Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago, my wife and I were on the verge of getting a divorce because of my problem with alcohol. Not even our daughters’ tears could change me. When the missionaries visited our home, it did not take long for my wife and daughters to be baptized, but I would not accept the things of God.
My addiction to alcohol controlled my life. I would go to bars after work and often missed work because I was drunk. When I drank, I became physically aggressive. I often got into arguments and fights with others.
When I would leave for work, my daughters would cry and ask to go with me to keep me from drinking. I promised them I wouldn’t drink, but I never kept my promises. I just wanted to keep drinking.
Eventually, I realized I needed help. With the help of the missionaries, I worked to overcome my addiction. For a while, I couldn’t stop drinking for more than a week at a time.
Then one day the missionaries shared a passage from the Book of Mormon that changed my life: “And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).
I needed the Savior’s help. Without Him, I would never overcome my addiction. I found that the more I relied on Him, the longer I could go without drinking. After several visits with the missionaries, I accepted their invitation to be baptized.
Since then my life has changed. More than eight years have gone by, and I have not tried even one drop of alcohol. Today I am free, and I owe it all to the Lord.

“Some of the people we visit have so much to say, but no one to say it to,” Sue added. “I know it means a lot to my special friend just to be able to talk. I’ve got a great relationship with my grandparents back home, and leaving them was hard. Having someone up here who more or less is ‘family’ means a lot to me. But when I first met my friend I felt I had something to overcome. I talked with her for about 90 minutes, and a couple of days later came back. She couldn’t remember who I was. The next week I went back, and she still didn’t remember me. I finally started calling her every day and talking to her. I wouldn’t tell her who it was; I’d make her guess. Then she started saying, ‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to your call all day.’
“About three weeks ago she said, ‘Why don’t you give me your phone number so I can call you sometime?’ It was when she actually phoned me that I got excited. She called the other night. My roommate said, ‘I think it’s your grandmother.’ I got on the phone and said, ‘Grandma?’ She said, ‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve got something exciting to share with you,’ and told me that a group of children had just come by with a basket of fruit and a card. That meant a lot to me. I feel like I’ve overcome the problem of her not knowing who I am.” Sue obviously won her heart. She’s the same elderly lady mentioned at the beginning of this story, the one who asked Sue to help her wrap a present and then gave the present to Sue.

I recently had the opportunity of attending Especially for Youth. Youth from all over the country gathered together for a fun and spiritually uplifting youth conference. My personal favorite activity was the service project. At that time, something happened to me that definitely changed me for the better.
On Wednesday, my group sat on the lawn, anticipating what activity was in store for us. We tried to guess what the counselors had planned. My group looked up to see one of our counselors holding the hand of a young person who was clumsily skipping toward us. As they got closer, we realized that our counselor was holding the hand of a young boy with Down’s syndrome. A contagious smile stretched across the boy’s face, letting us know that he was excited to be with us. We immediately noticed a name tag, Hello! My name is Mike. We were asked to play games with Mike and have a good time. The boys in the group asked Mike what his favorite game was. “Kickball!” he shouted, so we gathered some bases and a ball and began to play.
While waiting in line to kick, I was approached by the director of my EFY session, Brother Buckner. We started talking and laughing. I told him that Mike was extremely polite and fun to be around. I also mentioned how much I loved doing service for others and how great it made me feel.
Brother Buckner smiled, then asked, “Have you ever met anyone guaranteed to be in the celestial kingdom?”
Puzzled, I replied, “You mean Mike?”
With a slight nod of his head, he responded by saying, “Yes, so who is serving whom?”
His question surprised me, and I began to think. I realized that, since we are not from the same place, the next time I would see Mike he will most likely be in perfect form without flaw. His constant smile made me think that somewhere inside of him, he knows it too. I also realized that Mike taught me more about life and how to enjoy it in 30 minutes than I had learned in my previous 16 years.
I think of Mike every day, and I thank Heavenly Father for allowing me to have the opportunity to meet him and learn from him.

