Gospel Story Finder

It was a Thursday afternoon, and Carrie Roberts was on her way home from her piano lesson. She pedaled her bicycle down Mimosa Street past the park.
“Carrie! Carrie Roberts!” someone called.
Carrie turned toward the park. She saw her friend Peggy waving at her.
Carrie rode her bike over to Peggy.
“Hi, Peggy. What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping Mark. He’s practicing his running.”
Mark was Peggy’s retarded younger brother. Although Carrie felt sorry for Mark and knew that he wasn’t responsible for his condition, she felt uncomfortable around him.
Carrie watched Mark run awkwardly around the big track. “Why is he running?” she asked.
“He’s going to be in the Special Olympics next Saturday,” said Peggy proudly.
“What are the Special Olympics?” Carrie asked.
“They’re like the real Olympics, but they’re for handicapped kids,” Peggy explained. “They run races and everything.”
Just then Mark finished his run. He was panting, and his face was red.
Peggy hugged him. “That was good, Mark! Do you remember Carrie?”
Mark grinned a friendly, crooked grin. “Hi, Carrie,” he said. The words were slurred, as though his mouth was full of marbles.
“Hi, Mark,” Carrie replied. She tried to think of something else to say to him, but her mind was blank.
“I have a great idea, Carrie,” said Peggy. “Why don’t you come to the race Saturday? You can be a hugger.”
“What’s a hugger?”
“Huggers hug the kids after they finish their races. Everyone gets lots of hugs at the Special Olympics. Will you do it?”
“Well …” Carrie hesitated, trying desperately to think of an excuse. But she couldn’t. “I guess I can,” she said.
“Great!” Peggy said enthusiastically. “Be at Lincoln Junior High Saturday morning at ten o’clock.”
On her way home, Carrie felt awful. “I don’t want to be a hugger!” she muttered. “I’ll have to think of some way out of it.” She looked up at the sky. “Maybe it will rain.” The thought cheered her up a little.
The first thing Carrie did Friday morning was look out the window. The sky was clear and blue. During school that day, Carrie looked out the window periodically, hoping to see some clouds. But by the time school was out, she had given up hoping for rain. She would have to think of something else.
When Carrie got home, her mother was painting. “Are we having company tomorrow, Mom?” Carrie asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Do we have to go anywhere tomorrow?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mom said. She put down her paintbrush and looked at Carrie. “I thought you were going to the Special Olympics tomorrow.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I guess I’m not too crazy about hugging a bunch of retarded kids,” admitted Carrie.
“Oh, Carrie! They may look and sound a little different, but they’re Heavenly Father’s children, too, and they need hugs just as much as the rest of us do.”
“I suppose so,” said Carrie. But she was not convinced.
The next morning Carrie was almost cheerful as she rode her bike to the junior high school. Late last night she had finally thought of a plan to get out of being a hugger. Reaching the school grounds, she found Peggy standing with Mark. He was wearing a bright red T-shirt.
“Hi,” said Carrie, in a low, raspy voice.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Peggy.
“I have a cold,” Carrie said. She coughed. “I won’t be able to be a hugger because these kids might catch my cold.”
Peggy gave Carrie a funny look. “That’s too bad.” She turned to her brother. “Come on, Mark. It’s almost time for your race.”
“Good luck, Mark,” said Carrie in her raspy whisper.
Peggy and Mark walked away. Carrie sat down on one of the wooden bleachers near the finish line. She could see Peggy and Mark at the starting line on the other side of the oval track.
Carrie looked around. Lots of the kids looked and sounded like Mark. Boy, am I glad I found a way to get out of being a hugger, she thought.
Peggy left Mark at the starting line with the others and ran across the oval to the finish line. Carrie motioned for Peggy to sit by her, but Peggy didn’t seem to see Carrie. Instead she stayed on the inside of the track. Carrie’s heart sank. She realized that Peggy knew she was faking the cold.
Mark lined up with four other children. The starter’s gun sounded, and the runners took off. At first all five were bunched up together. Then slowly a boy in a blue shirt began to pull away from the others. Soon Mark, pumping his legs up and down, began to catch up to him.
As the runners rounded the curve, Carrie could see the look of concentration on Mark’s face. He was really trying hard!
“Come on, Mark!” Peggy was shouting over and over.
As they got closer to the finish line, the boy in the blue shirt stumbled and fell. The crowd in the stands groaned sympathetically.
“Come on, Mark!” someone yelled.
But Mark stopped. He helped the other boy up and then helped him brush the dirt from his knees. The other runners passed them and crossed the finish line.
Mark held the fallen runner’s hand. Together they crossed the finish line. Mark grinned and raised his arms high.
Carrie felt tears in her eyes. She pushed her way through the crowd and hurried over to Mark. He grinned at her. She held out her arms and enfolded him in a big bear hug.
“That was a great race, Mark!” she exclaimed.
“Peggy is lucky to have you for a brother.”
Carrie looked at Peggy.
“Do you still need a hugger?” she asked.

