Gospel Story Finder

Eight years later, on Christmas Day of 1843, the Prophet recorded another memorable Christmas. The celebration began quite early in the morning when carolers serenaded the Prophet’s home around 1:00 A.M. This surprise visit made the Prophet very happy; he recorded that the singing “caused a thrill of pleasure to run through [his] soul” (History of the Church, 6:134).
The day continued with a large party. That afternoon Joseph and Emma hosted about 50 couples for dinner, and Joseph recorded the following about the gathering:
“Monday, December 25—A large party supped at my house, and spent the evening in music, dancing, &c., in a most cheerful and friendly manner” (History of the Church, 6:134).

“The day after I was born, my father wrote me a letter,” Elder Pingree said. “He saved that letter, and later, when I left to serve a full-time mission, he mailed it to me. The letter contained several pages of his testimony and lessons he wanted me to learn during my life. As I read it, the Spirit bore witness to me that what I had been taught about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ by my parents was truth.”

The same wonderful result comes when I pray for it before I give a priesthood blessing to someone who is ill or in a time of need. It happened once in a hospital when impatient doctors urged me—more than urged me—ordered me—to hurry and get out of the way so they could do their work, rather than giving me an opportunity to give the priesthood blessing. I stayed, and I did give the blessing. And that little girl I blessed that day, who the doctors had thought would die, lived. I am grateful at this moment that that day, I didn’t let my own feelings get in the way but felt that the Lord wanted that little girl to have a blessing. And I knew what the blessing was: I blessed her to be healed. And she was.

Jonathon grumbled as he climbed into the car next to his brother, Mike. He wanted to stay home and play the new game he had been given for his birthday last week. But his mother had insisted that they all go to the meetinghouse and help with the ward’s cleanup day.
“Why do we have to go?” Jonathon had asked his mother as he helped her load their vacuum into the car.
“It will be fun,” she said, smiling. “Besides, all of us use the meetinghouse. It’s only right that we help clean it from time to time.”
Jonathon stared out the window and watched the houses and trees pass by as they drove to the church. As his mother pulled the car into the church’s parking lot, Jonathon was surprised to see Brother Lawson park his car next to theirs.
“What is Brother Lawson doing here?” Jonathon wondered.
Brother Lawson had been very sick lately with a type of cancer called leukemia. He had been in the hospital for a long time. Jonathon remembered his parents encouraging Mike and him to pray for Brother Lawson during their personal and family prayers. Brother Lawson hadn’t been home from the hospital for very long.
Jonathon had always liked Brother Lawson. He was older than Jonathon’s grandfathers, but he went out of his way to talk to Jonathon and ask him about school and his sports team. One time he even came to one of Jonathon’s games.
As Jonathon climbed out of the car, Brother Lawson waved and said, “Hi, Jonathon.” Brother Lawson walked around to the back of his car and took a vacuum out of the trunk. Walking slowly, he pushed the vacuum into the church.
“Jonathon,” his mother called, “can you give me a hand with this?” She was struggling to pull their vacuum from the back of the car.
“Sure, Mom,” Jonathon said. He helped her pull the vacuum out and quickly pushed it across the parking lot.
All that evening Jonathon and Mike worked beside Brother Lawson. Several times Jonathon became tired and stopped to rest, but he noticed that Brother Lawson continued to work. And he was smiling! “It’s nice to be able to help, isn’t it,” Brother Lawson said.
Jonathon felt something change inside him. “If Brother Lawson can be happy while he’s helping, so can I,” he thought. He started working even harder.
“Thank you for coming with me,” his mother said later as they were heading home.
“You’re welcome,” Jonathon said. “I’m sorry I complained about coming. I didn’t know you could learn so much from vacuuming.”