Mark, Ben, and Corey were kneeling in the sandpile, building tunnels and roads for their cars and men. The boys were so busy that they didn’t see Patrick ride up on his bike.
He stood watching for a while. Finally he asked, “Can I play?”
“No. Go away, Patrick,” Ben said without even looking up.
“There’s no room in my sandpile for you,” Mark added.
The three boys continued playing and ignored Patrick.
“Anyone want lemonade?” Mark’s mom called from the open kitchen window.
“Yes!” Mark yelled enthusiastically. The other boys shouted yes too.
When Mark’s mom brought out four glasses of lemonade on a tray, Mark said, “He’s not playing,” pointing at Patrick. Patrick stood back and hung his head.
Mom gave Patrick a glass of lemonade. “He can still be thirsty, can’t he?” she said to Mark. When they had finished drinking, Mom asked Mark to help her carry the glasses back inside.
“Why won’t you let Patrick play?” Mom asked Mark when they were in the kitchen.
“He’s a thief, Mom,” Mark explained. “Everyone knows it. He stole one of my men.”
“Oh?” Mom raised an eyebrow. “When?”
“Last summer.” Mark hesitated. “He gave it back, but the guys are worried that he’ll take some more.”
Mom looked hard at Mark. “Haven’t you ever done something wrong and been sorry later?” she asked.
Mark squirmed. “Yes, I guess so,” he admitted. “But you always say it’s wrong to steal.”
“Yes, stealing is wrong. But it’s important to forgive too.”
“Maybe,” Mark said, unconvinced. He scuffed his foot impatiently on the floor. “Can I go now? The guys are waiting for me.”
Mom nodded, and Mark ran back outside.
That evening Mark hurried to clear away the supper dishes so that he could go out and play. In his haste, he bumped into the counter and dropped his plate. The plate shattered when it hit the floor.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Mom,” he said as he swept up the pieces.
Mom smiled understandingly. “I forgive you,” she said.
As he put away the broom and finished clearing the table, Mark thought about what his mom had said. She didn’t have to forgive him, he knew. He wondered how he would feel if she had stayed mad at him. Mark started thinking about other times when he’d had an accident or had done something wrong. Dad still lets me use his hammer, even after I cracked the handle. And I can still go camping with him, even though I lost his best flashlight the last time we went. Mark was suddenly very glad that his parents gave him a second chance when he made a mistake.
The next day, Mark and his friends were setting up some toy men on the front porch. Patrick came along and watched them longingly, but he didn’t ask to play. Mark looked at Ben and Corey, then at Patrick. He hesitated, then beckoned. “Come on over, Patrick. You can be on my side.”
“You’re letting that thief play?” Corey protested.
“He’s not a thief,” Mark said firmly. “He just made a mistake once. He can use some of my men.”
“Well, OK,” Corey grumbled. “But keep your eyes on him.”
“Thanks,” Patrick said, smiling. “I won’t take anything. I promise.”
Ben moved over to make room for him.
Later, as Mark helped his mom set the supper table, she said, “I’m glad you let Patrick play this afternoon.”
“I am, too,” Mark said. “Tomorrow he’s going to bring over some of his cars and men for us to play with. I think he’s learned his lesson about taking things.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “And you’ve learned a lesson about forgiving.” She gave him a big hug, and Mark grinned.

“Sammy, it’s time to leave!” Mom called.
Sammy closed his book about spiders, put it in his backpack, and raced to the car. He had been waiting all week for his family’s camping trip. As they drove along, he could hear his parents talking in the front seat.
“The weather report said we might have a thunderstorm in the next day or two,” Dad said to Mom.
“Does that mean lightning?” Sammy asked. Suddenly he wasn’t so excited about camping.
“There might be a little rain,” Dad explained. “But we’ll be careful. We can always get in our car if there’s any lightning.”
Sammy didn’t feel much better. He loved reading about bugs, volcanoes, and even lightning, but all those things were much less scary on the pages of a book than in real life.
At the campsite, Sammy quickly forgot his fears. He played with his brothers, helped Dad set up the tent, and watched the campfire crackle to life. He went hiking, played games, and roasted lots of marshmallows.
On the last night of the camping trip, Sammy looked up at thousands of stars spread across the sky. A cold wind made him shiver, so he ran inside the tent, snuggled into his sleeping bag, and quickly fell asleep. A few hours later, a loud boom made him jump. Thunder! He ran to the tent door and tried to unzip it.
“Sammy, stay here!” Mom said.
“But, Mom, shouldn’t we go get in our car?” Sammy asked. His knees felt wobbly, and he let Mom pull him onto her lap.
“There are a lot of trees and a big open meadow between us and the car,” Mom said. “I think we’re safer here in the tent for now.”
Sammy started to cry. A bright flash lit up the tent, and then came the crashing thunder. Mom held Sammy close. “The storm will be over soon,” she said. “Let’s ask Heavenly Father to help you not be afraid.”
Sammy slid onto his knees on the hard, bumpy ground. The lightning flashed again, followed by more thunder. “Please help me feel better and not be afraid. Please bless the wind to blow the clouds away so the lightning will stop,” Sammy prayed.
He ended his prayer and got back into Mom’s arms. She held him while they listened to the wind and the rain. Slowly, his shivering and crying stopped.
He jumped when the lightning flared again, but the thunder was much quieter this time. “It’s farther away, Mom!” he whispered.
The raindrops were slowing down too. It was several minutes before lightning lit up the tent again, and it was already so far away that they couldn’t hear the thunder.
“Heavenly Father answered your prayer,” Mom said.
Sammy smiled in the dark. He still felt a little nervous about the lightning, but he was warm throughout his whole body. His prayer had been answered. The storm was blowing away, and he was safe. Best of all, he knew Heavenly Father loved him and was listening to his prayers, even in the middle of the night when he was far away from home.

