Gospel Story Finder

I received a similar letter from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, from a woman who said: “At the age of 19, I sat next to a sweet grandmother in Relief Society and learned to knit. She also was learning to knit. Over the years, I learned of bread making, of strength and perseverance. I learned that my toddler was just being a normal two-year-old, and I learned of a Heavenly Father who loves me. I learned to teach, to hug, to lead, and to follow.”

When it was announced in 2002 that missionary work would become the responsibility of the bishops, I marveled. I’d been one. It seemed to me they were already carrying a load close to their limits in ministering to the members and directing the organizations in the ward.

One bishop I knew saw it not as an added duty but as an opportunity to draw the ward together in a great cause where every member became a missionary. He called a ward mission leader. He met with the missionaries himself every Saturday to learn about their work, to encourage them, and to learn about the progress of their investigators. The ward council found ways for organizations and quorums to use service experiences as missionary preparation. And as a judge in Israel, he helped young people feel the blessings of the Atonement to keep them pure.

Recently I asked how he explained the surge of convert baptisms in his ward and the increase in the number of young people ready and eager to take the gospel of Jesus Christ out to the world. He said it seemed to him that it was not so much the duty anyone performed but the way they all became one in their enthusiasm to bring people into the community of Saints that had brought them such happiness.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake

Even when our faith is weak, the Lord’s hand will always be stretched out. Years ago I received the assignment to reorganize a stake in Nigeria. At the last minute, there was a change in the date. There was a man in the stake who had decided to skip town for the first conference date. He did not want to risk being called as the stake president.
While he was away, he was in a terrible accident, but he was unharmed. This caused him to consider why his life had been spared. He revisited the decision he had made. He repented and humbly attended the new conference date. And yes, he was called to be the new stake president.

In my senior year of high school, my dad taught me seminary in our home. Because the topic that year was the Book of Mormon, my dad decided that we would read it together, verse by verse, and discuss what we learned. As we read, my dad would ask questions that got me thinking about what we were reading, and he would explain things I didn’t understand. I still remember learning about the Savior and sensing that He really did visit the Nephites and that I really could be forgiven of my sins because of His Atonement.
I trace my foundation in the scriptures to those sessions my dad and I had together. I felt something as we read. And maybe more important, my desires, motivations, and actions changed. I wanted to be better. I began to see where I was being deceived. I repented more often. By the end of my freshman year of college, I was reading the scriptures every day.
Around this time, President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) asked Church members to read the Book of Mormon daily and apply what they learned.3 So, in addition to whatever else I was reading, I read at least something from the Book of Mormon.
On my mission I learned how to really study and feast upon the scriptures. Not only did I feel the Holy Ghost as I read, but I also started to feel joy as I searched the scriptures to find answers to my problems and those of my investigators.
After my mission, I continued to feast upon the scriptures daily. Because this practice invited the Holy Ghost into my life, I received His direction to help me use my time more efficiently. As a result, I did better in school and, later, at work. It became easier to make good decisions. I prayed more and was more diligent in fulfilling my callings. Feasting upon the scriptures daily didn’t solve all my problems, but life was easier.
In August 2005, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) issued a challenge to read or reread the Book of Mormon before the end of the year.4 Because I was reading from the Book of Mormon daily anyway, I was already in Ether or Moroni. Consequently, upon finishing a week or two later, I concluded that I had completed President Hinckley’s challenge.
But then a faithful home teacher came to visit our family. He asked how I was doing with President Hinckley’s invitation.
I told him that I had the good fortune of having started the Book of Mormon before President Hinckley’s challenge. Then, with some self-righteousness, I announced that I had completed the task.
Fortunately, my home teacher saw things differently. As he gently corrected me, the Spirit whispered to me that my home teacher was right.
Now I had to read two chapters a day to finish again by the end of the year. As I increased how much I read in the Book of Mormon, I noticed that even more power came into my life. I had more joy. I saw things more clearly. I repented even more frequently. I wanted to minister to and rescue others. I was less susceptible to Satan’s deceptions and temptations. I loved the Savior more.
That November I was called to be the bishop of our ward. Completing President Hinckley’s challenge prepared me for that calling. Since then, I have noticed that the busier I become either at work or at church, the more I need to study the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon.
You can have the same blessings and power in your life if you too will feast upon the scriptures daily. I promise that if you will feast upon the scriptures daily, especially the Book of Mormon, you will invite the Spirit into your life and you will naturally pray daily, repent more often, and find it easier to attend church and partake of the sacrament weekly.
I testify that as you do the small things and trust the Lord, you can find love, joy, peace, and happiness regardless of your circumstances. I also testify that this is made possible because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. All good things come because of Him (see Moroni 7:22, 24).