Walking through town one June afternoon on my way to a business meeting, I was prompted to stop and look inside a tavern’s open door. All I could see was a long bar and a row of stools. I turned and left. I had no interest in being in such a place; in fact, I did not want to be in such a place. But as I continued walking up the street, I had the strongest feeling that I should return and investigate further.
Curious, I turned around, walked back to the tavern, and looked through the doorway. “This is rather a foolish thing to do,” I thought, especially when I saw only the bartender behind the bar. So I continued in my walk. But as I waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, I felt an even stronger prompting to go back to the tavern. I went back.
The tavern appeared empty. Even the bartender wasn’t in the room. I walked toward the rear of the room. Then I noticed the figure of a man in the corner, seated on a stool and hunched over the glass in front of him. Something seemed familiar about the ragged, unshaven face.
I moved closer, and the memory of someone from my past came to me. The man was about the right size, small and rather frail. Could it be Deuce? (His real name was Dwayne.) I hadn’t seen Deuce for almost eighteen years. But how could he be in this condition? “Deuce, Deuce is that you?” I asked. The man look around vaguely but didn’t respond. “Deuce, what are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s you!”
But it was him. We had been close friends in our teenage years.
Deuce and his twin brother, Ace, had had a good relationship with their parents but had received little guidance from them. Their father had been a hard-working barber who had cared for his lovable but alcoholic wife.
Deuce had had polio as a child, which left him with a bad limp and impaired use of one arm. A couple of serious accidents as a teenager left him having to use a cane. But these handicaps only seemed to concentrate his ability to paint. He was a talented oil painter and took his work very seriously. His paintings were vivid and life-like; I still remember his painting of a tiger that seemed to leap from the canvas.
I lost contact with Deuce when I went into the navy for several years. I had heard that Ace had also joined the navy and was subsequently reported missing.
“Huh! Who’s that?” Deuce responded sluggishly.
“It’s Richard, your old friend!”
His eyes lit with vague recognition. He looked as if he might cry. He was obviously in bad shape physically, and it appeared that he hadn’t been eating regularly. I finally convinced him that I was real and coaxed him off the bar stool. He could barely walk, even with the walker he now used. I took him to a nearby restaurant, where I got him to eat a little food. As he began to talk more sensibly, I discovered that he had no money and was sharing a room in a cheap hotel.
“Look, Deuce, I’m really late for an important appointment, but I want to spend some time with you,” I said, before taking him to his hotel with instructions to bathe and shave. Later, I picked up a change of clothes for him at a men’s store and returned to help him dress. We drove home, and I introduced him to my wife, Verna.
I related the story of our reunion during dinner, and then told Verna of my earlier friendship and boyhood experiences with Deuce and his family.
By then, he was quite clear in his thinking and was able to tell the harrowing story of how he had been driven to his present condition.
He described the shock of losing his twin brother. Several years later, his mother had died of alcoholism, and then his father had been killed in an automobile accident. Working as a commercial artist, he had tried to forget his problems by drinking. He eventually lost his job and lived on a small disability pension. This downward trend in his life had continued for many years. He had given up all hope and had been in total despair when I found him.
After I took him back to his hotel, Verna and I talked long into the night about his situation and possible solutions. He was obviously incapable of helping himself. “We can’t leave him where he is!” Verna said.
“But what can we do?” I asked.
“If nothing else, we’ll just have to bring him here,” she replied.
The next day at work, I couldn’t get Deuce off of my mind. In the afternoon I went searching for him. He was confused by my invitation, but agreed to come and live with my family. We gathered up his few possessions and went home.
It was a big decision for my family—not because we didn’t have room, but because having a strange man around the house was awkward at first, even if he was harmless. He was, in fact, quite pathetic. He had to use his walker to get around, and because his bedroom was in the basement, getting up and down the stairs several times a day was a tremendous challenge.
My family soon accepted Deuce. Good food, rest, companionship, and love helped him recover. The children loved him because he was so gentle and understanding. But the effects of the years of alcoholism were hard to overcome. His physical impairments and extreme loss of normal movement made recovery difficult and total recovery impossible. For the first month, he was content to just recuperate. At times, he tried to help the children with chores or Verna with household tasks, but he was too shaky and unstable.
Deuce often wanted alcohol, but Verna and I firmly refused him any, and there was no way he could get it himself. Frequently, he would break out in a cold sweat and shake. But with no additional alcohol to reinforce what was already in his system, he eventually gained control of himself.
With his recovery came restlessness, and Deuce decided that he should try to again develop his former talent. I built him a special heavy-duty easel that would not only hold the canvas but also help steady him, since he was still very shaky.
It had been years since he had painted, and he was disappointed and frustrated with his first attempts. But eventually he was able to paint a sea scene for Verna to show his gratitude. Many paintings followed, and I helped him sell a few of them. His former talent, however, never fully returned.
He soon became very much a part of our family. And although he had never been religious, he started coming to church with us. Verna and I had joined the Church after we were married, and Deuce was impressed with the obvious changes he had seen in me. He met with the missionaries and was baptized. The doctrines of the Church excited him, especially the idea of being resurrected to a whole and fit body, and the promise of being with his family again.
Although he found his new faith stimulating and enjoyed his new experiences, he felt concerned about being a burden on our family. He knew, however, that his limited capabilities restricted him from ever being independent again.
About this time, a second miraculous reunion occurred. On one of my monthly business trips to Portland, Oregon, approximately four hundred kilometers from our home in Seattle, Washington, I checked into a hotel I had never used before. To my amazement, the luggage attendant that assisted me with my bags was Deuce’s long-lost twin brother, whom we had believed to be dead.
Ace was overjoyed to see an old friend and to learn the whereabouts of his twin brother. A reunion was quickly arranged, and Ace, divorced and living alone, welcomed the opportunity to provide a home for Deuce.
My family kept close contact with “Uncle Deuce” until his death, prematurely brought on by his frailties and years of drinking. But he had found the gospel and had made many wholesome and eternal friendships.

