Gospel Story Finder

Imagine you are a right-handed person and in a blink of an eye you were to start afresh using your left hand. How would that feel? Difficult, right? but not entirely impossible.
That is exactly how I felt when I was to switch from the physical institute class to the online institute class, especially during this period of the COVID-19 pandemic. It was funny at first, participating in the opening formalities via chats and voice notes but with time, the class seemed normal, except for being physically present. We prayed, discussed, and felt the Spirit as we all shared our thoughts and experiences.

We can each be blessed and happy in our own lives if we keep our baptismal covenants and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Since we all make mistakes, the Holy Ghost will prompt us to repent. Eight-year-old Stacie Brook Peck of Payson, Utah, was taking part in a competition. A coach told her to tell the judges that she had sewn the letters on her costume herself, though she had not. She obeyed the coach but felt so bad about lying that she told her mom what had happened.

“Mom asked me if I wanted to find a judge and tell him about the lie. I thought about it a long time. I felt very sad and scared. I thought the judges would get mad at me. I thought my team would be mad because the judge would have to take points off our score. However, telling a lie felt so horrible that I said yes.

“We told my coach about my decision. She felt really bad that an eight-year-old girl had to remind her that honesty was more important than winning.

“My coach came with us. When we found a judge and told him about my lie, he said that he would do something about it. I never found out what the penalty was, but my team still won first place and I was glad of that. But mostly I was happy because I had made the right choice, even though it was very hard. I know that it was the Holy Ghost who helped me to choose the right. I also know that Heavenly Father has forgiven me, because whenever I think about what I did, instead of being embarrassed, I am happy that I chose the right. I feel good inside, and I want to always choose the right.”

I had been a member of the Church for about a year when a missionary challenged me to subscribe to A Liahona (Portuguese). I had never read a magazine like A Liahona in my life. While reading the first issue of my subscription, I received a testimony that the things written in it were true. I was able to see what the gospel of Jesus Christ does in the lives of people. Now as I read the magazine I try to find counsel to apply to my own life.
Jeferson Carlos Nogueira da Silva,Aracati Branch, Mossoró Brazil District

I was ordained a deacon in a branch so small that I was the only deacon and my brother Ted the only teacher. We were the only family in the branch. The entire branch met in our home. The priesthood leader for my brother and me was a new convert who had just received the priesthood himself. I believed then my only priesthood duty was to pass the sacrament in my own dining room.
When my family moved to Utah, I found myself in a large ward with many deacons. In my first sacrament meeting there, I observed the deacons—an army, it seemed to me—moving with precision as they passed the sacrament like a trained team.
I was so frightened that the next Sunday I went early to the ward building to be by myself when no one could see me. I remember that it was the Yalecrest Ward in Salt Lake City, and it had a statue on the grounds. I went behind the statue and prayed fervently for help to know how not to fail as I took my place in passing the sacrament. That prayer was answered.
But I know now that there is a better way to pray and to think as we try to grow in our priesthood service. It has come by my understanding why individuals are given the priesthood. The purpose for our receiving the priesthood is to allow us to bless people for the Lord, doing so in His name.
It was years after I was a deacon when I learned what that means practically. For instance, as a high priest, I was assigned to visit a care center sacrament meeting. I was asked to pass the sacrament. Instead of thinking about the process or precision in the way I passed the sacrament, I instead looked in the faces of each elderly person. I saw many of them weeping. One lady grabbed my sleeve, looked up, and said aloud, “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
The Lord had blessed my service given in His name. That day I had prayed for such a miracle to come instead of praying for how well I might do my part. I prayed that the people would feel the Lord’s love through my loving service. I have learned this is the key to serving and blessing others in His name.