DJ walked out of the church building with the other kids who had come to the Saturday activity. They’d already had a lot of fun. He couldn’t wait to see what was next.
Brother and Sister Jones led the group to the back parking lot. A bunch of plastic chairs were set up in a really weird arrangement—not in rows at all.
“So,” Brother Jones said, clapping his hands together and smiling, “who wants to try our obstacle course?”
DJ’s hand shot up. Awesome! He loved obstacle courses! This one looked kind of easy, but that was OK. It would still be cool.
Sister Jones nodded to DJ, then turned to the other kids. “You’ll all have a chance,” she said with a smile. “But I’m afraid it’s not as easy as it looks.”
She pulled a blindfold from her pocket.
DJ stared at the blindfold, then back at the chairs. This was going to be a lot harder than he’d thought.
“Don’t worry, DJ,” Brother Jones said. “You’ll have help. Who would like to be DJ’s helper?”
This time his friend Sam’s hand went up first. Sister Jones sent Sam to the other side of the obstacle course. “OK, Sam, your job is to tell DJ how to get through without running into any chairs. If he needs to go left, right, back, or forward, you tell him. Understand?”
“Yup!” Sam said.
Brother Jones placed a hand on DJ’s shoulder. “DJ, listen closely to Sam’s voice. If you bump into a chair, you’ll have to take three steps back and keep trying. Ready?”
“I think so,” DJ said. It still sounded fun, but he was starting to wish he hadn’t volunteered first. He’d probably bump into at least two or three chairs.
Brother Jones tied on the blindfold. “Good luck!”
“OK,” Sam said. “Walk forward three steps.” DJ started moving his feet. It felt so strange, walking in the dark like that.
“Now another two steps,” Sam said. “Yeah. Now one more. Good. Now turn left.”
As DJ kept dodging the chairs, he started feeling confident.
“Turn right,” Sam said a minute later. But DJ didn’t listen right away. He thought for sure he remembered a straight path right about there. He could get through faster if he kept going the way he was headed. He took a step or two without turning.
“Wait,” Sam said. “I said turn right!”
“I will in just a—” DJ bumped right into a chair. It slid across the ground. Oops …
“That’s OK,” Brother Jones said. “Just back up and try again.”
DJ felt silly. He should have listened to Sam. He carefully backed up three steps.
This time Sam talked him all the way through without another bump. The other kids clapped as DJ took off his blindfold and gave Sam a high five.
Sister Jones pointed at the chairs. “Our lives can be like this obstacle course,” she said. “It’s not always easy to see problems on our own. But we have a helper too. Can anybody tell me who that helper is?”
Shayla raised her hand. “The Holy Ghost!” she said.
Brother Jones nodded. “Exactly. He can help us avoid hidden dangers. Now who’s next?” All the other kids raised their hands at once.
DJ decided right then that he would always listen to the Holy Ghost. He knew then he would be safe from hidden dangers.

My orthodontist told me I needed to have four teeth pulled. My permanent teeth were ready to come in, but my baby teeth were not yet loose. I was very frightened. That same day, the September 2008 Friend arrived. There was a letter in it from a girl my age who went through a similar experience. She said a prayer to help her get through it, and all she felt was a small tug as her teeth were pulled.

It made me feel better to know that someone else had gone through the same thing. Before I went to the dentist, I said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to comfort me. Like the girl who wrote the letter, all I felt were a few tugs and the teeth were out. I know Heavenly Father can help us when we have difficulties.

This story happened in the USA.
Olivia hurried out of her classroom before school was over. She tried not to look anyone in the eyes.
Today was Olivia’s first day of therapy. Her mom explained that she would be meeting with a doctor who could help her with her worries. Olivia felt worried a lot. Sometimes she felt so worried that it was hard to sleep or have fun with her friends.
Olivia got in the car with Mom and slouched in her seat.
“Are you OK?” Mom asked.
Olivia didn’t answer for a moment. “Why do I have to go to the doctor?”
Mom started driving. “Heavenly Father gives us doctors to help us. Just like how He gives us other things to help us, like friends and the scriptures. Do you remember the scripture chain we made?”
Olivia nodded. Mom had helped her find scripture verses that helped with her worries. At each verse, Mom wrote where to find the next one. When Olivia was worried at night, she would say a prayer and find one of the verses in the scriptures. Then she’d read the other verses in the chain until she could sleep.
When Olivia and Mom walked into the doctor’s office, Dr. Posy introduced herself. She asked Olivia about her feelings. Olivia told her a little bit about her worries.
“A lot of people have something called anxiety,” Dr. Posy said. “They get worried a lot like you do. But you can do some things to help you feel less worried. Can you try one of them with me?”
Olivia looked at her shoes and nodded.
Dr. Posy handed Olivia a little box. “This is a worry box. It keeps our worries safe, so we don’t have to think about them.”
Olivia turned the box over in her hands. It didn’t look like anything special.
“Next time you feel afraid, write your worry on a piece of paper and put it in the box,” Dr. Posy said. “Then pick a time to open the box every day for worry time. If you worry about anything before worry time, say, ‘I don’t need to think about this right now.’”
“OK,” Olivia said. Dr. Posy helped her write her biggest worries, and Olivia tucked them into the box.
Later that day, one of Olivia’s worries popped into her head. It’s in the worry box, she told herself. I can worry about that later. She tried to stop thinking about it. She played with her brother instead.
When it was time for bed, Olivia felt nervous. Nighttime was when her worries got the worst. She put her worry box and her scriptures by her bed and called for Mom.
“What if it doesn’t work?” she asked.
Mom gave her a hug. “Then we keep trying. Heavenly Father will help you find other ways that help.”
Olivia nodded. “Maybe I should write that down for the worry box too.”
“Great idea,” Mom said. She said a prayer with Olivia. That helped Olivia feel a little better.
A little while after Mom turned off the lights, a worry popped into Olivia’s head. She turned on her lamp. She wrote down the worry and put it in the box for later. She said another prayer to ask Heavenly Father to comfort her.
Then she opened her scriptures and looked for a highlighted verse from her scripture chain. The first one she found was Isaiah 41:10. It said, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee.”
Next to the verse, Mom had written “Doctrine and Covenants 6:36.” Olivia searched for that scripture and read it out loud. “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.”
Olivia felt peaceful. She knew she would probably think of more worries. But Heavenly Father had given her lots of things to help her feel better. He had answered her prayers. And that helped a lot!
Turn the page to make a scripture chain, like Olivia did!
Illustrations by Jennifer Naalchigar