When I was just two years old, my older brother and I were walking near a large irrigation ditch on our farm. My father was keeping an eye on us as he fed the cattle. The next thing he knew, my brother was running up to him, crying out, “Rolfe’s in!”
Dad raced to the irrigation ditch. From my footprints, he could see that I had gone as close to the edge as I possibly could, and then my feet had slipped and I had fallen in. He ran along the ditch until he glimpsed my red sweater in the water. He was able to pull me out, apply first aid, and save my life. I had gotten as close to danger as I possibly could, and the results were almost tragic.

It’s one thing to hear on the news about problems of third-world countries. It’s another to experience those problems firsthand. But that’s exactly what Kylie Hargreaves, 17, of Devonport Ward in Tasmania did last year when she was chosen to represent Tasmania on a two-week study tour of Zimbabwe in Africa.
“I learned that many places face enormous challenges just to have food for everyone, just to have good living conditions, just to have the opportunity for people to work,” Kylie says. “But I also made some wonderful friends, and learned that people can be happy without a lot of material possessions. I also learned that, wherever you go, we’re all sons and daughters of God.”

Naheed drank her breakfast of lassi (a mixture of buttermilk and sugar cane juice), but she did not really want it. She was too excited either to eat or to drink, because today she would go to school for the first time in her life.
Naheed would be eleven years old soon, and as long as she could remember, she had wanted to go to school. But in her small village in Pakistan it was unusual for girls to go to school. Naheed loved to go into the post office to watch Ali Mujuber, the calligrapher, writing letters for the villagers who could not write for themselves. She also listened as he read the replies that came back to those who sent letters.
Ali Mujuber would first ask the person who wanted to send a letter, “To whom is it to go?” and “To what village or town?” Then he would take his bamboo pen, check its point carefully, dip it into the big ink bottle while listening carefully to what the person wanted to say in the letter, and start scratching words onto the paper.
Naheed would watch closely as Ali Mujuber formed the beautiful characters. She liked to hear the scratching sound of the pen. And she enjoyed sniffing the ink smell and hearing the drone of the villager’s voice. More than anything in the world, Naheed wanted to know the mystery of the writing and the reading of the squiggly shapes … and today she would begin.
“Very soon I can do what Ali Mujuber does,” she mused.
Her brother, Bashir, heard her. He smiled, for he had gone to school for a short time himself before Father needed him in the fields. “It is not so easy,” he warned. But he cheerfully helped his sister prepare her clay slate and bamboo writing stick.
Soon Naheed left her home carrying the slate and sharpened writing stick.
“Kuda Hafiz (may the Almighty save you),” Mother called as Naheed started down the path to the great spreading banyan tree in whose shade the pupils would learn from their teacher. The small village had no school building. School would only be held on dry days, for if it rained, the students would have to run home for shelter.
Naheed dawdled on the way home, wondering just how many days it would take sitting under the banyan tree for her to know all that Ali Mujuber knew. Her head was in a spin thinking of the many, many days to come. “Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever do such an important and difficult thing as reading and writing,” she murmured half aloud. Perhaps Mother needs me at home, she pondered. Perhaps school is a waste of the hours.
Mother sat beside the fire in the courtyard making chapati, the bread for the family’s evening meal. She greeted Naheed with a smile. “And how was school?” she asked.
Naheed shrugged and went into the family’s room to put up the slate and bamboo stick.
Mother looked anxious as Naheed came back to the courtyard. “How was school?” she asked again.
“Mother, I cannot do that which Ali Mujuber can do. I can never make even one of the figures that mean so much in the letters Ali Mujuber writes.”
Mother stopped her work and looked into her daughter’s eyes for many beats of the heart. At last she spoke quietly. “Naheed, my daughter,” she began, “many of the duties of a woman’s life are learned easily in a moment or in an hour or a day. When I was a girl like you, I was given only these kinds of tasks. The school was closed to girls. But you … you, my daughter, have the chance of learning words and their sweet secrets. But such precious secrets are not given easily … surely not in one day’s time.”
Naheed’s eyes fell. Mother was right. Naheed had made a big mistake in thinking she would learn everything on the first day of school. She left her mother and skipped to the center of the village. Her heart was light. “I can do it. I know I can do it,” she hummed to herself.
She watched the village boys line up for a game of pir kaudi (tag or tackle game, having a finish line). From where she stood she saw her mother moving gracefully with the big water jug on her head along with the other women of the village toward the well.
Suddenly she was filled with a feeling of hope and gratitude. She was going to school again tomorrow and for many tomorrows to come, but she was not going to go alone. She would take with her every day the young girl her mother once was. And Naheed would learn so much so well that she could teach her mother everything she (Naheed) learned. Everyone in the family would then have a person nearby to read and to write the precious words of the world.