I served in the United States Navy during World War II. I started in the lowest ranks. After the war ended, I decided that if I ever had to serve in the military again, I wanted to be an officer instead. So I went to drill meetings. I studied. I took exams. Finally I got a letter that said I was accepted! I showed my wife and said, “I made it!” She gave me a hug and told me I had worked hard.
But then something happened. I was called to be a counselor in my ward bishopric. The bishop’s council meeting was on the same night as my navy drill meetings. I knew that I couldn’t do both. I prayed about it. Then I went to see the man who was my stake president when I was a boy, Elder Harold B. Lee, who later became the prophet. I told him how much I wanted to become an officer. I even showed him the copy of the letter I had received.
After thinking about things for a moment, he said to me, “Here’s what you should do, Brother Monson. You write a letter to the navy and tell them you can’t accept the commission as an officer.”
My heart sank. Another war was starting, and if I was called to go back into the military, I wanted to be an officer. Elder Lee put his hand on my shoulder and in a fatherly way said, “Brother Monson, have more faith. The military is not for you.”
I went home and did what he said. Six weeks later, I was called to be a bishop. I would not hold the position in the Church I hold today if I had not followed the counsel of a prophet and prayed about that decision. I learned an important truth: the wisdom of God sometimes looks foolish to men (see 1 Corinthians 2:14). But when God speaks and His children obey, they will always be right. When you follow the prophets, you will be in safe territory.

In 1998 the Spirit was nudging me to sell our dream home, which we had completed and moved into just four years earlier. As our older children were beginning to graduate from high school and leave home, it became apparent that our house was larger and more costly than we needed. I had just gone through a job change that showed me how vulnerable my income was to possible disruption.
When I attended the priesthood session of general conference that October, I was struck by the words of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). Speaking of our finances, he told priesthood holders, “The time has come to get our houses in order.” Then he warned, “There is a portent of stormy weather ahead to which we had better give heed.”
Later in the talk he said: “It may be necessary to borrow to get a home, of course. But let us buy a home that we can afford and thus ease the payments which will constantly hang over our heads without mercy or respite for as long as 30 years.”1
I told my wife about President Hinckley’s counsel, adding that I felt we should sell our house. To my surprise, she agreed.
Over the ensuing months, we prepared to sell our house and buy another one. It was a long, drawn-out process that involved much prayer and a family fast. Finally, a year later we moved into our new home, which had a much lower monthly payment.
President Hinckley’s words did indeed prove prophetic. The following year the U.S. stock market peaked as the dot-com bubble burst. Several years of low interest rates then followed, which we used to our advantage to pay down our mortgage debt.
Now a new economic crisis is upon many countries throughout the world. President Hinckley’s words are just as true today as they were in 1998.
How happy we are that we followed the counsel of the prophet and the promptings of the Spirit. We no longer have any mortgage debt, and we are happy to see our children living within their means.
We look forward each general conference to the counsel of our Church leaders. We know that we will be blessed if we heed their direction.

“A parade up and down the blocks to see what was beneath each tree was an annual Christmas tradition for the children in our neighborhood. How parents permitted such a desecration of the day, such a trial-by-comparison trauma, I can’t understand. But year after year the parade persisted.
“The gifts beneath the trees in the homes of my friends were as different as the income and situation, as the taste and concern for the celebration would allow. And in the difference there was always pain for somebody.
“There was a friend in that pitiful parade whose father gave her a pair of shoes every year. Period. Shoes. Every year he would choose them himself without her counsel, and every year they’d be sturdy enough to last forever, ugly enough to ruin a girl’s chances at life. She hated them of course, and we hated him for what it did to her. Christmas after Christmas. Each year I told her they were okay, cute, neat, or great (whatever was the appropriate vernacular of that year), hoping against hope it would help.
“Then there was a girl who didn’t even get a gift as grand as shoes. Except for maybe an apron her aunt made, she seldom received anything at all. As we neared her house, she’d begin talking grandly about how she had all her gifts put away already. There was no point in even going to her house, she’d insist. But everybody else persisted just the same.
“‘Let’s go to your house last,’ I’d suggest, hoping we’d all have to go home by then. And sometimes it worked.
“I loved this friend with a protective passion and gave her the best gift on my list. And each year I told her that all I wanted was a bottle of her mom’s applesauce. And that’s what she gave me, ribbon tied.
“I think of that each canning season now, wondering why my own applesauce never tastes like the memory.”

Elizabeth: That’s an exciting concept to me because of an experience I had last year. I was attending a college where I was the only Mormon. My roommate knew me both before and after I became active in the Church and had even investigated the Church once herself. During this time I was trying very hard to live the way I was supposed to, and so I stayed home a lot of times when my friends were out at parties, R-rated movies, etc. My roommate never said very much to me about the Church or the way I had changed my life, but when I left that school and came to BYU, I received a letter from her. She told me how much she had appreciated the example I had set and that she hadn’t realized the friend I had been to her because of it. But the best part of all is that she also decided to reinvestigate the Church.