One day, I turned to my father for advice. Because of his training as a psychiatrist, I knew he wouldn’t be too critical of his son-in-law. His first words were like a bucket of cold water over me: “Martha, if you continue like this, you could drive your husband away.”

My jaw dropped. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. This wasn’t going at all as I had expected.

He held up his hand to ward off my indignation. “Just let me explain. Not long ago, I counseled a Latter-day Saint woman who had left a basically good marriage. She felt her husband wasn’t living all the Church standards. Years of nagging and pleading hadn’t changed him. She thought that if she left him, he would change his ways in order to win her back. She never suspected that he would find someone else who loved and respected him as he was. He remarried happily after their divorce, and she was devastated.”

Nikki and Breck Fullmer quarreled constantly. Most of their fights were about Nikki borrowing Breck’s T-shirts, and Nikki enduring Breck’s music. Nikki and Breck were both looking for a way out of their conflicts when they decided to participate in their stake’s “Time Alone” experiment.

Nikki knew her brother gulped gallons of soda pop every week, so she invited him to go get a drink with her. He thought it was a fine arrangement, since she was buying. After the soda they talked and drove around for an hour. After just one rendezvous Nikki said, “He’s at a stage where he’ll do just about anything to be cool. And now he thinks it’s cool to be with me.”

I watched Jason dribble the ball down the court, weaving around two players from the other team while I tried to outrun the one guarding me. Jason leaped toward the side of the basket and shot. The ball teetered on the rim for a second before it dropped through the net.
“Go, Jason, go!” cheered a crowd of little kids. I should have felt happy because our team, the Jets, had finally tied the score. But I didn’t want to hear Jason’s name anymore. He always scored the most points and caught the most rebounds—and got the most cheers.
The big red numbers on the clock showed only one minute left in the game when Dave passed the ball to me. The court was clear. I dribbled the ball down the sideline, the sound of thundering footsteps close behind. I jumped as high as I could and shot, trying to bounce the ball off the backboard and into the net. It hit the rim and bounced off. So who caught the rebound? Jason. Who scored the winning basket? Jason.
It wasn’t easy being in the same fifth-grade class and on the same basketball team as a superstar. All the second and third graders knew Jason. They ran up to him on the playground and crowded around him like a fan club. I’d be famous, too, if I scored 15 points a game. Secretly I wished Jason would disappear. Then one day he did!
“Jason has to have his tonsils out,” Mrs. Litten told our class. “He’s going to be out of school for at least a week.”
Dave groaned. “Now we’re going to get trampled by the Kings,” he whispered to me loudly. “Our team will never win without Jason.”
“Maybe,” I whispered back. Mrs. Litten gave me a look that said, “Be quiet and do your work.” I tried to concentrate on my spelling words, but I kept thinking that maybe I’d finally have a chance to be the star. Maybe now the kids would shout, “Go, Taylor!”
Basketball practice was a disaster, however. I practiced shooting from the free-throw line, and only one ball swished through. And when I tried dribbling fast, I tripped over the ball. But I didn’t give up. I started practicing my free throws again. It wasn’t going to be easy to be famous.
On Wednesday, Mrs. Litten asked me to stay after class, and I wondered what I’d done wrong.
“Taylor, I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes?” I was curious now.
“Would you fill in for Jason tomorrow and Friday? He goes to the second-grade classes after lunch to help them with their schoolwork. They’re missing him.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Litten smiled. “You’re a good student.”
“Sure.” But I wondered what I was getting myself into.
The next day I walked into a second-grade class after gulping down my sandwich. When I saw all those faces staring at me, I was nervous. The teacher introduced me and told them that I played basketball with Jason. Suddenly everyone was asking me questions, and the time passed quickly.
Right before I left, little Angelica gave me a hug. “Tell me your name again,” she said.
“Taylor,” I repeated for the zillionth time—but I didn’t mind one bit. In fact, I felt fantastic!
“I need to know your name so I can cheer for you,” Angelica told me. “Just like for Jason.”
That’s when I figured it out. All the kids knew Jason because he helped them. It really had little to do with basketball! I thought that over.
That afternoon I had my own little cheering section at the game. I started grinning, but I wasn’t thinking about being famous. Instead, I was planning to bring some dinosaur stickers for Robby and a book about kittens to show Angelica. I planned to tell Mrs. Litten that I wanted to keep volunteering, even when Jason came back.
“Go, Taylor!” shouted Angelica, and I was glad I’d learned that some things are much better than being a basketball superstar!