(President of the Church from 1995 to 2008)
President Gordon B. Hinckley learned at a young age that good gifts don’t have to cost a lot of money. He watched his parents visit widows during the holidays and take them bread and treats. As he grew up, Gordon tried to make thoughtful gifts for others. He and his brother, Sherman, decided to work together to build Christmas presents for their sisters. Some of their gifts over the years included a small cupboard, a yellow treasure chest, and a fancy desk and chair.

Francisco Samuel Cabrera Perez of Chihuahua, Mexico, says he doesn’t consider himself a bad person; he has sought to obey the commandments and fulfill his duties to his family and to his fellowman since he was baptized at 16. But the experiment involving studying the Savior’s life helped him shift his understanding of discipleship from theoretical to practical.
In studying John 6:27–63, the sermon where the Savior calls Himself the Bread of Life, Brother Cabrera came to recognize in himself a tendency that many have: to see to his personal comfort first.
“I always find one or more ‘reasons’—excuses—to postpone my duties,” he explains. Thoughts like “In a while” or “Tomorrow” or “There’s no rush” come into his mind, he says, “hovering like vultures that block my family, economic, social, and, above all, eternal progress.”
Following the Savior only after doing what we like makes us “nearly disciples,” not true ones, he says. Reading about the Savior’s commitment to submitting to the will of the Father increased Brother Cabrera’s own commitment, and he came to better understand how taking the sacrament each week helps him “[put] off the natural man” (Mosiah 3:19).
“I submit to the influence of the Holy Spirit and allow the power of the Atonement to make me a saint,” explains Brother Cabrera. “For this to happen, I need to develop the attributes of Christ: becoming like a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, loving, being willing to submit to the will of the Lord” (see Mosiah 3:19).
As Brother Cabrera made a concerted effort to put off the natural man, he found an increased love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, his family, his leaders, and other associates. He found that his work performance increased. And most of all, he found that he enjoyed—not suffered in—doing things to build the kingdom of God.
“While I used to see discipleship of the Savior as a burden, I now see that His yoke is easy and His burden is light” (see Matthew 11:30), Brother Cabrera says. “That’s what the great plan of happiness is: to follow Jesus Christ and to rejoice with Him now and in the eternities.”

Would you ever believe that the quiet, grandmotherly lady in your ward first kissed a boy on a dare? Or that the smiling, old grandpa who’s been in your ward forever once drove his car into the side of a barn because he forgot that he had to hit the brakes instead of yell “Whoa”?

It’s probably difficult to imagine that the seniors in your ward ever did such crazy things—especially when the only thing you know about them is what bench they usually sit on during sacrament meeting. But that’s not the case for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward, Coeur d‘Alene Idaho Stake. They know all about the lives of the ward’s elderly members. Of course, it hasn’t always been that way. It wasn’t until their ward’s “Family History Can Be Fun” night that they began to learn about the older people’s lives.

But ever since then, their hearts have been turning—not only toward their ward’s seniors, but also toward their ancestors and toward each other.

All this turning began when the Dalton Gardens Ward youth took Malachi’s prophecy to heart and became excited about family history work (see Mal. 4:5–6).

They did this by filling out pedigree charts, having classes on the importance of genealogy, visiting with their ward’s senior citizens, and organizing a ward activity in which they acted out episodes from the lives of the grandparents in their ward family.

And what’s been the outcome of all this excitement? For one thing, the ward’s generation gap has narrowed.

“Now when you go to church, you see a lot of the young people going up to the older people in the ward and saying hi and maybe walking them to class,” says Russell Isaacson, a 16-year-old priest. “Before we might have just walked by them because we didn’t really know them at all, but now we see them as our friends.”

Desiree Wallace, 15, interviewed Virginia Gjevres about her life. Desiree found out about Virginia’s first teddy bear and her longing for a dog. And she learned that while Virginia was growing up she was so accident prone that everyone called her Calamity Jane.

“I didn’t really know Sister Gjevres before I interviewed her. I had only seen her at church. But now I just have this love for her, and I want to adopt her as my grandma,” says Desiree, who doesn’t have any grandparents living nearby.

As connections were made between the youth and the elderly in the ward family, it caused some to reflect on the importance of forming eternal connections with their own ancestors.

“The grandparents just really seemed enthusiastic about us getting to know them better. They looked so happy,” says Cassie Gatten, 15. “So it made me realize that when we do genealogy work for our ancestors who have died that they’re probably really happy about that too.”