John Lloyd Stephens, a New York lawyer, and Joseph Smith never met, nor is there any evidence that Stephens ever read the Book of Mormon. Yet Stephens’ most important achievement in life would later stand as a physical testimony to that spiritual book translated by his fellow New Yorker, Joseph Smith.
That achievement began in the Honduran jungle on a hot, steamy November day in 1839 when John Stephens and his two native helpers dug up a statue from the forest floor. “Francisco found the feet and legs, and Bruno a part of the body,” wrote Stephens, “and the effect was electric.” Victor W. Von Hagen wrote that on that date, “a new world, a new science—American archaeology—came into existence.” John Lloyd Stephens was its founder.
No stranger to travel or fame, Stephens had already rambled through and written about Europe, the Near East, Egypt, Arabia, and the Holy Land. But he still had itchy feet and visions of the past and had not yet discovered his real destiny.
On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.

There were two ranchers living side by side in southwestern Montana. They bickered and fought because each thought a rusty barbed wire fence that separated their ranches was not the true property line. Each felt the other was encroaching upon his land. The real estate records were unclear at the county courthouse.
They forbade their children to play with one another. The conflict became worse. Finally, after years of exchanging words and threats, one of the ranchers said to himself, “Enough of this.” He drove down the lane from his place onto the county road and then down the long driveway to his neighbor’s place.
“What do you want?” his adversary asked.
“Look, you take your hired men and your sons, and I’ll take mine; and we’ll put the fence wherever you’d like it. I’ve had enough of this. I want us to be friends.”
His raw-boned neighbor softened, and tears ran down both of their faces. The neighbor responded, “Hey, let’s drive to Virginia City and record that the present fence is where both of us want the property line to be.”
They did and the problem was solved. Why? Because a neighbor wanted to be one with the family next door.

Stephen R. Covey relates the following experience:

At one seminar, after I'd spoken of the importance of demonstrating character within the family, a man came up and said, 'I like what you're saying, but my wife and I just don't have the same feelings for each other that we used to. I guess we don't love each other anymore. What can I do?'

'Love her,' I replied.

He looked puzzled. 'How do you love when you don't feel love?'

My friend,' I responded, 'love is a verb. The feeling of love is the fruit of love. So love your wife. You did it once, you can do it again. Listen. Empathize. Appreciate. It's your choice. Are you willing to do that?'

Of course, I was asking this man if he was willing to search within himself for the character required to make his marriage work. All our relationships follow the contours of life; they have ups and downs. This is why our families provide a critical measure of our character -- and the opportunity, again and again to nurture it.[14]

When Marco was called as bishop, one of his first appointments was with Brother and Sister Peña (names have been changed). They both suffered from trauma related to abuse. Their resulting mental health challenges were acute. Both had previously experienced failed marriages and were doing their best to raise a blended family. Ongoing employment challenges made self-reliance a struggle. They wanted to go to the temple but didn’t qualify for recommends. One or the other always seemed to be in crisis.
Marco loved them, but it quickly became apparent that they needed more help than he was capable of providing alone.
Unfortunately, the Peñas were reluctant to allow the bishop to involve others. At the time, an expectation existed among many Church members that it was the bishop who was responsible for helping members through challenges like these. In addition, Marco was afraid that the Peñas would feel like they weren’t important to him if he asked someone else to help.
So Marco did the best he could. He visited. He counseled. He tried to connect them to needed mental health professionals. Marco and his wife went to self-reliance classes with them and helped them work through some financial challenges. While others in the ward also helped, the bishop spent countless hours with the Peñas. At the end of five years, they had been sealed, but they still struggled with most of the same long-term issues they had when they first visited with him.
Looking back, Marco says that both he and the Peñas misunderstood the role of the bishop. In addition, the three of them failed to trust the Relief Society and elders quorum presidents to fulfill their divinely appointed responsibilities to help members with these kinds of challenges. The result was that they limited the Lord’s blessings in the Peñas’ lives.

Perhaps the best way to teach these principles is by way of parable.