From the back patio of my home in Hawaii, I could see the outdoor basketball court in the corner of the playground of Laie Elementary School. Lengthwise, the rough asphalt court was regulation size with standard ten-foot baskets at each end. Two shorter courts, each with lower eight-foot baskets, ran across its width.
Most afternoons, players of all ages, sizes, and colors jammed the court. But they didn’t play on the regulation baskets. They played on the eight-footers. With the shorter court and the lower standards, their fast breaks often ended in twisting two-handed slam dunks.
I wondered why so many kids would choose the lower hoops over the regulation ones, and this reason stood out: Who wouldn’t prefer a slam dunk over a jump shot?
I have to admit that I’ve played on that same court a few times myself, driving around my ten-year-old son to swoop down on the low basket with a rim-rattling dunk. Jonathan would be duly impressed by my leaping ability. And for a fleeting moment playing above the rim made me feel a little like Shaquille O’Neal or Patrick Ewing.
It was a good feeling.
But then we’d move to the ten-foot hoops, and I became a grounded bird; the rim seemed miles over my head, far, far out of range. All my shots would be off, ricocheting from the rim in weird angles. I’d have to play on the regular baskets for quite a while to get my shooting eye back. But no matter how much I played on the regulation hoops, I never did feel like an NBA giant. I just felt like a regular guy, hoping a combination of luck, wind currents, and my aim would guide the ball through the hoop.
Even though it was a blast skying over the eight-foot baskets to stuff in shots or snatch rebounds right off the rim, playing on the lower standards always hurt my ability to play on the standard baskets. Eventually, I wised up. Whenever Jonathan managed to get me to shoot around with him at the school court, I ignored the lower baskets, knowing that even though they might be fun, in the long run, they wouldn’t do my meager basketball skills a bit of good.

My mother’s father, Grandfather Thomas Condie, also taught me a powerful lesson which involved this same Old Bob, who came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his 80s when the house in which he rented a room was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front-porch swing of my grandfather. With a plaintive voice, he said to Grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have little money.” I wondered how Grandfather would answer.

We just kept rocking the swing. Then Grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it an old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob.

Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move your things in. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay, and nobody will ever put you out again.”

Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood 10 feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has had a powerful influence on my life.

By Jacqueline Wittwer
When water poured into the basement of the Congregational Church one Sunday after days of heavy rain, Yarmouth Branch members stopped their sacrament meeting and hurried to the basement to save furniture, books, and other valuables from ruin. David Quinn and his friend Marc Johnson—still in their Sunday best—jumped in, literally, to help.
They were laughing and having a wonderful time, even though their clothes were soaked through. What mattered was that a job needed to be done. They made the best of a bad situation. They helped me see the importance of a good attitude through life’s daily challenges.

