautiful, Joseph?
Sister Thomas: Thank you, Joseph. Thank you for bringing your mother.
Mother: Joseph, I still remember when you were born. I’m so proud of the hard-working boy you’ve become.
Joseph: Thanks, Mother. I’m proud, too … proud that I wasn’t born on a cold winter night!

These athletes as well as other missionaries soon learn that some of the fruits of their labors are harvested later by others. Alan Astle, a BYU player, had one such experience. While tracting in England, he and his companion kept a record of every door they knocked on. “I remember one lady we tried several times was always too busy to talk to us, but I thought she was a good prospect. Right next to her name in our missionary book I wrote ‘good prospect.’ About four months later I got a letter from this lady, thanking me in countless ways for putting that comment next to her name. The new missionaries in the area saw what I had written, went to see her, and she was baptized. She’s brought about five or six others into the Church so far.”

After Hurricane Maria devastated Puerto Rico in September 2017, Abner and Midalys moved to Florida, USA. Soon they received a prompting in the temple to move back to Puerto Rico and open a barbershop.
Raul Sandoval, photographer
Midalys
It was hard after Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico. Even though we had some water and food stored, we didn’t have electricity or running water.
We used the rain when it fell to wash our clothes and to shower. When it rained, I would grab our children, run outside, and say, “Quick, shower!”
The hardest thing was that we didn’t have a way to communicate with our family, friends, or others. Thankfully, a neighbor had a generator and shared it with us so we could call our family. When we called our family in Florida, they told us to come stay with them.
We were in Florida two weeks after the hurricane. I was studying nursing at the time and could continue my studies there. But since Abner’s brother had only one car, it was difficult for us to get around and for Abner to find work. We wanted to work and to find a way to stay.
I had the idea that I would stay in Florida while Abner returned to Puerto Rico to work. When I told a friend my plan, she said, “No, you are a family. You have to stay together.”
I prayed to stay in Florida, but Abner prayed to know the right path the Lord wanted for us. We went to the temple for guidance on what we should do. I felt the Spirit very strongly in the temple that we should return to Puerto Rico. It was hard, but that’s what we did. I continued my studies, and we decided to open a barber shop. Abner is a barber.
Abner
I found a small unit we could rent for our barbershop. When the owner told me the cost for rent, it was more than we could afford. I asked if he could lower the cost. He called me later and said, “I want to know who I’m renting to. Bring your wife so I can meet her.”
Midalys
We prayed that he would see that we are good people. After meeting him, he said, “God is helping you. I’ve had this space for a long time. Many people have asked to rent it, but it never felt right. I feel strongly that you are good people.”
He lowered the rent for three years. I was surprised. He said the exact words my husband and I had prayed for.
Abner
We are now much more secure and peaceful. We’re making money, and we are blessed.
Midalys
Some people used to treat Abner poorly because he is a member of the Church. They also said, “You shouldn’t run a business with your wife.” But I say, “Of course we can do this together!” In truth, this has been a great opportunity for the two of us. He helps me with the house and the children, and I help him run the shop.
God loves and guides us. Returning to Puerto Rico was the right thing for our family. This was Heavenly Father’s perfect plan for us.