There was once a man named John who, although still relatively young, had experienced much suffering and sorrow. Homeless and addicted to alcohol and other drugs, John was terribly sick and weary of life. The more he descended into illness and despair, the more he knew that if he didn’t make changes—and quickly—there was a very real possibility he would die miserable, useless, and alone.

Perhaps because he had attended Primary a few times when he was a boy, John ended up in a nearby meetinghouse where he asked to see the bishop.

“I have ruined my life,” John said between tortured sobs that emerged from the depths of his harrowed soul. He spoke of the mistakes he had made and the path of self-destruction and misery he had trod.

As the bishop listened to John’s sad story, he could tell that the man truly wanted to repent and change his life. But he could also sense that John had little confidence that he could change.

The bishop thought for a moment about what he could say. Finally, he looked up and said, “John, I have made three choices in my life that have been of value to me. They may be of assistance to you as well.”

“Please, tell me,” John pleaded. “I’ll do anything. I just want to start over. I want to go back.”

The bishop smiled and told him, “The first thing you should understand is that you can’t go back and begin where you once were. But all is not lost. You can begin where you are. Choose to begin your repentance now.”

When John heard the bishop’s words, he promised he would do what the bishop had said. Because of his addictions, John knew he needed to repent and improve his health. So he checked himself into a facility where he underwent the prolonged process of recovery. He began eating nutritious food. He began to walk and do other exercises.

Weeks passed. John was able to free himself from his addictions. He could see that his health was improving and he was getting stronger. But still he was not satisfied. There were so many things about his life that needed improvement that he felt overwhelmed and discouraged.

So, once again, he scheduled a meeting with his bishop.

That is when he learned the second choice: “John,” the bishop said to him, “you’ll most likely have a rough time if you think you can make yourself perfect all at once. What you must learn is to choose your priorities. You have to put first things first.”

John began to understand that he couldn’t change everything that was wrong with his life in an instant, but he could choose his priorities. He could focus on the things that mattered most, and with time his life would begin to improve.

With help from the elders quorum president, John found a modest place to live. He knew that he needed to find a way to support himself, and as his health and attitude improved, he found part-time work.

Each night before John went to bed, he made a list of the most important things he needed to accomplish the next day.

Eventually, John was earning a steady income. He moved into a more comfortable place and bought a car. Yet, although he was feeling much better about his life, he still felt that something was missing.

Consequently, John returned a third time to meet with his bishop.

“The reason you still feel empty,” the bishop said, “is because you have not made the third choice.”

John asked what it was.

“It’s not enough to make choices and decisions, and to work on them each day,” the bishop said. “Many have spent their lives in productive labor and have accomplished much. But they still feel empty. At the end of their days they lament that their lives had little meaning.”

That was exactly what John had been feeling.

The bishop continued, “It is not enough to do things. We must do the right things—the things our Heavenly Father would want us to do.”

“How do I know what the right things are?” John asked.

The bishop smiled and pulled from his desk a set of scriptures. The leather cover was scuffed and wrinkled. The gilded edges on the paper were nearly worn away. “Through the scriptures and the words of latter-day prophets,” the bishop replied. “These are the ‘right things.’ Some believe that the commandments of our Heavenly Father are restrictive and hard. To the contrary, they’re a handbook to happiness. Every aspect of the gospel of Jesus Christ—the principles, the doctrines, and the commandments—is a part of our Heavenly Father’s plan to help us obtain peace and happiness.”

The bishop turned to the Book of Mormon and read the words of King Benjamin: “Consider … the blessed and happy state of those that keep the commandments of God. For behold, they are blessed in all things, both temporal and spiritual; and if they hold out faithful to the end they are received into heaven, that thereby they may dwell with God in a state of never-ending happiness.”

As the bishop spoke, John thought about his own life. The things he had acquired hadn’t brought him happiness. Perhaps what the bishop was saying was true. Maybe happiness did come from living in harmony with the commandments of our Heavenly Father.

“Remember the words of the Savior,” the bishop said, as though he knew what John was thinking. “‘For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”

That very night, John made a commitment to open the word of God and to learn for himself the commandments and doctrines of his Heavenly Father. No longer did he resist the words of the Lord, but rather he embraced and cherished them. As he did, the emptiness in his soul began to shrink, and in its place he gradually discovered joy and peace that surpassed his understanding.

The things the bishop had told John had indeed transformed his life. Where once he was broken, sorrowful, and close to death, now he felt alive, vibrant, and filled with joy.