What could a 17-year-old priest in Orem, Utah, possibly have in common with Julius Caesar? He isn’t a general leading his legions to conquer the world, nor is he a rich eccentric, strolling in splendor through marble palaces. The tall, dark-haired youth breeds racers (homers)—the elite of the pigeon family.
Possessed with a strong instinct to return home, and with important messages strapped to their feet, the prize pigeons of Rome allowed Caesar to maintain communication with the vassal kingdoms scattered throughout his vast empire. Today, flying in the domain of the majestic Rocky Mountains, a similar flock cuts and threads the patchwork sky of Utah Valley. In aerial acrobatics, the birds slice into breathtaking dives and twist to reverse directions without loss of speed or bearing. They whip into a large circle, beating their wings faster and faster as they soar up the winding staircase of the wind.
Every day the ritual is the same. They are training, building strength and endurance for the day when they will have to fly hundreds of miles across Utah to return to their loft nestled among the cherry and apple orchards that blanket the valley. Sitting in the deep grass near the loft, Harold J. Madsen scrutinizes the flock overhead with the concern of an Olympic coach. A young bird forgets to lift its feet and nose dives onto a roof. “Still a little young,” Harold explains. “The key to training is to get the pigeon to recognize the loft as home, so it will always return. By letting it fly from the loft every day for a few weeks, it becomes oriented and is ready to go greater distances.”
Harold steps into the loft and gently wrestles a proud bluish-gray pigeon into his large hands. By his care and caution, it can quickly be seen that this is one of his prized possessions. The bird squirms with powerful jerks of wing and claw, struggling to be free. Harold gives it a gentle thrust into the air, and with three strokes of its wings, the pigeon glides into perfect rhythm with the circling flock overhead.
The hope and dream of victory in a future race glistens in Harold’s eyes as he nods toward the flock swooping into the sun. “I have 12 birds that I’ve taken 25 miles away, and they’ve returned. We’ll go the same distance a few more times, and then I’ll take them 40 miles and longer.”
This intense training is important because in a race, the pigeon is flying against itself. The birds don’t start from the same spot, since pigeon raisers live in different areas. Each bird begins an equal distance from its loft, and the first bird to return to its loft is the winner. Once the pigeon is through the trapdoor, it is considered “home,” and many races have been lost by birds that sit outside the loft after returning.
Speaking with the happy wink of a coach telling the secrets of his athlete’s success, Harold explains that daily exercise and orientation to the loft are not the only keys to great racers. Proper diet, clean drinking water, adequate ventilation, and sanitary loft conditions are all essential to the strength and endurance of pigeons.
The cost of feeding and taking care of pigeons runs about the same as dogs and other pets. Harold estimates that a 50-pound bag of feed will last 20 pigeons almost two months. Pigeons are especially fond of a combination of grains, including wheat, beans, chick peas, and crushed corn.
Picking up a yellow water bowl covered with gunk and grime, Harold sighs in exasperation. “I have to change the water daily, since they all pile in and mess it up.” Pigeons love bathing, and after a good workout in the sun, they rival any locker room antics as they fight to get in the water. “Sometimes, they jump three on top of each other trying to get in.”
Harold’s normally cheery face suddenly becomes cloudy, and he cautions that pigeons are susceptible to certain diseases and only careful observation will prevent disease from spreading to the entire flock. If a bird seems to be sick, it is best to isolate the bird and then contact a poultry farmer or veterinarian to determine proper treatment.
Pointing to a silverish band on the ankle of his pigeons, Harold gives another word of caution. “Without a band, a bird cannot be entered in a race or fair. It also helps distinguish the birds from wild pigeons, and since good birds sell for over $30, the price of a bird without a band is cut drastically.” (Bands and registration information can be obtained by writing James R. Larimore, P.O. Box 3488, Orange, California 92665.)
Like so many coaches and trainers, Harold’s relationship with his “athletes” goes beyond the grueling training program. A deep bond of love has developed between Harold and his pigeons. Twiddling a blade of grass in his fingers, Harold gives some insight as to why he feels the way he does. “Pigeons all have different personalities. Some are shy; some are bold. You get to know a little about each one.
“It sounds stupid,” he says with a grin while shrugging his shoulders, “but when I was in Egypt for a year with my family, I didn’t miss my friends or anybody else; I just missed my pigeons?”
Watching Harold train and work with his pigeons, it is not hard to see why he feels the way he does. There are no sharp squeaks or loud squawks, only soft cooing, a sincere invitation for friendship. Everywhere there is a feeling of peace and tranquility. No wonder over 4,000 years ago the Egyptian Pharoahs idolized pigeons as “the nestlings of heaven.”

Another experience illustrating his love for family occurred at the death of his firstborn, a little daughter, Mercy Josephine, whom he affectionately referred to as “Dodo.” Little Dodo died when she was three. After watching over her night after night, holding her, and encouraging her, Elder Smith grieved when she went sleepless one entire night. The next morning when she said, “I’ll sleep tonight, papa,” the words “shot through my heart.” Shortly thereafter, she died.
He expressed the sorrow of his heart in a letter: “I scarcely dare to trust myself to write, even now my heart aches, and my mind is all chaos; if I should murmur, may God forgive me, my soul has been and is tried with poignant grief, my heart is bruised and wrenched almost asunder. I am desolate, my home seems desolate and almost dreary … my own sweet Dodo is gone! I can scarcely believe it and my heart asks, can it be? I look in vain, I listen, no sound, I wander through the rooms, all are vacant, lonely, desolate, deserted. I look down the garden walk, peer around the house, look here and there for a glimpse of a little golden, sunny head and rosy cheeks, but no, alas, no pattering little footsteps. No beaming little black eyes sparkling with love for papa; no sweet little enquiring voice … no soft dimpled hands clasping me around the neck, no sweet rosy lips returning in childish innocence my fond embrace and kisses, but a vacant little chair. Her little toys are concealed, her clothes put by, and only the one desolate thought forcing its crushing leaden weight upon my heart—she is not here, she is gone! … I am almost wild, and O God only knows how much I loved my girl, and she the light and joy of my heart.”
Forty-six years later, just two years before his own death, President Smith wrote in his journal, “This is the 49th anniversary of the birth of my firstborn child, Mercy Josephine. A most beautiful and intelligent little girl. She died June 6, 1870, nearly three years old, leaving but the memory of the sweetest, happiest, loveliest three years of my whole life up to that time. O how I loved and cherished that little angel of love and light.”

