Gospel Story Finder

This story happened in Brazil.
“Jacob, do you know the answer?” Mrs. Lelis asked.
Jacob opened his eyes and lifted his head off the desk. All his classmates were looking at him. His teacher was staring at him too. He felt his cheeks get warm. He had fallen asleep in class again!
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lelis,” he said. “Can you please say the question again?”
“Sure. But please stop napping in class.”
He shrunk down in his seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jacob came to his new school just a few weeks ago. He loved to learn, and his classmates were nice. But there was one problem—he was always so sleepy! His new school was far away, so he had to wake up very early to be there on time.
At first, it was easy to focus in class. But it got harder and harder. Sometimes Jacob was so tired he fell asleep.
The next day, The school principal asked Jacob and his parents to meet with her. She smiled and welcomed them into her office.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Jacob is a great student. But his teacher says he’s not interested in his classes. Sometimes he doesn’t focus, and he seems very tired. Is he OK?”
His mother nodded. “Jacob worked hard to be able to go to school here, but it’s far from our house. He needs to wake up early every day. So he gets sleepy in his morning classes.”
“Oh, is that all?” the principal said. “You should try coffee drops! Put a few drops of very strong coffee in Jacob’s drink each morning. That will keep him awake.”
Jacob frowned. “But our family doesn’t drink coffee, ma’am.”
The principal looked confused. “It will be hard for you to learn if you keep falling asleep. You should at least think about it.”
When they left the principal’s office, Jacob’s thoughts were mixed up. He wanted to do better in school, but he wanted to follow the commandments too.
That night, his family read about the Word of Wisdom in the scriptures.
When it was Jacob’s turn, he read, “And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings … shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge. And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.”
Then he had an idea!
He stood up from his chair. “Instead of coffee drops, I’ll use faith drops!”
“What do you mean?” his father asked.
Jacob smiled. “Every morning before breakfast, we can say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to bless me so I don’t feel so sleepy. Our prayers will be like drops of faith!”
Mom and Dad smiled too. “That sounds like a great idea!” Dad said.
The next morning, their family knelt and said a prayer that Jacob would have the energy to stay awake. They did the same thing the next day. And the day after that. Each night, Jacob tried to go to bed early too. And each morning Jacob’s family had faith that Heavenly Father would help him.
Over time, their drops of faith worked. Jacob could focus for the whole day! God had answered their prayers. And Jacob knew He was proud of him for following the Word of Wisdom.
“Ready for class, Jacob?” Mrs. Lelis asked one morning as he walked into the classroom.
Jacob nodded with a big grin on his face. He had his drops of faith before school. He was ready for anything!

I grew up in a fine home, and although my parents weren’t active in the Church at that time, my mother always made sure that my brother and I went to Primary. That was where I learned about the gospel, but we didn’t talk about the scriptures as much as children do today.
When I was a young teenager, I got my first job—in construction. I came home after the first or second day and said, “Mom, something happened today that I’ve never experienced before.”
“What was that?”
“At ten o’clock and at two o’clock the crews shut down for a coffee break, and everyone drank coffee. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat by myself.”
My mother said to me, “Dave, tomorrow morning when they have their coffee break, open your lunch box and I’ll have something there for you.”
I was excited about that because I was a typical teenager and really got hungry. But I didn’t see how my mother could possibly stuff anything more into my lunch box!
The next morning at ten o’clock, when it was time for the coffee break, I opened my lunch box. I saw a small book my mother had placed there—a book containing the New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs.
Now, I’ll be honest with you—when I first saw my “treat,” I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it. I’d never seen this collection of scriptures before. But I opened the book and started reading. I read during the break that afternoon too. Every day my mother put the book in my lunch box, and every day I read from it. From that time on, I let the scriptures become involved in my life and give me thought, purpose, direction, and answers to many of the things I was concerned about.