Slanting patterns of sunlight fell across the green bedspread and across Jesse’s face. She opened her eyes and lay quietly for a moment in the unfamiliar room. She closed them again and pictured the pleasant home where she used to live in Long Beach, California: the greenness everywhere, the long white beaches, the sea air, and the small swimming pool in their own yard. I’ll miss the swimming pool most of all, she thought, and the chance it gave me to swim every day. This town at the foot of the mountains feels very different, but it must have a good pool somewhere.
And today she would find it. Her mother had promised her they would. Jesse threw back the covers. Placing her hands under her knees, she swung her limp legs off the bed and sat up. She pulled her wheelchair close to the bed and shifted herself into it. Banging the chair impatiently against the door frame, she maneuvered into the bathroom.
“Need any help?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“No thanks,” Jesse said, finally working the chair into the narrow room.
At breakfast in the large, sunny kitchen, she reminded her mother about going swimming.
“There’s a lot of unpacking still to do, and you haven’t started on your language arts lessons.”
“I hate English, and you did say that we could go today.”
“I know, and we will. Anyway, doing the work at home is better than going to summer school, don’t you think?”
Jesse sighed. “Yes, it’s better than that. I just wish I’d worked harder last year and didn’t have to do it now.”
“Why don’t you work on your studies this morning while I put things away. I’ll find out where there’s a good swimming pool, then drive you there this afternoon.”
“Sounds pretty good,” Jesse said. “I’ll try to get something done.” She wheeled out onto the wide, pleasant front porch and set her books on a table. She looked up and down the tree-lined street at the neat frame houses with small front lawns. There were no fences, no hedges; everything was in plain view. Jesse missed the privacy of her yard in California with its redwood fence and tall shrubs.
A girl about Jesse’s age emerged from a white house directly across the street. She hopped lightly down the front steps, picked up an old bicycle from the front lawn, and languidly swung her leg over the tattered seat. As she coasted down her driveway and into the street, she gave Jesse a casual wave. Jesse waved back and watched the girl disappear around the corner, then managed to do one work sheet before the girl reappeared with a loaf of bread under one arm.
At that moment Jesse’s mother came out onto the porch. She put a gentle hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “How about inviting that girl to go swimming with us this afternoon?” she asked.
“I don’t know her.”
“You’d get to know her.”
“Maybe so.” Jesse shrugged. “She looks like she’d be a good swimmer.”
The girl’s name was Diana. She and Jesse found very little to talk about as they rode to the pool. Jesse avoided dressing rooms because they usually were impossible to maneuver in, so the girls wore their suits and removed their street clothes in the car outside the pool.
Jesse’s mother left the two girls at the gate, and Jesse wheeled her wheelchair through the entrance, where they paid, and over to the pool. Jesse was used to curious stares, but she would have preferred being home in her own pool. The pool was not crowded, however, and only a few people watched as she shifted out of the chair, grasped the railing, and lowered herself onto the steps leading down into the water.
Once in the water, Jesse became like anyone else. If anyone stared, it was with admiration as her smooth, powerful strokes took her quickly to the other end of the pool and back before Diana had stowed the chair over by the fence. She did four more laps, relishing the cool water and her feeling of freedom and mobility. In the water her useless legs, trailing obediently behind her, were no problem as her strong arms took her smoothly through the water. At the deep end she stopped and looked around for Diana. Jesse finally spotted her splashing around in the shallow end. “Come on down here!” Jesse called.
Diana struck out, splashing and thrashing. As she reached the center of the pool, the splashing increased, and Jesse could see that Diana was no longer making any real progress. Her wild strokes became more frantic. Jesse swam quickly to her, caught one hand in hers, and pulled her to the edge. Diana sputtered and coughed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t swim very well?”
“Was I supposed to shout across the pool, ‘I’m a lousy swimmer’?” She coughed again.
“Let’s get out a minute,” Jesse suggested. She shifted herself up the steps and onto the edge of the pool and sat with her legs dangling in the water. Diana climbed out and sat silently beside her.
“I’m not very good at lifesaving because I can only use my arms, so don’t do that again,” Jesse said, smiling.
“There’s a lifeguard here,” Diana said coolly.
Rebuffed, Jesse didn’t say anything.
“I don’t really like the water much,” Diana said, breaking the silence.