Hung Hseng Chr sat on the grass by the edge of the river and watched the water lapping on the rocks. The sun felt hot against his skin, and the air was thick and humid. A tear ran down his cheek, and he brushed it quickly away with the back of his hand.
Hseng Chr’s ancestors had lived in Taiwan for many years. He was proud of his people, for they had once been great warriors, and he wanted to be strong and brave, as they had been.
But it was hard to be brave when his sister, Hung Mei Lin, was so sick. She was in the hospital in Tai Tung, and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her except that she had a terrible fever. They had said that there was nothing more that they could do. The last time Hseng Chr had seen her, she had looked as still and frail as a bundle of old rice straw.
“Hello,” said a voice.
Hseng Chr looked up and saw the dark eyes and smiling face of Aunt Hung. She was his father’s sister, and she had recently joined a new church. Hseng Chr remembered that she had been taught by two young men who were called Mormon missionaries. Since that time, his aunt hadn’t visited them so often; every time she did, she and his father got into an argument about religion.
“Hello,” Hseng Chr answered her now in a listless voice.
His aunt sat on the grass beside him and gave him a big hug. He suddenly felt better, as he always did when she came to visit. “I was thinking about Mei Lin,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “So was I.”
“I don’t want her to die.”
His aunt gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to ask your father to let my friends give Mei Lin a blessing.”
Hseng Chr stared at his aunt in surprise. “A blessing?” he asked. “What is a blessing?”
“Well,” said his aunt slowly, as if she was trying to explain something very difficult. “A blessing is a special prayer given by men who hold the priesthood.”
Hseng Chr was even more confused. “What is the priesthood?”
“It is the power and authority to act in the name of God. These men—these friends of mine—will pray for Mei Lin, and if God wants her to live and if we believe that God can save her, she will live.”
A strange feeling came over the boy. It was as though something frightened him and exhilarated him at the same time. He knew that he wanted Mei Lin to have a priesthood blessing so that she would get well.
He waited on the grass as Aunt Hung walked toward the house. He watched as she opened the door and called Father’s name. He saw the stern face and stooped shoulders of his father as the door swung open, but he was too far away to hear the words that his aunt spoke. Father shook his head and turned away.
Aunt Hung talked some more, her hand on Father’s arm, her face turned up to his. Father shrugged his shoulders and went back inside the house. Aunt Hung came partway back and waved for Hseng Chr to follow. “He gave his permission,” she called. “Let’s hurry!”
A little while later he stood at his sister’s bedside while two young missionaries laid their hands on her head. As they spoke, a warm feeling came into his chest. When the blessing was over, he and his aunt walked home silently, the hot sun beating down upon their backs.
At suppertime Hseng Chr’s whole family went to visit Mei Lin, as they had at every suppertime for the past week. The boy had grown used to his stomach growling at him all the way to the hospital and back. He didn’t mind the hunger anymore, for lately when he ate, the food seemed to get stuck partway down.
Hseng Chr couldn’t keep from hurrying. The closer his family got to the hospital, the faster his feet moved. Finally he just couldn’t hold them back. He left Father and Mother behind with the younger children and ran the last block by himself. He dashed up the steps and into the hospital. He ran down the hallway and burst into Mei Lin’s room. He stopped. The bed was empty.
He stood for a long moment and stared, not believing his eyes: Mei Lin was sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking at pictures in a book. Her dark eyes were clear, her skin was back to its normal healthy color, and her arms no longer hung limply at her sides. Suddenly he realized that Aunt Hung had been right. There really was such a thing as power from God. He would see his aunt again soon and ask her to explain more about the priesthood.
Mei Lin looked up at him and smiled. Hseng Chr ran forward, his hands reaching for hers.