The tall yellow weeds in the big field behind Grandpa and Grandma’s place look pretty. When the wind blows they’re like a yellow sea that rolls and whispers. I like to lie in them, especially when it’s windy. Especially with my dad. He said that when the weeds are all rustling, it’s like they’re telling a story. He listened to those stories and passed them on to me. He called them his tall-as-a-yellow-weed tales.
Sometimes we played hide-and-seek in the field. I liked that, too. Dad closed his eyes while I hid. Then he had 10 minutes to find me and tag me. If I won, he took me to the soda fountain in Hadley and bought me a milk shake. I usually won. I think he let me sometimes. He knew how much I like chocolate shakes.
I miss those times. I still like Grandma and Grandpa’s place, but the yellow field isn’t the same. It looks the same, but without Dad, it’s just … different. It’s just a field.
Mom and I live with Grandma and Grandpa now. At least for a while. Until Mom can make enough money at her new job, or until Dad gets better. Dad has a drinking problem. It got pretty bad, and he wouldn’t get help. We prayed and prayed for him, but Mom said Heavenly Father can’t help us if we don’t try to help ourselves. I know she’s right, because once I asked Him to help me on a school test that I hadn’t studied for. I failed it anyway. Mom said that if we do all we can do for ourselves, then ask Heavenly Father for help, He will then assist us.
One day my friend Barry said that if his dad were like mine, he wouldn’t love him anymore. Because if my dad cared about us, he wouldn’t keep drinking.
I couldn’t sleep too well that night. My mom came into my room and asked what was wrong. When I told her, she explained some things that helped me to feel better.
The next day when Barry and I were looking for arrowheads in Baker’s Canyon up behind the yellow field, I told him I still loved my dad. When he asked me why, I said, “Remember when your brother didn’t tie up the chain that was hanging way down from the siren on his bike?”
“Yes,” Barry said, “and I told him it could cause an accident if it got caught in the spokes, but did he listen to me? No!”
Last month Barry borrowed that bike. He was flying down a hill when, sure enough, the chain got caught in the spokes of his front wheel. All of a sudden the bike stopped, but Barry kept going, right over the handlebars. He banged himself up pretty badly. In fact, his arm was still in a cast.
“Do you still love your brother?” I asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Well, because … because he’s my brother. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He was just being careless.”
“I’m sure your brother feels bad about it,” I said. “My dad feels awful, too, after he sobers up.”
Barry and I sat down on a rock to drink from our canteens. Grandma’s cold lemonade tastes so good that it makes getting thirsty fun. Dad always said, “On a hot day your grandma’s lemonade takes all the discomfort out of being alive!” And he was right.
I looked at Barry seriously, trying to get the deep down inside of him to listen. I had written down some of what Mom said the night before so I wouldn’t forget. Now I read it to Barry: “‘God loves all of us, even when He doesn’t love all of our actions. It’s called charity—the pure love of Christ, and we need to try to love like Jesus does.’”
Barry nodded his head and smiled. I could tell that he knew my mom was right. Her words made me feel good inside, too. About my dad. About a lot of things. It was as good a feeling as Grandma’s lemonade going down on a hot summer day.
Mom and I kept praying for Dad. He stopped drinking, and he’s in a special program that’s helping him. He’ll be coming home in a few weeks. He says he wants to play hide-and-seek with me in the tall yellow weeds. And he wants me to win, because he misses those chocolate milk shakes as much as I do!

I had the privilege of spending four weeks in Kofu, Japan, with my good friend Yuki and her family. Having the Spirit as my guide helped me to share my beliefs with Yuki.
One day I purchased a small Church hymnbook in Japanese at the distribution center. A few days later I felt impressed to give Yuki my hymnbook. I thought about how weird this was because I had purchased the hymnbook for myself and not for her. Nevertheless, I gave her the hymnbook. I felt a little better, knowing I had done what I was prompted to do.
A while later, we were playing music downstairs, and Yuki told me she wanted to sing the hymns. I played some of the hymns on the piano while she sang in Japanese. I had a feeling of pure joy listening to my friend singing the songs I knew so well. Even though I did not know all the words to follow along, the Spirit was strong. I am very grateful I followed the promptings of the Spirit.