“Maybe we could just sunbathe for a while,” Jesse offered. Diana nodded, and Jesse shifted herself away from the pool’s edge while Diana spread out their beach towels. The two girls stretched out on their stomachs under the hot summer sun.
“I’m hungry,” Diana said, rolling over onto her back. “It must be all that exercise.” She laughed lightly, her easy good humor restored. She stood and got some money from her beach bag. Jesse watched her stride easily to the candy machine against the fence. She returned with two chocolate bars and put one under Jesse’s nose. Jesse raised her head and looked first at the candy bar and then at Diana.
“Thanks anyway, but I don’t eat much of this kind of stuff,” she said, handing the candy back to Diana.
“Why not?” Diana asked through a mouthful of chocolate.
“I try to keep in condition.”
“Condition for what?”
“Well, I want to be on the swim team at school, and I do wheelchair racing and stuff. Also, it’s easy for me to put on weight because I sit so much.”
“You’re really an athlete, huh?”
“I have a lot of respect for my body, such as it is,” Jesse said quietly, “and I try not to put junk into it.” Trying to sound casual, she added, “What do you like to do for exercise? I’ve seen you ride your bike. …”
Diana thoughtfully licked the chocolate from her fingertips. “I ride my bike to get places because it’s easier than walking. They make us exercise at school, but, other than that, I don’t do much. I’d rather read.”
Jesse stared at her.
“What’s the matter?” Diana asked.
Jesse shook her head. “It’s just that your body is so perfect, and you don’t care much about it.”
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t all have to be athletes.”
“No.” Jesse put her head down, and they soaked up the sun in silence for a while. Later they swam again, Jesse doing vigorous laps up and down the pool while Diana floated on her back or splashed around in the shallow end.
Jesse’s mother came to get them, and they rode home in silence. While Jesse transferred from the car into her chair, Diana climbed out quickly and called her thanks as she crossed the street to her own house.
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her,” Jesse said as her mother pulled her up the few stairs onto the porch. “We don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Having something in common helps, but it’s not absolutely necessary for friendship,” her mother commented.
The next morning Jesse again sat on the front porch with her English book, two apples, and a teenage romance she had been reading. She opened her grammar book and stared for a few minutes at the page without reading it. She picked up an apple, studied its pattern of white specks on red for a while, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully.
The mountains loomed above the houses across the street, and the morning light touched the rock outcropping and made them golden. Light filtered greenly through the maple leaves, making dappled patterns on the sidewalks and lawns. Jesse itched to be doing something or going somewhere. Reluctantly she looked at the page again. Pronouns. What could be more boring than pronouns? She could hear quiet morning sounds up and down the street—dishes clinking softly as they were washed, a hoe scratching, a ball hitting against a house. She looked longingly at the novel, but she wouldn’t read more of it until she’d done some work on her English. She sighed, and as she picked up the textbook again, she saw Diana come out her front door.
Diana waved to Jesse, hesitated for a moment, then crossed the street with her long, easy stride.
Grateful for any distraction from the grammar, Jesse smiled and waved and then pulled the lawn chair out, motioning for Diana to sit down.
“What are you doing?” Diana asked, looking at the books.
“I did so poorly in language arts last year that they said I had to go to summer school. But since we were moving, they let me take the course at home and send the work sheets in.”
“Why did you do so badly?”
“I guess I was more interested in swimming and racing. The teacher gave us a lot of homework, and I never did it.”
Diana took the apple that Jesse offered her and bit into it. “It’s terrible to have to do homework in the summer.” She chewed thoughtfully. “But at least it’s not a hard subject.”
“I think it’s pretty hard. Pronouns are hard—and very boring.”
“They’re a little boring, but they’re not hard and there aren’t too many of them. I’ll help you.”
Jesse smiled up at her. “Will you?” she said. “That would be great. I have to read some stories and poetry too.”
“That’s the fun part,” Diana said. She picked up the romance novel from the table. “You don’t read books like this, do you?”
“Well, yes,” Jesse said. “They’re kind of interesting. Don’t you read them?”
Diana didn’t answer for a minute. She turned the book over, put it back down on the table, then smiled at Jesse. “I have a lot of respect for my brain, such as it is. I try not to put junk in it.”
Jesse looked at her for a minute, then laughed. “Suppose you help me learn pronouns, and I’ll help you with your swimming.”
“Sounds like a good summer,” Diana answered. She pulled her chair up to the table and opened the grammar book between them.