Interviewing the grandparents about their lives, writing the scripts, finding costumes, and then having rehearsals to make sure everything was just right took a lot of time. But the youth said the time spent was worth it when they saw everything and everyone come together on the night of the activity.

“Sometimes I didn’t really feel like it was worth all the time it took to put this activity together. But then when I saw the final night and the looks on the faces of the elderly as they watched incidents from their lives acted out before them and as they realized that the youth in the ward care about who they are, it all seemed worth it,” Cassie says. “It also made me want to live my life in a way so that if someone were to write a play about me when I am old I wouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”

After acting out scenes from Reny Sampert’s life, Kim Pearson, a 17-year-old Laurel, and her group sang Reny’s favorite song, “O My Father.”

“When we were singing ‘O My Father,’ Reny got tears in her eyes, and you could tell she was really touched,” Kim says.

“This activity brought us so much closer to the older people,” says Amber Isaacson, 15. “A lot of people in the ward are related, but there are families like mine who are not, so it’s just really neat to get to know them like the relatives do.”

Even though Amber and her brother Russell don’t have any relatives in the ward, in doing this activity Russell has realized how much some of the ward’s grandparents have contributed to his life.

“Talking with the elderly in our ward helped me to understand that they are actually a part of me because they helped form the Church here in Coeur d‘Alene. And just to look at it today and see how I’m involved and see the key part they have played in my life makes me grateful that I was able to get to know them better,” Russell explains.

Learning about the grandparents in the ward has also given Russell some understanding about the effects that trials can have in a person’s life.

“Talking with Frances Young and learning about the different trials she went through in her life helps me to see how things like that have made her the great person she is today,” Russell says. “It’s just interesting how different experiences can mold a person.”

Cassie says she learned a lot of new things about the people she interviewed too, even though they were her own grandparents.

“A lot of what I learned about them was a surprise to me,” she says. “But in learning about their youth, I realized where some of their characteristics came from.”

Cassie has also learned that it is only by understanding her heritage that she is able to understand herself.

“It made me really want to figure out where I came from,” she says. “We’re made up of all these people and we don’t even know what they are, so how can we know what we are?”

Whether they learned more about themselves, about their ancestors, or about the seniors in their ward, one thing is certain for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward—their hearts have been turned.

“Doing this brought us so much closer to the elderly,” Amber says. “The older people were excited to share their lives with the youth, and we were excited to know about their lives. Everyone wanted to do a really good job with the skits because they had become such good friends with the elderly that they wanted their skit to be the best.”

Everyone in the ward took part in the activity. The Primary children sang, the Relief Society prepared food, the youth performed, and the older members brought their heirlooms to put on display.

A few hours before the activity started, all of the heirlooms were dropped off at the church, making several large piles of mismatched items. By the time everyone arrived, just a few hours later, the piles of items from various families had been organized into an old-fashioned bedroom, kitchen, and living room. All the mismatched items had come together to form a perfect display. And this is the way the activity affected the Dalton Gardens Ward. There was a group of people—some old, some young, some related, some not—that have now come together so well that no one would know they weren’t all from the same family.

My daughter also has Hirschsprung’s disease. On top of that, she suffers from a heart defect and has Down syndrome. She spent her first few weeks on the earth in the hospital. After three major surgeries, she is a sweet ball of smiles. At first, her diagnosis felt like a tragedy, but now it feels more like a blessing. Despite some hard times, she has taught our family love and patience. She brings joy to simple moments, never ceases to surprise us, and makes people happy wherever she goes.

My daughter Norma says the following about the way Relief Society has been a blessing in her life: “When Darren and I were newly married and expecting our first baby, we were living in a small college town. We were both full-time students with very little income. Our nearest ward was in a town about 30 miles [48 km] away, and our only means of transportation was an old car that didn’t work most of the time. When the sisters in the ward discovered our circumstances, they immediately joined together to arrange for one of them to always give us a ride to and from church on Sundays and for other Church activities. Some of the sisters lived in other towns and drove 20 or 30 miles [32 to 48 km] out of their way just to pick us up. Additionally, many of the sisters would invite us to their homes for nice family dinners after church. No one ever made us feel like a burden to them. I will never forget the true love and charity that the Relief Society sisters extended to us during that short but challenging time in our lives.”4

Some years ago our family encountered a major challenge. I went to the temple and there prayed earnestly for help. I was given a moment of truth. I received a clear impression of my weaknesses, and I was shocked. In that spiritually instructive moment, I saw a prideful woman doing things her own way, not necessarily the Lord’s way, and privately taking credit for any so-called accomplishment. I knew I was looking at myself. I cried out in my heart to Heavenly Father and said, “I don’t want to be that woman, but how do I change?”

Through the pure spirit of revelation in the temple, I was taught of my utter need for a Redeemer. I turned immediately to the Savior Jesus Christ in my thoughts and felt my anguish melt away and a great hope spring up in my heart. He was my only hope, and I longed to cling only to Him. It was clear to me that a self-absorbed natural woman “is an enemy to God”7 and to people in her sphere of influence. In the temple that day I learned it was only through the Atonement of Jesus Christ that my prideful nature could change and that I would be enabled to do good. I felt His love keenly, and I knew He would teach me by the Spirit and change me if I gave my heart to Him, holding back nothing.