Vanwillam was a tailor with a shop by the river. He made cloaks and capes, skirts and shirts, while his friends laughed at him for the dull life he led. “Surely you can find a more interesting line of work,” they said. “Tailoring is so dull.”
“True,” Vanwillam replied. “But it’s a job that needs doing, and when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”
One day, as Vanwillam was about to take his first snip of black velvet, he heard the town crier outside. Curious, Vanwillam opened his window.
The town crier unrolled an impressive-looking scroll. “King Blander issues the following proclamation,” he announced. “A box containing the deed to the kingdom was stolen by his beautiful but wicked stepsister, Zelda. Whoever retrieves the deed from Zelda’s home in Peligro Swamp will be royally rewarded.”
He rolled up the scroll and hurried to the next corner.
Vanwillam slowly withdrew his head from the window. So Zelda had stolen the deed to the kingdom. It was hardly a surprise. She believed the kingdom was rightfully hers. With the deed, she might claim the right to rule, and nobody wanted her as queen.
Vanwillam looked at the velvet on his table. He’d promised to make a cloak for the Earl of Thomble. Still, how could he work when the kingdom was at risk? He was only a humble tailor, but he wasn’t the sort to sit idly by when danger threatened. So he packed the tools of his trade—the black velvet, scissors, a tape measure, buttons, and a needle and thread. Then he strode down the road to Peligro Swamp.
On the way he met several who had already tried to retrieve the deed. They laughed at his shortness and lack of weapons, warned of quicksand and alligators, and doubted that a tailor could succeed where knights had failed.
Nevertheless, he pressed on, determined to do what he could.
Peligro Swamp appeared ahead. It was dark and dank. Spanish moss hung like thick gray spiderwebs.
Mindful of the warnings he had received, he tied the scissors to his tape measure, then swung them over his head and let them fly. They landed in the swamp and sank—quicksand!
He pulled them back and hurled them again and again until he found solid ground. He stepped there, dropped a button, and swung again. Thus he made his way through the swamp to dry earth bordering a slimy green pond where a dozen ominous green shapes bobbed in the water.
Quickly he pulled out his needle and threaded it with sturdy button thread. As each of the alligators pulled itself to shore, drawn by the thought of a tailor lunch, Vanwillam grabbed its jaws and, with a few quick stitches, sewed each mouth shut. Soon there were a dozen angry alligators on the shore, thrashing their heads around.
A path led away from the pond. Shouldering his bag, Vanwillam followed it. Night was settling in when he found Zelda’s home. His knees quivered, but he straightened his back and knocked.
“My name’s Vanwillam,” he said when Zelda opened the door. “Word of your beauty reached me from afar.”
Zelda was suspicious, but it had been years since anyone had entertained her with such honeyed words.
“Why are you here?” she asked, letting him enter.
Vanwillam smiled modestly. “I’m a tailor, but I have yet to prove my skill in these parts. I need a beautiful woman for whom to sew an elegant cloak. Then, as people see her beauty, they also see my cloak. My reputation would be assured.”
“I won’t pay for a new cloak,” Zelda said.
“Pay?” Vanwillam put his hand to his heart. “You wound me! This would be a gift, naturally.”
Zelda hesitated, but greed overcame distrust. “Very well, but tomorrow you must be on your way. Don’t try to escape, for my alligators know my scent and will attack anyone else. I wonder that you made it here alive.”
Vanwillam measured Zelda, then cut the black velvet and sewed late into the night. At last he yawned, and Zelda sent him to sleep in the attic.
In the middle of the night Vanwillam crept downstairs. He hoped to find the box with the deed and escape while Zelda slept. He searched and searched, but the box wasn’t to be found. The only place he couldn’t search was Zelda’s bedroom. He tiptoed back upstairs to formulate a new plan.
The next day Vanwillam stitched and sewed, hemmed and tucked. Beneath his fingers appeared a cloak fit for a queen. Finally he called Zelda over. “Try it on,” he urged. “Nothing could enhance your beauty, but I hope that my cloak will at least not detract from it.”
He draped it over her shoulders. It fit perfectly, sweeping the floor in flowing darkness.
Vanwillam stroked his chin. “It still needs something,” he said. “Perhaps a silver brooch to hold it together at the neck?”
Zelda twirled, watching the cloak flare around her ankles.
“Fetch one from my bedroom at once,” she commanded.
Vanwillam darted to her room. On the dresser lay a clutter of jewelry and a wooden box. Inside the box was the missing deed. Quickly he tucked it under his hat, then hurried back with a stunning silver brooch. Zelda fastened it to the cloak, with nary a word of thanks.
“I must be going,” Vanwillam said. “I would be honored if you would wear the cloak soon and let it be known that I made it for you.” With that, he hurriedly gathered his things and headed out the door.
Zelda was too busy admiring herself to stop him. Or perhaps she was depending on the alligators. Vanwillam was approaching the slimy green pond when Zelda’s scream announced that she had discovered her loss.
Twelve miserable alligators slumped nearby. Quickly he cut the stitches holding their mouths closed, then ran.
He reached the quicksand as Zelda came into view. Jumping to the first button—solid ground—he turned to see what would happen.
“Attack!” Zelda screamed.
The alligators followed her instructions, but not as she had expected. She was wearing her new cloak, which still smelled strongly of the tailor, whom the alligators had reason to despise. She came to her senses just in time to flee back up the path.
Once safely through the quicksand, Vanwillam headed to the palace. He wasn’t an impressive sight, this short tailor with the muddy shoes, as he walked up to the throne. Still, he was well-received when he took off his hat and handed the king the deed to the kingdom.
“You’ve saved us from disaster,” the king said. “What would you have as your reward?”
Vanwillam bowed. “I didn’t do it for the reward, Your Highness. I did it for the kingdom. It was a job that needed doing, and when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the king said, shaking Vanwillam’s hand. “You may be hearing from me again.”
So Vanwillam returned to his tailor shop by the river and took out some velvet for the Earl of Thomble’s cloak. His friends still laughed at the dull life he led, but he just smiled.
“A tailor’s life isn’t often exciting,” he agreed. “But it’s a job that needs doing. And when there’s a job that needs doing, I’m willing to do it.”