“We’d better find out where the well goes before we begin,” he declared. “It should be close to both the house and the barn. We’ll try out that divining rod the Indian gave us.”
When we went back to the dugout for lunch, Papa found the forked branch we’d brought with us from southern Utah. “It should be thirsty enough to find water by now,” Papa said with a wink.
Holding the branch horizontal to the earth with one prong in each hand and the other pointing straight ahead, Papa walked slowly around the area where he hoped to have a well. Suddenly the free end of the stick seemed to tip toward the ground.
“Here’s the spot,” Papa said. “That’s just the way they said it would work. Dora, you stand here while I try it again. I can’t believe it’s that easy to find water.”
He tried the rod several times again, and it always tipped at the same place. Papa was so excited I thought he was going to dig the well right then. He grabbed his shovel and started a hole. When he had it about a foot deep and three feet across, he leaned on the shovel to rest and said, “There, that ought to mark the spot. The well’s the next project after the barn. Let’s go to Texaco and see if we can buy some lumber to get started. I have a feeling there’s going to be a storm before long.”
After we got back with the lumber, Ed and I lifted and held the boards while Papa nailed them in place. Soon we had a good start on the barn.
One morning we woke up to find the ground covered with snow—in New Mexico, imagine! Enough to make angels, or play fox and geese, but not enough to stop work on the barn. The snow melted during the day, and that night when we got home Mama showed us where the water was running down inside the dugout. The next day Papa went to town for something to seal the leak.
Mama went with him and left Caroline in charge. Ed and I thought we were old enough to take care of ourselves and didn’t like her bossing us around, so we went out to the barn to plan our day.
“Let’s go see the Indians,” Ed said. His curiosity was pulling him like a magnet. I liked to talk about danger more than I liked to experience it, so I wasn’t so eager.
“Caroline won’t let us,” I offered as an excuse.
“Pooh! She can’t stop us. Come on. Let’s go.”
I followed obediently, but slowly.
“Hurry up,” he urged.
“W-what if they ch-chase us?” I whispered.
“They won’t chase us, and even if they do, we can run faster. And you don’t need to whisper. No one can hear you.”
“What if the braves are there?”
“They won’t be. They come in the middle of the night.”
“I’m scared.” I couldn’t help whispering, even though Ed had told me not to.
“That’s all right. It’s fun to be afraid.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go back then, scaredy-cat, and I’ll go by myself.” Ed started off. He knew I’d follow. Frightened as I was, I couldn’t stand to miss a chance to be with Ed.
I followed slowly. Ed picked up a stick.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You could hit with it if you needed to,” I suggested.
“Yeah, but I probably won’t,” he replied. Even so, we both felt better now that Ed was armed.
We walked more slowly as we approached the first hut, and Ed put his finger up to his lips to warn me to keep quiet. The air was still except when a small breeze whispered through the grass. Our bare feet left silent prints in the damp ground. No sound at all came from inside the dugout, and we could see only a black square where the door was ajar. We tiptoed closer and closer, trying to see inside.
Suddenly a voice came from the darkness, gentle and coaxing. “Come on,” it encouraged.
We stood in the doorway and gradually out of the darkness emerged a great shape, a woman who seemed large enough to half-fill the room. No wonder she didn’t want to move. She was beckoning to me with her finger. “Come on,” she invited again.
Ed gave me a little push. “Go on,” he said. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
When I got close enough, the squaw grabbed me, lifted me onto her ample lap, and nearly took my breath away, hugging and kissing me. She touched my hair gently and murmured, “Palomino, Palomino.”
When Ed said we had to go, it was hard to pull away, but I did. As we left she said, “Come back. I want to be your grandma.”
We checked the other dugouts, and what Mr. Talbot said was true. Each had an old squaw in it. We were never welcome in any of the houses but the first, however. “Grandma” became our first and best friend in New Mexico. Until she died, she loved my golden hair and called me Palomino.
When we got back home that day Papa was already there and fixing the leak.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“To see the Indians,” Ed answered.
“Not clear up on the reservation?”
“No, just those old squaws over there.” Ed pointed to the dugouts.
“I thought you heard Mr. Talbot say to stay away and not to bother them.”
“They don’t mind. They’re lonely for little kids.”
“One likes me,” I said. “She calls me Palomino.”
“Palomino’s a horse,” Papa said.
“I think she means my hair,” I explained.
“Maybe so,” Papa agreed. “A palomino is a blond horse.”
Before the next storm came the barn was nearly finished and the animals were cozy inside. We had some hay in the loft and Ed and I coaxed to sleep there.
“Not until we move into the house,” Papa said. “It’s too far away from the family now.”
The barn was built like a shed, with a steep roof slanting to one side only. The day Papa was hanging the door, Mr. Lenstrom, who had come over to help, was busy on the roof. I climbed up to see what he was doing and saw he was working with a plane, scraping up curls of wood.
“Why are you doing that?” I wanted to know.
“I’m making this board smooth.”
“What for?”
“So you can slide down it without getting slivers in your backside.”
I wondered if he’d tried it once. “That’s a good idea,” I told him. “I’ll help you.”
We worked until we had the board so slick that Ed and I could shoot down it like a slippery slide, with a scary sail into the air before we hit the ground.
In a few days Papa started to dig the well. When he dug so deep he couldn’t throw the dirt out, he rigged up a bucket on a pulley. Ed and I pulled it up, emptied the dirt out, and sent it back down for Papa to fill again. He had to put in boards as he went along to support the sides so they wouldn’t cave in. He shoveled deeper and deeper until the hole was three times as tall as he was, and still there was no water. He began to doubt the power of the Indian’s stick.
One day he called up, “The ground’s too hard for the shovel; send the pickax down in the bucket.”
For a foot or two he dug through rock, but underneath that, the ground was moist.
“Hadn’t better dig any deeper,” he said when he came out of the hole. “Water might come in and drown me before I could get out. We’ll just wait awhile and see what happens.”