Produced in Salt Lake City in 2022, the demo video for ‘I See the Christ’ features vocalists Casey Elliot, from the musical trio Gentri, and Savannah Stevenson, a leading lady from London’s West End. They are accompanied by Jayne Galloway on piano and Grammy-nominated cellist, Nicole Pinnell.
Scott first saw Nicole play in the film adaptation of Rob Gardner’s musical production, Lamb of God, where, through her cello, she stunningly represented the voice of Christ. Following a prompting that spoke to his heart, Scott reached out to her via social media.
“I feel that Heavenly Father truly opened a door for me through Nicole’s incredible talent, generosity and connections,” Scott recalls. “I am so grateful that she had the heart to be willing to listen to my music.”
Nicole introduced Scott to Casey Elliot, and Scott reached out to Savannah Stevenson, also via social media, after seeing her perform on a Brigham Young University programme. Savannah sang the solo for, “Bring on Tomorrow,’ and in the duet, ‘I See the Christ’ with Casey.

My husband, Larry, and I enjoy eating out at a delicious Mexican restaurant called “Mi Ranchito.” We like it so much that I keep the number stored in my smartphone.
One afternoon, we decided to order takeout. I picked up my phone and casually said, “Hey, Siri! Call Mi Ranchito.”
Siri’s chic British voice responded immediately: “OK, Lisa! From now on, I will call you ‘Ranchito.’”
Larry and I burst into laughter. It was funny. Without missing a beat, Siri changed my name to Ranchito. From that moment on, my smartphone, my husband, my children, my grandchildren, and anyone else to whom Larry related the story began to call me Ranchito. No matter what I did, Siri refused to call me Lisa again.
At first the situation was entertaining. Soon it became annoying. And as I worked to restore my true name, it became alarming. I imagined the possibility of receiving texts, emails, and snail mail addressed to “Ranchito.” I imagined pollsters soliciting polling information from Ranchito over my phone and politicians inviting Ranchito to vote for them in the next election.
“Over a very short time,” I thought, “Lisa could drop out of existence, and Ranchito could take over my social identity.”
How frightening! Siri, who doesn’t know me, doesn’t care about me, and isn’t even a real person, had effortlessly stolen my name. As I tried to figure out how to restore it, I couldn’t help but think how, if I’m not mindful, I could let technology steal away my identity, reputation, and sense of self.
I also realized how technology’s many distractions can often lead us to forget our divine identities as children of God.
Thankfully, I was able to get Siri to change my name from Ranchito back to Lisa. But this experience taught me that my most important identity is that of disciple of Jesus Christ and child of God. So I will always choose to allow a prophet of God and the Holy Ghost, rather than Siri, Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram, Pinterest, or any other internet influence, to shape my identity and guide me along the covenant path to Jesus Christ!

Often our opportunities to show our love come unexpectedly. An example of such an opportunity appeared in a newspaper article in October 1981. So impressed was I with the love and compassion related therein that I have kept the clipping in my files for over 30 years.

The article indicates that an Alaska Airlines nonstop flight from Anchorage, Alaska, to Seattle, Washington—a flight carrying 150 passengers—was diverted to a remote Alaskan town in order to transport a gravely injured child. The two-year-old boy had severed an artery in his arm when he fell on a piece of glass while playing near his home. The town was 450 miles (725 km) south of Anchorage and was certainly not on the flight path. However, medics at the scene had sent out a frantic request for help, and so the flight was diverted to pick up the child and take him to Seattle so that he could be treated in a hospital.

When the flight touched down near the remote town, medics informed the pilot that the boy was bleeding so badly he could not survive the flight to Seattle. A decision was made to fly another 200 miles (320 km) out of the way to Juneau, Alaska, the nearest city with a hospital.