I still fight my weaknesses, but I trust in the divine help of the Atonement. This pure instruction came because I entered the holy temple, seeking relief and answers. I entered the temple burdened, and I left knowing I had an all-powerful and all-loving Savior. I was lighter and joyful because I had received His light and accepted His plan for me.

Jessica P. and Nory A., two young women who live on Santa Cruz, know this personally. They are both converts and have both seen the difference keeping the commandments makes. There aren’t very many members in the Galápagos Islands (only 125 members in their branch out of around 25,000 people on their island). It can be difficult to stay on the strait and narrow path (see 1 Nephi 8:20; 2 Nephi 4:33; 31:17–19; Alma 7:19) with temptations such as alcohol and drugs all around.
Nory has seen the challenges in her own family. A year after her family was baptized, they were sealed in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Not long after, however, several members of her family fell away. For a time she and her mom were the only ones who participated in church. How did she stay strong?
“Family home evening,” she says. “For a while, just my mom and I would hold it. Later my older brother and my dad started coming. And every time we study the gospel, my dad says, ‘This is for me.’ Now he is getting stronger and my brother too.”

When I was 18, I asked my father to help me pay for my mission. At first he said, “No way. It’s too much money.” But a couple of days later, he asked me, “Do you really want to go on a mission?” And I said, “Yes. With all my heart.” My father said he would help me.
I didn’t understand why my father would pay such a great price for me. Then I realized it was because he loved me. It made me think of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice for us. He paid the highest price because He loves us.

I had this principle vividly impressed upon me one day a long time ago. I was living back in Virginia at the time, and one beautiful fall day I drove out into the country to pick up some walnuts. There were sixteen Stop signs between my home and the very, very heavily wooded lane where I turned in to get those walnuts. I stopped fifteen times. The last Stop sign was way out in the country. I could see in both directions. There were no other cars in sight. I thought to myself: “Why should I stop? Stop signs are to protect people, but I am the only one around. So why stop?” So I didn’t! I wasn’t speeding. I just went through at the speed limit. When I reached the heavily wooded lane, I found I couldn’t see around the corner. It’s that way back there in Virginia. So I slowed down and turned in. Just as I did, there was another car coming out of the lane, and because we couldn’t see each other, we ran together at about five miles per hour. It wasn’t a hard impact and the cars weren’t severely damaged. As I recall, it only cost me $168 to replace my grill and headlights.
Now, that accident had to be perfectly timed. Of course, if I had stopped at the last Stop sign, it would never have happened. I said, “Lord, I get the message. You really didn’t have to go this far, but I do understand.” In fact, I stopped sixteen times on the way home with the front end of my car beat up.

Not only does Grant play the piano, but he also plays the trumpet and the flügelhorn, and, of course, he sings. Such a wide variety of talent was great to have when Grant, Guy, and Michael started to record their first CD. The three brothers had dreamed of making a CD but waited until Michael returned from his mission in Geneva, Switzerland, to start.
Michael says that before he served a mission there was never a temptation to stay home and record music. “I received assurance through prayer that my mission call was going to be right for me,” Michael says. “When I got my call, I knew it was what the Lord wanted for me.”
When he got home two years later, the three boys worked together, using their vocal and instrumental talents to produce a CD. Their goal in releasing it, Michael says, was to give youth and young adults “safe, appropriate, and upbeat music to listen to.”

Moira nodded. Heavenly Father had helped her before. Like when she and Mamá had joined the Church a year ago.
Moira had been excited to tell her best friend, Dorita, about her baptism. But when Dorita’s parents found out, they wouldn’t let Dorita play with Moira anymore. Moira had felt so lonely.
But Heavenly Father helped her make new friends. On her very first Sunday at church, she saw a girl standing by the door.
“Hi,” the girl said. “I’m Carmen. Do you want to sit with me?” Soon Carmen and Moira became good friends.