My junior year, I was offered a copy of an upcoming test in a crucial class. Obviously that meant some of my classmates would have the test questions ahead of time. I declined the offer. When the corrected test papers were returned, the class average was extremely high, making my score low in comparison. The professor asked to speak to me.
“Roy,” he said, “you usually do well on tests. What happened?”
“Sir,” I told my professor, “on the next exam, if you give a test that you have never given before, I believe you will find that I do very well.” There was no reply.
We had another test in the same class. As the test was handed out, there were audible groans. It was a test the teacher had never given before. When our graded tests were handed back, I had received one of the highest grades in the class. From then on, all the tests were new.

At church, Trent heard about some families that needed help for Christmas. They didn’t have money to buy presents. Trent wanted to help them have a happy Christmas! He wanted to help them, like Jesus would.
When they got home from church, Trent told Mom his idea. “I want to make a box. All of us can put a little money in it. Then we can give the money to people who need it.”
“I think that’s a great idea!” Mom said.
Trent wrapped an empty shoebox in bright paper. He cut a hole in the lid. Then he dropped in three coins. Plunk, plunk, plunk. It wasn’t very much, but it was all he had.
Then his brother and sister put in their coins too. Now they had more coins.
That night Trent prayed that Heavenly Father could help him buy presents for the other families. He wanted to help lots of people.
The next day, Trent’s aunt came to visit. He told her his plan. She wanted to help too! She dropped some coins in the Christmas box.
Soon friends and neighbors learned about Trent’s Christmas box. Each one said, “I can give a little too.” They handed Trent jars of coins they had saved up. Trent and his family were so happy. Trent loved adding the coins to the box.
Finally the box was full. It was heavy. Mom said there was enough money to help four families! Trent’s eyes got big. Heavenly Father had helped him. And now Trent could help lots of people. Together, everyone’s little coins made a big difference!