After transporting the boy to Juneau, the flight headed for Seattle, now hours behind schedule. Not one passenger complained, even though most of them would miss appointments and connecting flights. In fact, as the minutes and hours ticked by, they took up a collection, raising a considerable sum for the boy and his family.

As the flight was about to land in Seattle, the passengers broke into a cheer when the pilot announced that he had received word by radio that the boy was going to be all right.

Last June, I was on an assignment to South America. We were on a tight 10-day schedule visiting Colombia, Peru, and Ecuador. An enormous earthquake had killed hundreds, injured tens of thousands, damaged and destroyed homes and communities in the Ecuadorian cities of Portoviejo and Manta. I felt prompted to add to our schedule a visit to members living in those cities. With damage to the roads, we weren’t sure we could get there. In fact, we had been told we could not get there, but the prompting would not go away. Consequently, we were blessed and were able to visit both cities.

With such short notice, I expected that only a few local priesthood leaders would attend the hastily organized gatherings. However, we arrived at each stake center to find the chapels filled all the way back to the stage. Some who attended were the stalwarts of the region, the pioneers who had held fast to the Church, encouraging others to join them in worship and to feel the Spirit in their lives. Sitting on the front rows were the members who had lost loved ones and neighbors in the earthquake. I felt prompted to bestow an apostolic blessing upon all who were in attendance, one of my very first given. Though I was standing at the front of that room, it was as if my hands were on each of their heads, and I felt the words of the Lord pouring forth.

It didn’t end there. I felt prompted to speak to them just as Jesus Christ had done when visiting the people in the Americas. “He took their little children … and blessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them.” We were in Ecuador, we were about our Father’s business, and these were His children.

Nigerians like to say that they live under “a fierce African sun.” Temperatures near the equator vary only slightly regardless of the season. So when we had our all-Africa service project in August, we began at 7:00 a.m. in order to get as much as possible done in the cooler morning hours.
With shovels, rakes, and machetes, we got to work clearing weeds and hauling trash from the vacant lot near our Yaba Ward building in the Lagos Nigeria Stake. After working for three hours, we had cleared about three acres (1.2 ha) of the four-acre (1.6 ha) lot.
“What do you think of rounding off with this small section and scheduling another day to finish clearing the lot?” the bishop asked.
Overhearing the bishop, Emmanuel, the teachers quorum president, expressed disappointment.
“If we leave this section undone, none of the youth will feel that they have done much today,” he said. “Please, let’s finish.”
Because the weeds were about six feet (1.8 m) high in most places, they obstructed our view and made it difficult to determine how much remained.
“Brother Hill, let’s see how long it might take you and me to clear a narrow path, maybe only two feet wide,” Emmanuel said. “If we can do it quickly, others may see that it is possible to finish sooner than they might imagine.”
The young men, divided in two groups, had been working on opposite ends of the lot all day. No one had broken through the maze of weeds to the other side. With an aching back, I went to my knees to find some relief while continuing to hack away at the weeds with a machete. Worried, some youth came to see if they could help and then pitched in when they saw Emmanuel and me working toward each other. Within minutes we had broken through to each other, and a small cheer went up. Seeing the breakthrough, others began working in pairs doing the same thing.
In less than an hour, we finished. Beaming with satisfaction, we congratulated each other—especially Emmanuel, who had literally provided a path for others to follow.
The bishop and I thought that we, in our age and wisdom, knew what these young men could accomplish. We saw only hot, tired boys, but Emmanuel saw an opportunity for his friends to build dignity and confidence. He knew that exerting extra effort would bring greater satisfaction to them than finishing the job later. He reminded us of the strength of the youth of the Church and how we all benefit when they contribute and lead.
I realized that we don’t need to wait for our youth to grow up—they can make a difference now if we let them.

After that devastating wildfire, I was contacted by local firefighters, who said they had received a box in the mail. It was from a 10-year-old boy in Chicago, Illinois. He had sent his favorite toy to be given to a boy in our community who had lost his home in the fires. He included a note saying he had watched our city burn and wanted to do something to help.
I’ve often thought of that child. What made a young boy across the country want to actually do something? And that little action blessed the lives of many along the path to getting that toy to the boy in our community who had lost all his toys.
It was the simple question, “What can I do about this?” and he did it!