The story is told of a 14-year-old boy who had come to Nauvoo in search of his brother who lived near there. The young boy had arrived in winter with no money and no friends. When he inquired about his brother, the boy was taken to a large house that looked like a hotel. There he met a man who said, “Come in, son, we’ll take care of you.”
The boy accepted and was brought into the house, where he was fed, warmed, and was given a bed to sleep in.
The next day it was bitter cold, but in spite of that, the boy prepared himself to walk the eight miles to where his brother was staying.
When the man of the house saw this, he told the young boy to stay for a while. He said there would be a team coming soon and that he could ride back with them.
When the boy protested, saying that he had no money, the man told him not to worry about that—that they would take care of him.
Later the boy learned that the man of the house was none other than Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet. This boy remembered this act of charity for the rest of his life.

I want to share and experience Sister Richards and I had in Hong Kong and then relate it, hopefully, to you great young people today. We had an assignment to go to Bangkok, Thailand, and we were to leave Hong Kong around 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know if any of you have ever flown in or out of the new Hong Kong airport, but it’s been rated number one in the world the last several years. It’s just a marvelous place. There are two main runways that are separated by large grass strips. We were in a large aircraft with over 300 passengers aboard, and were actually in the process of taking off, and the plane was accelerating. I always love that feeling. All of a sudden the pilot just slammed on the brakes of this huge aircraft and we came to a screeching halt. Almost instantly you could begin to smell the smoke from those mighty brakes. We were sitting on the right side of the aircraft and as I looked out the window, all of a sudden I realized there were nine fire trucks heading our way. Now that gets your attention, young people. And they weren’t going around the suggested route, they were coming down the grass between the runways, headed directly for us. In fact, one came up right under the wing and went to the front of the aircraft. And then we noticed that four security trucks were also headed our direction. The pilot came in over the intercom and said “Ladies and gentlemen, don’t be alarmed.” That got our attention, seeing all this activity. And he said, “We have experienced a minor malfunction and we’ll see if they can correct it on the runway. If not, we’ll have to return to the terminal.” So, after a few minutes of smelling the smoke and watching these fire trucks and all the security around us, he finally came back and said, “We will have to return to the terminal and change aircrafts and then we’ll proceed on our way.”

While we were waiting to taxi back the airport, one of the crew, came out and began to apologize to us. We were sitting near the front of the aircraft and had we not had our seat belts on we would have ended up ten rows in front. I mean he stopped that huge aircraft that quickly. He began to apologize saying “We recognized that in the process of taking off, one of the gauges was indicating a malfunction, and we had to make a split second decision whether to continue or to abort the take off.” And then he said that “one of the gauges was telling us that the amount of fuel going into one of the engines far exceeded what was normal, and so we made the decision to abort the take off.” We were sitting right up front, and I couldn’t help but say to him, “You don’t need to apologize to me. I’d rather be on the ground with this problem that at 30-40, 000 feet in the air.”

Young people, why do I tell you that story? Sister Richards and I were grateful at that moment that those two pilots had been so well trained. If you ever look in one of the cockpits of one of those large aircraft, there are just, to me, thousands of gauges. They were trained so well, that when they recognized the malfunction, they knew exactly what to do, and even though we were in the middle of a takeoff, they hit those brakes, and we came to a screeching halt. Later we were able to get on another aircraft and finish our journey to Thailand. Each of us and each of you must know what the gauges are in the Lord’s kingdom, and you must understand them to some degree and you must monitor them regularly so that as you need to make a course correction or slam on the brakes, or even just do a fine tune, you know how and what’s required and what the Lord expects.

When I was in the Young Women program, I was one of only two Laurels surrounded by Beehives. Because the other Laurel had athletic engagements each week, I found myself, a lone Laurel, suffocated by so many younger, seemingly immature girls. Our Young Women program was struggling: hurt feelings, drama, and offense were common. For a while no one in our ward wanted to attend meetings.
Then I was called to serve the younger girls at girls’ camp. It was a daunting call. I felt intimidated, annoyed, and nervous. But I went.
I have never experienced a more miraculous change of heart. In less than a week, I gained a testimony of the divine potential within each and every child of God. The Savior allowed me to share His love for my sisters in the gospel. His eyes illuminated my sight, and I really saw each girl as a beloved daughter of our Heavenly Father. Through serving the girls, the Lord opened my heart, and they became not just the girls in my ward but my girls.
By the end of the week I had the ability to recognize divine qualities in every girl, and my heart felt like it would burst because of the love I felt for them. Although this change of heart was unexpected, it taught me that charity comes through meaningful service, and it truly is the pure love of Christ.