Somewhat wistfully, Dad spoke up. “I sure wish I’d had the opportunity when I was a kid to meet my favorite baseball hero. Remember, Dad, the time we drove all the way to Boston to see Cal Herder pitch?”
“I’ll never forget it,” Grandpa answered. “You had a brand-new baseball, and you were hoping to get Herder’s autograph on it.”
Cal Herder. The name was familiar to Tom. “I remember hearing you talk about him, Dad. He was probably the best pitcher the team ever had, wasn’t he?”
“Sure was,” Dad replied, “but I never did get him to sign my baseball. There was a big crowd that day, and when the game was over, there was such a mob around him that I couldn’t get to him before we had to leave. I’d hoped to get one another day, but we never got there again.”
“Wasn’t he number eleven?” Grandpa asked. “As I recall, they retired his number when he stopped playing so that no other team member would ever wear it.”
“I think you’re right,” Dad agreed. “Well, Tom, maybe you’ll be luckier. David Reaves is number forty-three, isn’t he? By the way, I figured you’d want to go over to see the team, so I bought something for the occasion.” He handed Tom a small, cube-shaped box.
Tom quickly opened it. Inside it was a new baseball.
As he got dressed the next morning, Tom imagined David Reaves’s name autographed on the ball. Fishing and swimming could wait. The first thing he wanted to do was visit the training camp.
After breakfast Dad and Grandpa went out to work in the garden, and Tom ran down the street toward the ballpark. He was a little surprised that there weren’t many people at the training grounds, but then he realized that it was a school day for the kids who lived in the area. A few men Grandpa’s age stood along the fence talking to one another. Out on the field, catchers and pitchers were warming up. They weren’t wearing uniforms, so Tom couldn’t read their numbers. He recognized some of the players, though, but he didn’t see David Reaves.
He went over to the men along the fence, who were talking to a white-haired man in a coaching jacket. “Excuse me, but have any of you seen David Reaves?” Tom asked.
The men shook their heads, and the man in the coaching jacket replied, “He won’t be out here today, son. He broke his finger practicing yesterday, so he’ll be laid up for a while. But don’t worry. He’ll be in fine shape by the time the season opens.”
Tom couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh, no!” he moaned. “I sure hoped to see him.”
The man in the uniform smiled sympathetically, “I’m sorry. Say, I’d guess you’re a pretty good pitcher yourself, aren’t you?”
“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve pitched in Little League.”
“Why don’t you come over on this side of the fence and throw me a few balls? Maybe I can show you a pointer or two.”
Tom slipped through the gate, and the coach tossed him a ball. He made sure Tom was warmed up thoroughly, then asked him to throw his best pitch.
Tom pitched it fast and solid.
“Boy!” said one of the men leaning against the outside of the fence. “Maybe you’ll be scouting him for the team in a few years.”
Tom pitched a second ball and a third the same way.
“Not bad,” said the coach. “But let me show you how to get a little variety in your pitching so that the batter won’t know what you’re up to.” He showed Tom how to twist his wrist so that the ball would curve. “Now try it.” The ball went far outside, and the coach lunged for it. As the coach twisted around, Tom noticed the number on his jacket—number 11!
“Cal Herder was number 11 when he played for Boston!” Tom blurted out.
The coach looked surprised. “I’m Cal Herder,” he said. “I didn’t think a fellow your age would know about an old-timer like me.” He smiled.
“Oh, I sure do!” Tom replied. “You were my dad’s favorite player! But I thought you retired.”
“Nope,” said Mr. Herder. “Only from playing. Baseball’s my life, and I’ll coach just as long as they’ll let me.”
Tom threw a few more balls until he felt comfortable with the new pitch. Then Mr. Herder said, “I think I’d better go help some of the big guys.”
“Before you go, will you do me a favor?” Tom took the new baseball out of his pocket. “Will you autograph this for me, please?”
“Be glad to,” said the coach, and Tom watched with delight as the man wrote “Cal Herder” across the ball.
“Thanks a million for the help and the autograph!” Tom exclaimed.
“Glad to give you both,” Mr. Herder replied; then he trotted across the field.
Tom nearly flew back to his grandpa’s house. Dad and Grandpa were picking oranges off a tree in the front yard.
Dad looked at Tom and laughed. “From the grin on your face, I know what you have—a ball atographed by David Reaves.”
“Wrong, Dad. It’s something for you. Something you’ve been wanting for a long time.”

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.
As I address you valiant young men, your fathers, teachers, leaders, and friends, I pay tribute to all who are diligently striving to become what the Lord needs and wants you to be. But I testify from my own experience as a boy and as a man that disregarding what we know to be right, whether through laziness or rebelliousness, always brings undesirable and spiritually damaging consequences. No, the scorpion did not in the end threaten my life, but it caused extreme pain and distress to both me and my parents. When it comes to how we live the gospel, we must not respond with laziness or rebelliousness.