The officers of the 15-year-old class in a ward had determined to increase activity among their age group. One girl on their list had been listening to all the wrong voices, and when she openly sinned, her irate mother had refused to let her daughter come home to live. The girl dropped out of church, school, and decent living. The class consulted with their bishop and then approached the Young Women president with a deal. If she’d take the desperate young woman into her home, they would contribute support money each month by selling cakes and baby sitting. She agreed and a life was changed.

Much like Angela and Annette, Marco Dauphin is eager to spread the gospel by sharing it with anyone who will listen. Marco is pretty much like any young man his age, with a passion for basketball and a quick, easy smile. But there is something a little different about him, too. He is a leader. He introduces his friends and family to things he thinks are good and uplifting. He knows how to include everyone and make each person feel comfortable. When he first met the missionaries a few years ago, he immediately knew they had something special—something he wanted to have, too.

“I remember learning from the missionaries about the Second Coming,” he says. “I loved it.”

Soon he was ready for baptism, and so was his younger brother, Derek. Younger sister Sandra soon followed. His youngest sister, Tina, was too young then but has since been baptized. But Marco’s older sister, Rosenelle, wasn’t so sure that joining the Church was a good idea.

“I was strong in my belief that the Church was not true,” says Rosenelle.

But at Marco’s urging, Rosenelle continued to meet with the missionaries, never committing to baptism but never completely rejecting the idea either.

“I never gave up,” says Marco. “I knew it would happen.”

And it did. While reading the Book of Mormon one afternoon, Rosenelle read about Alma the Younger. Soon she was thinking about her own life and the direction it was taking. She prayed for a long time that day and started to have some feelings that she couldn’t quite describe.

“Marco told me it was the Spirit,” says Rosenelle. “I knew he was right. I became converted and was baptized. I haven’t ever regretted it.”

About two years later, I was praying one night when a thought entered my mind: “What about a mission?” I dismissed the idea as impossible. After all, I had signed a contract and was enlisted to serve in the army for a set amount of time. The next night the same thing happened, and I shrugged it off again. But when the thought came back for the third consecutive night, I decided to ask Heavenly Father about it.
“If I really am supposed to serve a mission, help me know what to do,” I pleaded.
About 10 minutes later I was lying in my bunk when someone knocked on the door. It was my elders quorum president, looking a little uncomfortable.
Somewhat sheepishly he said, “I’m not exactly sure why, but for the past three nights the Spirit has prompted me to tell you that you are supposed to serve a mission. Tonight the prompting was so strong that there was no way I could ever think of sleeping without telling you.”
I knew my answer, and so I started to act on it. I knew it’s extremely hard to get permission to take a two-year break from the army, but after much effort and many small miracles, I was finally granted leave for two years to serve a mission. I received my call to the Alaska Anchorage Mission, where I’m now serving.

Some of our most stalwart and faithful members have suffered a challenge to their faith for a season. I love the true account of W. W. Phelps, who had forsaken the Church and testified against the Prophet Joseph Smith in a Missouri court. After repenting, he wrote to Joseph, “I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me.” Joseph did forgive him, put him back to work, and lovingly wrote, “Friends at first are friends again at last.”

One afternoon while my mom was reading the Church News, I saw a picture of a child who looked sick. I asked my mom why he looked that way. My mom told me that it was a picture of a child in Ethiopia, and that he did not have enough to eat. He was starving. I asked my mom if we could go to the grocery store and buy some food for him. My mom explained that children who are starving need to eat special food that we could not buy at the grocery store. But she told me that we could give money to the bishop at church, and he would make sure that it would help people in need, including the children in Ethiopia. I ran to my room and brought back a bag full of money from my piggy bank.
When we arrived at church on Sunday, my mom took me to get a tithing envelope. Together my mom and I filled out the donation slip. We listed the amount of money I had brought in the “humanitarian aid” line of the donation slip. I couldn’t wait to give my envelope to the bishop. It made me feel good to share what I have with others.