When Eddie hurried into his classroom that Tuesday morning, he bumped into something just inside the door and started to fall. His classmates laughed. Eddie was used to that. He liked the attention, even when Miss Enns got cross.
He tried to catch himself by grabbing onto the object he had tripped over, but it moved away as if it had wheels.
It did!
It was an empty wheelchair. Why was it here? He tried to ask Miss Enns, but she was writing the day’s study plan on the board.
As the tardy bell rang, Miss Enns faced the class. “You’re not in your seat yet?” she said as Eddie darted down the aisle, hopping over Joe’s outstretched foot and ducking Mike’s fist.
“What’s that for?” Eddie said, but Miss Enns ignored the question and took roll.
She didn’t say one word about the chair before the arithmetic quiz or while she wrote the week’s spelling words on the board. By then, nobody could think about anything but the wheelchair.
Finally Miss Enns pushed the chair in front of the class. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.
They all did.
“My cousin brought it from the hospital. Today we’ll experiment with a different way of moving. Who’s first?”
Eddie’s hand shot up. He always wanted to be first. He got more attention and laughs that way. If nobody knew how to do something, he could make really funny mistakes.
“Rebecca, how about you?”
Rebecca hurried to the chair, her curls bouncing. Miss Enns helped her fasten the seat belt. Rebecca tried to return to her desk, but the chair wouldn’t go straight. She bumped into Nancy’s desk and got caught on the edge of Joe’s. “I don’t like this,” she said, and she unhooked the belt. “The steering’s too hard.”
“Eddie?” Miss Enns said.
Eddie was into the chair within a moment. This was great!
“You seem to like the wheelchair, Eddie. Do you think you can stay in it all day?”
“Sure!” Eddie said with a grin. Just then the recess bell rang.
But maneuvering the wheelchair wasn’t as much fun as Eddie had thought it would be. For the first time ever, he was the last one out of the room at recess. Everybody got in his way, and wheeling was slow. When he approached the boys’ room, the door slammed shut as Nick left. Eddie swung the chair next to the door and waited for someone else to leave. Nobody did. As he tried to open the door, he banged his toes hard. Finally he wheeled himself alongside the door and slipped inside as he tugged it wide. That was much harder than he had thought it would be, because the wheels kept catching on either the door or the door frame. Finally he made it.
Inside, he faced another problem. Miss Enns had dared him to stay in the wheelchair all day, but—well—for certain things, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to go ask her exactly what to do. He knew he should play fair, though, so he wheeled himself as close as possible before he unhooked the belt.
Washing his hands was awkward, too, and leaving the rest room was almost as hard as coming in, except that he could push against the door with the chair. Even so, he still banged his toes again.
Next, at the water fountain, he discovered that he wasn’t up high enough to get a drink from the chair.
As he wheeled himself down the hall, he saw that the outer door stood open. It was a beautiful day. But a low metal ridge ran across the bottom of the doorway, and it was hard to get the wheelchair across. By the time he did, Eddie’s hands were red and sore. Outside, there was a large cement landing with one step down to the playground. Eddie knew that if he gave himself a push off the step, the chair might tip over and he could really hurt himself.
On the playground, his classmates tossed the basketball back and forth. “Hey, guys,” he yelled, “over here! Help me down. I want a turn.” Nobody paid attention. And when recess ended, everybody else pushed by him as if he wasn’t there. By the time he wheeled himself back to class, he was very tired. He felt grumpy.
Miss Enns was threading film for a movie. “Please take notes on this film, class,” she said.
Eddie couldn’t reach his desk to write anything. He had to sit at an angle because there wasn’t room for the wheelchair behind his desk. He could hardly see the screen, and his hands were throbbing.
At lunchtime, Miss Enns brought Eddie a tray and set it on the end of the nearest table. Eddie had to sit there, away from his friends. “They act like I’m not here,” he muttered angrily.
Miss Enns put her hand on his shoulder understandingly. “That’s often the way it is for people who are different.”
“But I’m not different. I’m still me.”
She nodded sympathetically, then took her own tray to join the other teachers.
After lunch Eddie didn’t even try going outside. It was a long lunchtime alone in the cafeteria.
The afternoon seemed endless. By now, Eddie’s arms and shoulders ached from wheeling himself everywhere. He broke the lead in his pencil twice and had to stretch his very tallest to reach the pencil sharpener. When an ambulance went by, he was the only person who couldn’t see it, and he stayed in alone for the afternoon recess. He wanted to go to the bathroom again but was too sore to wheel himself that far and struggle with the door again. Nobody had laughed at him once. They’d only acted as if he wasn’t quite there.
When it was time for social studies, Miss Enns didn’t have them open their books. Instead, she asked, “I want to know what Eddie has learned from being in that wheelchair today.”
“I hate it!” Eddie blurted. “Nobody pays attention to me. It’s work, moving and steering. My arms ache. I have blisters on my hands. And it’s terrible going to the bathroom, ’cause the door opens the wrong way!”
Somebody giggled, but Eddie didn’t look up to see who. “I couldn’t even think of one silly thing to do to make people laugh. I never want to be in a wheelchair again.”
“You’ve been a really good sport, Eddie,” Miss Enns said. Speaking to the whole class, she announced, “We’ll have this chair all week. Everyone will have a turn to spend an hour or so in the wheelchair, and I hope that you will all stay in it long enough to understand at least a little of what Eddie went through today.”
“Why are we doing this?” Eddie asked, standing up to give relief to his muscles.
“Next week we’ll have a new student. Ron’s been in the hospital almost a year, but he can return to school now.”
“And he’s in a wheelchair,” Eddie guessed.
“Right. He may not ever walk again, and I want you all to understand at least a little of what that’s like for him.”
“He needs help with the bathroom doors,” Eddie said, remembering his own struggle. “If you put him next to me, I can help with that stuff, because I know about it.”
Miss Enns smiled. “I thought that I could count on you,” she said as the bell rang, and Eddie knew that today he’d learned an important lesson.