I was halfway up a climbing wall, completely stuck. Moments earlier, I had been on the ground, chatting with friends and waiting in line. Although I’d never climbed a wall like this before, I hadn’t been nervous or concerned. Within a matter of seconds though, everything had changed. I now clung desperately to handholds, my progress stopped by inexperience and fear.
Only moments before, when the man ahead of me slipped in his own ascent and descended slowly to the ground, I readied myself to climb. As I strapped on the safety gear, my friend Kent tapped me on the shoulder. “Liz, I’ve been watching the climbers and studying the wall. I know how to get to the top. Take your first step with your left foot and grab high with your right hand …” Kent’s directions were detailed, like driving instructions, but I just nodded without really paying attention. The wall didn’t look hard. I was sure I could do it on my own.
Disregarding Kent’s instructions, I grabbed holds right in front of me and followed the course that seemed to offer the least resistance. Climbing quickly, I took three fairly easy steps, and then … nothing. The next handhold was out of reach, and I couldn’t find a toehold. I was only 10 feet up, and my options had entirely disappeared.
Cutting through my predicament, I heard Kent’s voice from below. “Liz, I told the instructor that you are a first-time climber. He said you can start over. Come down and begin again, this time with your left foot.”
I quickly descended, thanked the instructor, and started again. This time I listened to Kent’s instructions as he directed me up the wall. Following the course he charted, I climbed, stretched, and maneuvered my way up. Nearing the top, I made a sickening discovery. The bell that from below had appeared easy to reach was actually located on an overhang.
“Liz,” Kent called, “you’re going to have to jump up to grasp that handhold to the left of the bell. With your left hand on that hold, you’ll be able to ring the bell with your right. You can do it, Liz.”
Was he crazy? If I jumped for the handhold, I would be airborne for a split second. And if I could grab the handhold by the bell, my feet would be left dangling in the air.
As I felt my fingers slipping, I realized that I needed to trust Kent’s directions. He could see the entire wall. He had watched others before me. He knew this was the only way for me to succeed. I resolved to follow his instructions and trust my guide. Jumping high, I grabbed the left handhold and reached for the bell. I’m not sure which I heard first, the bell up high or the cheers down below, but both assured me that I had succeeded.
On the climbing wall, I was given permission to try again by an understanding instructor. In life, we are given the ability to try again by an even more understanding Savior. If we repent of our errors, heed the counsel of those He has called, and keep striving upward in faith and hope, each and every one of us can reach the top and ring the victory bell.

Thomas woke up one sunny morning to the sounds of his big brothers, Jonathan and Matthew, talking quietly. He smiled as he realized it was Sunday. Thomas loved Sundays. He loved looking handsome in his Sunday clothes. He loved singing Primary songs. And he especially loved his Primary teacher, Sister Brandon. He couldn’t wait to go to church!
Then Thomas frowned. He remembered that church didn’t start until after lunch. Sunday mornings seemed to drag on forever. What could he do until it was time to get ready for church?
After breakfast, Mom came into Thomas’s room. “Thomas, hurry and put away your toys,” she said, smiling. “We’re going to do something new that I think you will like.”
Thomas quickly picked up his toys and went into the living room, where his brothers and sisters were waiting. “Today we’re going to do Sunday stations,” Mom announced.
Thomas had never heard of Sunday stations before. He hoped he would like them.
“One station will be at the table,” Mom explained. “Two will be on the couches, and one will be at the computer. You will have 10 minutes at each station.”
Now Thomas was really curious. Usually he wasn’t allowed to use the computer on Sundays. Mom gave a few more instructions and then let each child go to a different station.
Thomas headed straight for the computer, but his sister Katrina had beat him to it. So Thomas sat down at the table instead. There he saw the Faith in God and Duty to God booklets that belonged to his sisters and brothers. “What can I do here?” he asked Mom. “I’m not old enough to have a Faith in God book.”
Mom pointed to a sheet of paper and a box of markers. “You don’t have a Faith in God book yet, but you do have faith, and you can make a goal to help it get stronger,” she said.
“How?” Thomas asked.
“Well, just think of something you can do this week to follow Jesus,” Mom suggested. “Then write your goal on this paper so you can remember it.” Mom patted Thomas on the back and set the kitchen timer for 10 minutes.
Thomas thought hard about how he could follow Jesus. He watched Mom helping his brothers and sisters with their stations. “I know,” he thought. “Mom is like Jesus because she is nice.” He smiled as he carefully wrote the words I will be nice on his paper.
Mom came over and gave Thomas a hug. Then she showed him where his sister Miriam had glued her picture inside the cover of her booklet. Mom drew a square on his paper, and Thomas drew a picture of himself in his Sunday clothes and colored it with markers. He was admiring his picture when the timer went off.
The next station was the computer. Mom explained that Thomas could send an e-mail to someone he loved. He decided to send a message to his cousin Moroni, who had been sick. “Hi, Moroni,” he wrote. “How are you? I hope you are feeling better.”
Just then the timer went off. “Time sure goes by fast when I’m doing stations,” Thomas thought. Then he typed his name, clicked on “send,” and hurried to the couch.
At the next station, Thomas found a phone. “I know what this is for,” he thought. Mom helped him dial Grandpa’s phone number. Thomas was surprised to learn that Grandpa didn’t know about Sunday stations. Usually, Thomas was the one who had a question, and Grandpa had the answer. So Thomas explained about Sunday stations. He and Grandpa had a great time talking. When he heard the timer, Thomas said, “I love you, Grandpa!” and handed the phone to Mom.
The reading station on the couch was Thomas’s last station. Mom listened to Thomas read the story of Captain Moroni and the title of liberty. Then they had just enough time for Mom to read a letter in the Friend.
When the timer went off for the last time, everyone stood up and stretched. “Let’s pick up and make lunch now,” Mom said. Wow! It was lunchtime already. Then it would be time to get dressed for church.
As Thomas gathered the magazines and scripture storybooks from the couch, he had a happy feeling inside. “Mom,” he asked, “can we do Sunday stations again next week?” He could tell by Mom’s smile that they would.