Tom was eight and I was six when we saw our first rodeo. We drove to Saskatoon in our Ford truck and fought to sit next to Dad. It was a great journey for Tom and me, like a trip to Alaska—almost.
I don’t remember much of the day, except the ride and the barrel man (a barrel man dresses like a clown and distracts the bulls when the cowboys fall off).
Well, a bull had thrown some cowboy and the barrel man was twisting and dancing, pulling the big bull away from the guy on the ground. Then the bull turned fast, unexpected. The barrel man twisted again, sprinted, then dove into a barrel headfirst just as the bull knocked it across the arena floor.
I could feel the ground shake, even in the stands. There was silence. And then the clown stuck his head out of the barrel and blew the bull a raspberry. We laughed about that all the way home.
The next day the rodeo came to our backyard. “The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” game was Tom’s idea; and Leonard, our German shepherd, was as good a bull as we could have hoped for. Whoever played the bull rider would lie helpless on the ground as Leonard tried to bite his ears. Meanwhile, the barrel man hopped back and forth trying to distract the “bull.”
Finally, Leonard would take off after the barrel man and the two would race around our old, plastic garbage can until the “bull” got too close. Then the barrel man could dive in.
Tom and I took turns. Leonard could catch me, but not Tom. He was too quick. He was a great barrel man.
Tom even dressed for the part. He would paint his face and wear cutoff jeans and an ugly Hawaiian shirt with big red ferns plastered all over it. He looked like a real barrel man.
The years passed. Tom turned 14, and I was almost 12. Over those years my brother never lost his love of the game. We would play “Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” all summer, along with the rest of our summertime activities. Some nights we’d play well past dark, when the yellow glow of the porch light made us all look bigger than we really were.
“Getting late,” Tom said one summer evening, a Saturday. Leonard was asleep at our feet and dusk was approaching quickly. Behind us our shadows faded all the way to the house.
“You’re getting slower,” I said. “I mean, he almost got you that time.”
“Ahhhh,” Tom said, smiling. “I saved your life at least a dozen times today.” The red mud we have in Saskatchewan caked Tom’s face. It looked like barn paint had spilled and dried on him and his clown clothes.
“Church tomorrow,” I said. Tom nodded.
We looked out onto the prairie and didn’t say anything for a while. The wheat fields stretched unbroken to the start of the dark blue sky and I daydreamed. I thought about the prairie, how it could have been a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.
“One day I’m gonna be in the rodeo,” said Tom. “Be a real barrel man.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
Tom shifted from one leg to the other, then back again. He started rocking. He was always moving.
“We should ride over to the creek tomorrow,” Tom said. “And fish and stuff.” It was a strange thing to say. We never did anything like that on Sunday.
“Sure,” I said, though I really wasn’t too sure.
Tom brought his hand down on the side of his jeans, making a loud slap. “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed. “Maybe we can go early and catch us a tasty catfish.”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
Then I waited for Tom to say something else, but he didn’t. I didn’t know what Tom was thinking. Mom and Dad wouldn’t like the idea of us taking off, missing church, breaking the Sabbath. I hoped he’d forget the whole thing by morning.
Tom’s voice woke me the next morning. I looked over and Mom was feeling his forehead while he moaned and made a series of pitiful faces.
“Stomachache,” he growled.
“I’ll stay home with you,” said Mom.
“No, that’s okay.” He quickly added, “I don’t want you to miss church, Mom.”
She felt Tom’s forehead again and shook her head. “No fever. I’ll get you some cereal.” She left for the kitchen and Tom leaned close to me.
“Tell her you need to stay home too,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to lie,” I said, as Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t mind going to church. We can ride over to the creek tomorrow.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Tom was getting mad. “Tell her you’ve got the same thing or, um, or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Mom came back in with Tom’s breakfast.
“You’d better get yourself something,” she said to me. I didn’t say anything. I just sat frozen in my bed, looking at my feet.
Tom spoke up. “I don’t think he feels good either.”
“Your stomach hurts too?” Mom asked. I looked at her and saw the concern on her face. I wasn’t looking at Tom, but I felt his eyes on me. I didn’t want to make Tom mad at me, but I didn’t want to lie. And though I’d never thought about it before, I didn’t really want to miss church.
“Nah, I’m okay. I think I can go.”
Tom wouldn’t talk to me when we left, but as I walked by our room he mouthed the word “Baby.”
Tom didn’t say anything to me for three days. He left early in the morning and stayed at a friend’s house until dark. At supper, he wouldn’t look up from his food or talk to anyone. I’d never seen Tom that quiet. Usually he was a comic, full of life and words.
After breakfast and chores Thursday I climbed into our private den above the barn. Earlier that summer Tom and I had painted the walls with some leftover yellow paint and made our own furniture out of the paint cans and some broken fence boards. In the rafters there were a dozen sparrow nests. Dad said we could clean out the nests, but we left them alone. It was their room first. And they were part of what made it a great room.
Outside the wind was blowing across the endless brown prairie. It was whining through the cracks in the walls, stirring dust bowls on the floor. I was alone, and I felt that loneliness swelling in me. I choked on a sob and shook my head.
“No blubbering,” I whispered, and picked up our half-finished U.S.S. Lexington model from the table. Tom and I hadn’t gotten around to putting in the bridge yet.
“That’s mine,” said Tom. I spun around. Tom stood in the doorway.
“It’s mine too,” I said.
Tom slumped down on one of our paint-can chairs. “Ah, you can have it.”
I put the model down and looked up at the sparrows. “Ain’t you going out today?” I asked. Tom didn’t answer. “We could go to the creek if you want.”
“Nah,” he said.
I looked at him. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Ever since Sunday you act like I gave you a wormy apple.”
Tom couldn’t help smiling; it was, after all, one of his funny lines. “Weirdo,” he said. Then he put his mean face back on. “Why’d you weasel out of skipping church?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel good about it.”
“Nobody has a right to plan something then weasel out,” Tom said.
“Yeah, I guess I did do that. I should’ve told you before that I didn’t want to skip church.”
Tom nodded. “I don’t know. I guess I understand. I mean, I sort of missed it. Priesthood and even Sunday School. I probably shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for going.”
Leonard started barking in the driveway and I looked out. “The bull wants to play,” I said.
“The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man,” Tom said. “That’s what church is like.”
“Huh?”
“Going to church. It’s like when I play Barrel Man. I have the barrel to jump into if the bull is gonna get me. I know it’s dumb, but going to church is kind of like that. Every week you go to church, you get protection. You do something you know is right, and then you feel good. If you don’t do it, you feel bad and take it out on everyone else. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so. If you don’t jump into the barrel you get mad at your brother.”
Tom laughed. “Right.” He got up and started to pace back and forth in front of me. “Sorry I’ve been a jerk to you,” he said.
“Forget it. You getting happier yet?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m feeling better now.”
He made a few more turns up and down the den floor, pacing faster and faster each time. Finally he said, “You look like you could use a bull ride, Shorty.” And then he grabbed me in a head lock and we spun around. The old Tom was back. He pushed me aside and bounded down the steps three at a time. I could hear his “Ha, ha, ha” from the yard, and I ran to the window. He was in the driveway, flipping Leonard’s ears. Then they took off, chasing in a complete circle around the barn.
They made a pass below me, still running hard. Leonard was barking, and Tom was laughing his usual, annoying laugh. “Ha, ha, ha, let’s go, bull rider!”
Beyond the noise and excitement below, beyond the driveway and the fence line, I looked to the wheat fields that seemed to stretch forever. I thought about the prairie, and how it could be a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.