Aaron traipsed along the hot, dusty road, pulling his wagon. The only sounds were the rattle of wheels over the lumpy ground and the clinking of coins in his pocket.
“Two dollars and 75 cents,” he thought. “Mrs. Murphy gave me much more than it costs to buy her a bag of flour and a sack of potatoes.”
Needing a rest, he sat in the shade of a wild olive tree on a stack of old fence posts in an empty field. He reached for his small canteen, emptied the last few drops of water into his mouth, and tossed the empty container back into the wagon.
A lizard crawled onto the end of one of the fence posts and stared at him. “It’s hot enough to turn even you belly up in the sun, you know that?” he told the reptile. “I guess that’s why you’re under this tree, like me.”
He pulled the coins from his pocket and eyed them. “Mrs. Murphy said this would be enough to buy what she needs,” he said, “which probably means she doesn’t expect anything back. Of course, she can hardly see enough to know a penny from a dime.”
Aaron squinted at the huge field of tall, dead weeds and twisted olive trees, their leaves almost glowing in the heat. “I’m sure Mrs. Murphy wouldn’t mind if I bought a tall glass of lemonade at the soda fountain. There will be enough money left over. Besides,” he reasoned, “I’ve earned it. It’s a half-mile between her place and town. She’s our neighbor, and I’m helping see to her needs, like Mom and Dad asked. But I have needs, too, like lemonade on a hot summer day. Since my canteen is empty, what choice do I have?”
He stood, and the lizard stiffened. “Even you lizards get thirsty. But all you have to do is find a fat, juicy spider. It doesn’t cost you a penny. But we humans have to pay for a drink when our canteens are empty. It’s just the way of things.”
Aaron stepped back onto the road but stopped short. Through the waves of heat, he saw something that looked like a bad dream—a large dog in the road, barking at him! He hurried off through the field. The dog didn’t chase him, but Aaron soon found himself up against another problem: his socks and pants were covered with foxtails.
When he reached the store, he sat on the curb and pulled the spiky weeds from his clothes. His father had once told him how foxtails are similar to bad habits: “Foxtails dig in and stick to whatever touches them, just as bad choices do. Once they become embedded, they are twice as hard to remove. It’s best to avoid them in the first place by staying on the better path.”
After Aaron cleaned off his clothes, he bought Mrs. Murphy’s food, loaded the flour and potatoes in his wagon, and headed down the street toward the soda fountain for a tall glass of cold lemonade. But his father’s words about wrong choices kept whispering to him.
Aaron stopped in front of the soda fountain and looked at the change in his hand. Then he looked again at the soda fountain. Then back at the leftover money. Then at the dirt road baked by the summer sun.
A half-hour later, Aaron pulled his wagon to a stop in front of Mrs. Murphy’s place. He was even more thirsty than before, having decided not to spend any of Mrs. Murphy’s change. He knew she would never have known the difference, nor perhaps even cared. But he would have known, and Heavenly Father would have known, too. Foxtails were enough of a problem in his socks. He didn’t like the idea of having to remove bad habits as well. That would be much more difficult. If he stayed away from making bad choices, he wouldn’t have to worry about creating bad habits.
He climbed Mrs. Murphy’s steps, carrying the sacks of flour and potatoes. Not only did he feel good as he handed her the change, but Mrs. Murphy gave him something else as well: the biggest and best glass of cold lemonade he had ever tasted.

In the garage, Tyler searched for a thin wood scrap. Finding one just the right size, he went in the house to paint it. With a pointed brush he printed the letters. He made two holes in the wood with a hammer and nail, and put a piece of twine through them so that he could wear the name tag around his neck. When he took his shirt off, this name tag would stay put and wouldn’t get ruined. Tyler showed it to Mom and Dad. “Clever,” they told him.
Tyler wanted to show it to his best friend, Jason. He went outside and looked to see if Jason was in his yard next door. From the other direction, a boy on a tricycle whizzed by, laughing. His dog ran along beside him, barking in fun. It was little Jimmy from down the block.
Jimmy’s mother ran after him, calling frantically, “Stop! You’ve gone too far!” But Jimmy didn’t hear her, so Tyler raced to catch up with him. Grabbing the tricycle, Tyler gently pulled it to a stop and turned it around. He led Jimmy and his dog back to his mother.
“Thank you for stopping him,” she said. “He might have ridden into the street and been hurt. You’re a good neighbor!”
Tyler waved good-bye and headed back to find Jason. He reached for his name tag and stopped suddenly. It was gone! It must have fallen off while I was running, he realized. Searching, he finally found it, but the twine was broken and the name tag lay in pieces. It had been run over by the tricycle. Tyler walked home and laid the pieces on the table. “Jimmy ran over my name tag,” he told his mother, angrily. Then, with a big sigh, he said, “But I guess he didn’t mean to.”