The summer before my senior year of high school, my father was looking for work. After speaking with my mother, he approached me one day and explained that he had found a job that would meet our family’s financial needs but that he would have to work in San Jose, California. We lived in New Hampshire, some 3,000 miles (4,800 km) away, and because of the economic climate at the time, we would not be able to sell our house and move to California. He would just commute back and forth across the United States.
I told my dad I supported his decision to accept the position. Because he would be able to fly home only every other weekend, my “support” included assuming some of his responsibilities at home. I had to be “the man of the house,” he told me.
Although I was generally an obedient son, I think I—like many teens—failed to grasp just how much my parents really did for our family. But with this transition, my perspective, attitude, and behavior slowly began to change.
The changes were subtle at first—for example, I started making more of an effort to keep the house clean, help my younger sister with homework, and take the lead in home teaching our assigned families. I sacrificed a lot of personal time as well, even temporarily halting progress on my band’s CD. I began to mature. I began to trust in the Lord more to keep myself organized and motivated daily.
Not all the changes were daily and subtle, of course. In autumn, as the last leaves fell from the trees and frost replaced the dew on my car each morning, I knew big trials were coming.
Winters in New Hampshire are long, cold, and abounding in snow. My family has a relatively large driveway that needs to be shoveled after every snowfall. We had a tractor that had been converted into a snowblower, which should have made the job a lot easier. However, the tractor was quite finicky in starting and tended to break a drive belt almost every time we used it. Needless to say, I spent many hours that winter keeping the driveway and sidewalks clean. I balanced my duties at home with my job teaching private music lessons and with carrying a heavy school course load. Looking back, I know I could not have done all this from my own strength; I had to rely on the Lord.
That experience was just a single event, but there were many others culminating in my change of perspective. In that year of living in my father’s shoes, I gained a tremendous new appreciation for everything my parents do for me. Just thinking about their love for me now brings tears to my eyes.
Perhaps one of my greatest realizations, however, was that many of these changes were things I could have—and should have—been doing all along. I didn’t have to wait for my dad to work on the other side of the country to realize that daily service could lighten my parents’ burden or that each kind act could make my family more unified and more receptive to the Holy Ghost, leading to more peace, happiness, and comfort.
My experience, as powerful as it was, has taught me not to wait until I find myself thrust into another’s shoes to start appreciating them. Fortunately, that is not the only way to empathize with and appreciate others—through service and strong communication we can learn to see the world from another’s point of view. I am grateful that I had this experience and have made more of an effort to recognize all that my parents do for me, thank them, express my love to them, and show that love by joining in their efforts to serve the entire family.

Jim Gregory often has a problem: too few people for too many jobs. It’s not an unusual situation for an LDS Sunday School president, but Jim’s case is unusual; he is 17 and a priest in the Henderson [Kentucky] Branch.
The Henderson Branch is small—only 150 members. Filling Church positions within a small branch is a real task for Jim. Also, the goals of the Sunday School give him an added challenge.
“It’s difficult, and yet rewarding, to have this calling. The Sunday School is the one organization that deals with the family as a whole,” says Jim. “I’ve learned that you have to always keep your faith and everything will work out right.”
Before his call to the Sunday School presidency, Jim served as teachers quorum president and as assistant to the president of the priests quorum. Jim is also a certified lifeguard instructor and swimming teacher. Football, hunting, and camping keep him busy too. After graduating from high school he plans to study music in college and fill a mission.

Even though they have at least four years before they will be old enough to serve, Brett Roper, 14, and Ben Holdaway, 15, are determined to serve missions when they turn 19. Both of these young men look at the missionary board often. They especially like seeing pictures of their older brothers on the board.
Ben Holdaway likes to think about where he might be called to serve a mission. His brother Ryan served his mission in Jacksonville, Florida, and his brother Jacob* will soon serve in Montevideo, Uruguay. Both Ryan and Jacob feel the board helped them make their decision to serve a mission. As Jacob describes, “The missionary board helps you answer the question about serving a mission so much earlier than when you are a priest. It helps you answer it when you are a deacon.”

Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.