Many years ago, I moved from the small market town of my birth in Yorkshire to London to become a student. It was a great cultural shock, even in Church terms; I was catapulted from a small branch into a thriving multinational ward. There was a particular sister I remember for all the very best reasons; she loved the Lord. The Lord has commanded us to attend church on the sabbath, and she was always there. When the bishop needed any help, this sister always volunteered, and when he announced that the ward choir needed more members, she joined.
This kind sister had a unique voice; it was loud and shrill and always a fraction off key. She sang with enthusiasm, despite her rather obvious lack of natural talent, and went to every practice. She also paid to have singing lessons.
I’ve never forgotten her because she taught me several important lessons. The choir leader was a professional opera singer and I marvelled at her patience and understanding, and how she didn’t let an obviously difficult situation dampen her enthusiasm. But most of all, I marvelled at the sister who couldn’t sing. She obviously loved the Lord with all her heart. Anything that was asked of her she willingly did. She did not use any excuse for not accomplishing what was asked. The choir needed members and she was going to do her bit. She worshipped God in song, though it was not one of her talents. She sang the same way that she loved the Lord—with all her heart.
She taught me to live the gospel as she did, happily doing whatever was asked. I may not do it as well as someone else could do it, I may not get through each day perfectly in tune with the Spirit, but I should keep trying and refuse to make excuses for not giving my best—even when my best falls short of perfection.
This sister has probably passed away by now, and joined the heavenly choir, and been gifted with the voice of an angel. To my mind, she has earned it.

Sister Quashigah remembers hearing for the first time the Primary song, “I Know My Father Lives”. She felt empowered by the words “He sent me here to earth, by faith to live his plan. The Spirit whispers this to me and tells me that I can.”1
When she is faced with a difficult task, she has learned that the Savior will give her the power and strength that she needs, and the Spirit will guide her steps. Upon receiving her first Come Follow Me book, Sister Quashigah was devastated that she could not read it, but through the gospel literacy program, she has learned to read and can now explain the doctrines and principles of the gospel to her family and friends.