“Billy! Time to get up, or you’ll be late for school,” called Mother.
Billy Burke snuggled farther down under the warm quilt and wished that he didn’t have to get up. It was raining, and rainy days are nice times to burrow down in bed and sleep.
“Billy, do you hear me? I don’t want to have to come up there and get you. Hurry now, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m coming.”
Billy knew his mother didn’t want him to be late for school, but his horse, Brownie, could be depended on to get him there before the bell rang.
Living seven miles out in the country was fun most of the time. However, it meant that he had to get up earlier in the morning than the other kids and that he didn’t have as much time to play after school. He had his own horse to ride, though, and Billy thought he was about the luckiest ten-year-old boy in the county.
While Mrs. Burke piled hotcakes onto Billy’s plate, she said, “I want you to start early this morning because of the rain.”
Billy couldn’t understand why his mother never liked the rain when there was so little of it in this dry land. Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast quickly and went outside to the barn. Brownie stood in his stall, hunched against the chilly dampness. When Billy tried to put the saddle on Brownie, the horse shied away. “Stand still, Brownie. Do you want us to be late for school?”
Brownie usually liked the walk to school and the attention he got from the other children. Sometimes someone would bring him an apple or some carrots. But Brownie was behaving in a most peculiar way this morning.
“I know what’s the matter with you—you’re afraid the rain’ll make you rust, aren’t you? Well, it won’t,” Billy said as he tightened the cinch. As Billy rode out of the yard, he gave a quick wave to his mother.
The road followed the river up a narrow, steep canyon for the first two of the seven miles to town. There was no place to go in case of trouble except up the canyon walls—and that was where Brownie was going now!
“Brownie! Have you gone loco? Stay on the road.”
The usually obedient horse had a mind of his own this morning. Laying back his ears, he kept trying to climb the steep canyon wall, slipping and sliding on the loose stones. Billy did something that he had seldom done before—he smacked the little horse on the rump with the ends of the reins.
Ignoring Billy’s irritation, Brownie continued to scramble up the steep slope. The rain had seeped into the ground enough so that it was very difficult for the horse to keep his footing. Gooey mud tugged at his hooves, and the rocks were bruising his legs, but he kept struggling upward.
“Brownie! Please! I have to get to school. You know Mrs. Thompson gets cross if anyone is late. Now, come on. Please!”
Brownie slipped and went to his knees, then regained his footing and climbed frantically toward the top of the canyon walls.
Billy was getting scared. Brownie had never acted this way before. Realizing that he could not make the horse go back down to the road, Billy let the horse have his way. Once on the brow of the hill, Brownie headed straight home.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Mother asked.
“Brownie had other ideas, Mother. I couldn’t make him stay on the road.”
“Something must be wrong. Brownie never behaved that way before, and he’s trembling,” Mother said as she stroked Brownie’s neck. “Billy, why don’t you go inside, put some dry clothes on, and have a cup of cocoa. I’ll take care of Brownie.”
Suddenly, with a roar that shook the earth, a torrent of water surged down the river and through the canyon. It moved boulders as if they were pebbles, and great fingers of water reached out and grabbed trees and brush, devouring them in huge, gluttonous bites.
Billy turned and shouted above the roar, “Mother, what’s happening?”
“The river is flooding. There must have been a cloudburst in the mountains, and it’s just now reaching here. The farther it goes, the faster and more furiously it rages. You’d never have made it to school if Brownie had stayed in the canyon!” Mother declared.
Later, after Billy and his mother had thanked Heavenly Father for their safety, Billy helped her peel apples in the warm, cheerful kitchen.
“Well, now, apple pie sounds good on a cold, wet day like this, doesn’t it?” Mother asked.
“It sure does,” Billy answered as he went out the kitchen door with a bowlful of apple peelings. “And this ‘apple pie’ is for the smartest and bravest horse that ever set foot on this earth!”

A son wrote a tender letter to his parents in the mission field: “Your service sets an example for our children. As a result, they are more willing to serve in their callings in the Church. It teaches us all to be more charitable as we exchange letters and send packages. When we receive letters and news from you, it strengthens our testimonies. Even though you retired from your profession and should have been happy by all the world’s standards, by going on your mission you have shown us a new way to be happy. You have found happiness money can’t buy. We have seen you overcome medical and other types of adversities and have seen you blessed for your willingness to go and leave your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We love you dearly!”
Another couple reports: “One of our grandsons wrote to us while we were in Thailand and told us that he hadn’t decided for sure that he wanted to fill a mission, but we had set the example for him and now he knew he wanted to serve. He is now serving a mission.”
My own father and mother served a mission in England. As I visited them one day in their small flat, I watched my mother, with a shawl wrapped snugly around her shoulders, putting shillings in the gas meter to keep warm. I asked, “Why did you come on a mission, Mother?” Mother said simply, “Because I have 11 grandsons. I want them to know that Grandma and Grandpa served.”

“How can it be six o’clock?” I thought my head had just hit the pillow, but my alarm clock was already screaming at me to get out of bed. The darkness and cold air made it even harder to peel back the blankets. After a few more seconds of enduring the screeching of my alarm clock, I finally got up.
My goal was to wake up at six a.m. and read my scriptures before I started a busy day. I flipped on my lamp and opened my scriptures.
After a good half hour of scripture study and a prayer, I showered and dressed for my eight o’clock class. I couldn’t be late. My first big humanities paper was due at eight. One second late and the paper wouldn’t be accepted. A zero on this assignment would ruin any chance of earning an A in the class. I had put a lot of effort into writing this paper, and I finished a couple of days before it was due. I left myself plenty of time to walk to campus to turn in my polished paper.
As I walked down the dorm hall stairwell, I heard a voice say, “Check to make sure you have your paper.” Surprised, I immediately opened my backpack and discovered that I had grabbed the wrong folder. I didn’t have my paper with me!
As I rushed back to my room, I knew it had been the influence of the Spirit that told me I didn’t have my paper. A sense of relief washed over me when I put the paper in my backpack and started off to class again.
On my walk to campus I reflected on what had happened. The impression I had received was intense. I did not doubt the voice, and I immediately acted upon the prompting. As a result I was blessed with the chance to fix the situation quickly.
This experience left me asking some questions. Why was the feeling so intense? Why did I not doubt it? Why was I given the opportunity to go back and get my paper? Why did I have the prompting at all? In the great scheme of things, did it really matter if I got an A in this class?
When I stepped into the classroom, the answer became clear. Yes, it mattered; it mattered to me. As I put my paper on the teacher’s desk, I realized Heavenly Father knew the desires of my heart. Through my early-morning scripture study and prayer, I had invited the Spirit to be with me. Even though my situation wasn’t a matter of life or death, I was receptive to the influence of the Spirit and was given the desire of my heart.

When our daughter, Emi, was a little girl, she liked to watch my every move as I got ready for church. After observing my routine, she would comb her hair and put on her dress, and then she would always ask me to put on some “shiney.” The “shiney” she referred to was thick, gooey cream that I used to prevent wrinkles. As requested, I would put it on Emi’s cheeks and lips, and she would then smile and say, “Now we are ready to go!” What Emi didn’t realize is that she already had her “shiney” on. Her face glowed because she was so pure and innocent and good. She had the Spirit with her, and it showed.