“My name is Rachel Zuehl and I’m from Two Rivers, Wisconsin, where my family and I are members of a small branch. Growing up, my brothers and sister and I were the only members of the Church in our high school.
“Everyone knew we wouldn’t smoke, drink, or do anything bad that was considered ‘fun.’ I was lucky to have a few really great friends who respected my standards. I tried to focus my time in high school on being involved in good things like softball, tennis, piano, forensics, and yearbook staff. Being busy helped me forget how unpopular I felt and how different I sometimes felt because I am a Mormon.
“At the spring sports banquet my senior year, I realized that someone did notice and did care that I was ’different.’ For the very first time in our school, the Wisconsin National Guard was presenting an award for ‘strong moral character and freedom from drugs and alcohol use.’ I was the recipient of the award. The whole gymnasium broke into applause as I made my way onto the stage. Through my tears of surprise and joy, I could see my classmates and their parents smiling at me as I received the award.
“I realized that day that being in the mission field has made my testimony strong and has helped me show others that it’s okay to choose the right.”

There aren’t many members of the Church in Calci, but Judy doesn’t see that as a problem. Her gospel foundation remains unshaken. “A couple of friends have asked me about the Church,” she says. “I brought a friend with me to church, and she came and she liked it. Sometimes friends have made fun of me, or somebody in class heard that I attend a different church. But for the most part my friends are understanding, and they ask questions.”

We become the hands of our Savior as we do His work. In a missionary zone conference we discussed being the answer to someone’s prayers. One pair of missionaries went home and prayed that evening and the next morning that they would be the answer to someone’s prayers. The next morning they walked down the high street, and a man came running out of a hotel. He asked if they had a copy of the Book of Mormon—and they did! He explained he was a member attending a business conference. He was worried about some personal problems, and, as he prayed, he received the impression that his answer was in the Book of Mormon. But he did not have one with him. That morning he was sitting in the hotel restaurant. He suddenly had the impression to go immediately to the front of the hotel, where he saw the missionaries, who provided him with the answer to his prayer.

I was too slow for football, too short for basketball, and too weak for wrestling. I played freshman and JV baseball, but by the time I reached my junior year in high school, the other guys going out for the varsity team were faster, taller, and stronger.
Three strikes and I was out.
I wasn’t popular enough to run for student government, talented enough to pursue the performing arts, or courageous enough to try debate.
Game over at 17, right? Not necessarily.
In English class, I could write essays the night before they were due—and still get a decent grade. I had no problem ordering a burrito in Spanish or asking for directions to the bathroom in German—thanks to my foreign language classes. Somehow, I made the honor roll despite my grades in math. And I could make people laugh.
But did I really have any talents? I wasn’t sure until I got older.
Back in high school, I had no way of knowing that the fun I had—and the time I spent—studying Spanish and German would help me learn three languages as a full-time missionary. Nor did I know that my latent talent as a writer would lead me to my livelihood. But perhaps the Lord did.

One spring afternoon I was packing my car to begin shuttling my five young children to and from lessons and practices. As I loaded football cleats and dance bags, I noticed a mother duck and her ducklings waddling down the sidewalk of our suburban neighborhood.
As I watched, she began to cross the road. Unfortunately, she chose a gutter grate for her crosswalk, and as she passed over it, her babies followed. Four of her ducklings slipped helplessly between the bars of the grate.
When the mother reached the other side, she realized she was missing some of her little ones and could hear their muffled peeps. Totally oblivious of her mistake, she crossed back across the drainage grate, looking for her missing ducklings and losing two more. With horror and some disgust at her poor judgment, I went to the grate to see if I could lift it. Although I used all my strength, the grate barely budged, and I was late to pick up one of my kids.
Figuring I would have to fix the situation later when I wasn’t so rushed, I hopped in the car while muttering self-righteously, “She doesn’t deserve to be a mother.”
During the next hour and a half, I made many of my recurring parenting mistakes. These are mistakes I have begged forgiveness for many times from both my children and my Father in Heaven. Each time I resolve to do better and not to fall prey to these weaknesses again. When I snapped at one of my kids for teasing another, my words echoed loudly in my ears, “She doesn’t deserve to be a mother.”
Suddenly I felt overwhelming compassion for that mother duck. She was trying to navigate the world with the instincts she was given, just as I was. But sometimes those instincts simply weren’t enough, and it was our children who suffered.
I resolved to get the grate off somehow and lift the ducklings out. As I rounded the corner to our street, I saw a small group gathered. My neighbor had lifted the grate, climbed inside the drainage tunnel, and was gently lifting the ducklings out to safety. The frightened little birds scrambled to find their mother, who was pacing nervously in a nearby bush. She hadn’t asked for help, but my neighbor had stepped in when her protection was simply not enough. I was overcome with emotion as I thought of the Savior doing the same for my children and me.