Wilhelm Friedrichs (second from left) and Emil Hoppe (center, back row) attended the first baptisms in Argentina.
The Friedrichs and Hoppe families were the only Latter-day Saints in Argentina when they moved there from Germany in the early 1920s. Wilhelm Friedrichs and Emil Hoppe tried to share the gospel in their new country, distributing pamphlets and inviting others to join their meetings. “I have full trust in my Heavenly Father that he will send sincere friends who will accept the Gospel,” Wilhelm wrote, “for I rejoice in being an instrument in the hands of God.”7
There were significant challenges, however. The families lived far apart and had to travel two hours to meet together. Because Emil was a deacon and Wilhelm a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, they were unable to administer ordinances such as the sacrament or give priesthood blessings.
In 1924, Hildegarde Hoppe gave birth to a baby girl, who died two months later. As she mourned, Hildegarde asked how the baby’s name could be included in the records of the Church. As a result, Wilhelm began corresponding with Church leaders in Salt Lake City.
A year and a half later, Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was sent with other missionaries to meet the growing group of converts in Buenos Aires. When they arrived in December 1925, Elder Ballard baptized several converts and organized a branch. On Christmas Day, Elder Ballard dedicated South America for missionary work and organized the first mission on the continent.

It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”

Most Saturday afternoons my husband and I make a trip to the grocery store for our weekly supplies and food storage items. Recently, after filling our shopping cart and while waiting to be checked out, we watched the cashier totaling the purchases of customers ahead of us. Nearly all were in sizable double-digit figures. We discussed the high cost of food for large families with limited incomes, elderly people with small pensions, and single parents often with uncertain means. We concluded that in most households resources must be managed very carefully in order to meet current demands.
The economic situation today is sobering. It requires us as women to be very resourceful if we are to meet this challenge successfully and at the same time find satisfaction in doing it well.
A young bride went to be with her husband at an army camp on the edge of a desert. Housing was scarce and costly. All they could afford was a small cabin near an Indian village. The 115-degree heat was unbearable in the daytime. The wind blew constantly, spreading dust and sand over everything. The days were long and lonely. When her husband was ordered into the desert for two weeks of maneuvers, she just couldn’t bear the living conditions any longer, and she wrote to her mother that she was coming home. An almost immediate reply included these lines:
Two men look out from prison bars;
One saw the mud, the other saw the stars.
She read the lines over and over. All right, she would look for the stars.
She determined to make friends with her neighbors, the Indians. She admired their artful weaving and pottery work and asked them to teach her. As soon as they sensed her interest was genuine, they were most willing. She became fascinated with their culture, their history—everything about them. The desert changed from a desolate, forbidding place to a world of wondrous beauty.
What had changed? Not the desert, not her environment; her own attitude transformed a miserable experience into a highly rewarding one. (From Bits and Pieces, Vol. C no. 5, pp. 21–23.)
How might Relief Society enable a woman to look to the stars—stars to steer by? How might Relief Society enable a woman to create an environment of optimism and adventure, while at the same time helping her stretch her dollars and resources by implementing sound economic principles in the home?

Cancer? Me? I thought only people in big cities got cancer. After biopsies and close examinations by competent specialists, I learned the problem I was having with the swelling in my right forearm was an osteogenic sarcoma. Translated, it meant I had a type of bone cancer which, in those days, was nearly always fatal, even with the amputation of the affected limb.
Fatal! I was 19; having something fatal had never crossed my mind. I was excited to serve my mission, marry in the temple, have a great family, and enjoy a wonderful life. Still I loved the Lord, and I knew He loved me. Whether He allowed me to remain here or leave this life, it would be OK.
The immediate outcome was the loss of my right arm. The extended outcome has proven to be a lifetime of adventure. As I look back, I can honestly say the loss of my arm, rather than being a tragic experience, has been one of my greatest blessings. I have learned and gained so much from it.
The adjustment was interesting. I had been working in logging and road-building operations in the Pacific Northwest woods, so my body was strong. But I was extremely right-handed, and that greatly-depended-upon arm was truly missed. Although I could formerly throw a baseball farther than anyone on the team, with my left arm I could throw a ball only a short distance. Writing was really interesting. My penmanship could have been improved on by almost any preschool child. Everything was a challenge: tying shoes, buttoning shirts, carrying large objects, driving, shaving, drawing, eating, being stared at, enduring phantom pain, and so on.
Very quickly I came to realize I had much to get used to, to learn, and to relearn. I also realized there was very little I could do about the fact that I had only one arm, and my attitude about that fact—and in life in general—was totally up to me. I was at a crossroads. It was apparent I could cry if I wanted to, or I could handle this and all other challenges with faith and a positive attitude. My happiness and eternal well-being were dependent upon my choice.
The decision was simple. I chose to be positive, creative, very active, and to do everything possible to fulfill my destiny as a son of God, sent to grow from an earthly experience. Once made, this choice was firm and I never looked back.