As an example, when I applied this process to my coaching, I was amazed by the dramatic increase in performance from the athletes I worked with. One was a U.S. Olympic mogul skier who was not ranked very high.
As I worked with her, she worked hard on training her thoughts to be positive and on using positive phrases to purify her thought patterns. As her thoughts improved, so did her performance. Eventually she was selected to join the World Cup touring team.
After the prequalifying races, this athlete was in fourth place. She told me after the event that when she had gotten on the chairlift to go up for her finals run, doubt had gotten into her mind. She began to accept her doubt, thinking, “It’s OK. No one expected me to do this well. My family will still love me.”
But then she caught herself and said: “No! Today is my day! I am making it happen today!”
And guess what? She ended up skiing faster than she had ever skied before and finished tied for first place.

Nolan has also learned to be persistent. Even when activities aren’t easy for him, he works hard at them and keeps trying. He has been practicing throwing and hitting a baseball, and is getting quite good at it. During the summer, he ran in a 5K race with his mom and his brother Hayden, 8. They practiced for a few weeks ahead of time. His mom says, “I was expecting to have to urge them along, but they left me in the dust. Nolan walked a little in the middle, but he pushed me the whole way. He ran across the finish line, and we were very proud of him.”

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

When it comes to challenges in the gospel, I don’t usually have the support of my family. I’m the only active Church member in my family, besides my sister who is away at college. This sometimes feels like an enormous burden on my shoulders. I know that my family is watching me closely, and my mistakes could hurt more than just me.
Sometimes I become frustrated watching bad things happen in my family when I know that the gospel could help. I used to try to force the gospel on my family. I would ask my mom, “If you really loved me, wouldn’t you want to be sealed to me forever?”
Although life with my family has been challenging it has also been rewarding. I’m gaining a stronger testimony of the blessings and happiness that come from the gospel. I’ve stopped trying to force or scare my family into going to church, and I’m trying to lead with love rather than with fear. Whenever my little sister comes to church, it fills my soul with joy. I know a seed of faith has been planted, and being a good example to her has become my greatest blessing.

Robert Keddington worked in emergency medicine in Utah and retired several years ago. In 2020 he got a call from a senior Church leader in Salt Lake City asking him if had ever thought about serving a medical mission.

“My wife, Sue, and I prayed sincerely to know if this was something we should do and got a lovely answer from our Father in Heaven that we should go.”

“I wasn’t too sure about getting back into practice after being away for so long,” Dr. Keddington says. “I was also concerned about seeing patients with conditions related to the tropics, something I had never seen in my practice in Utah. But before I left, my local church leader gave me a blessing and told me that I would be blessed with recall to help the people here. I found again and again that as I was examining a patient, I could recall something I learned in medical school more than 40 years ago that was just what this patient needed. Truly a blessing from the Lord.”

In July 2022, the Keddingtons completed two years of service in Pago Pago. They loved every minute of their time there.

In his final remarks, Dr. Keddington said, “I have seen the hand of the Lord in my service to the people here,” he says.

“It’s been a humbling, gratifying experience.”

It was a Sunday afternoon near the end of my mission, and I was washing the dinner dishes in Recife, Brazil. For some reason, I began to think about the Saints in Nauvoo. I remembered that after all their sacrifices and work to construct their temple, they had to flee Nauvoo, leaving the temple and their homes behind. I marveled at the great faith of these people. In the midst of their trials, they continued to have confidence in Heavenly Father and to do all He asked of them.
Then the thought came to my mind: If Father in Heaven someday took something precious away, something for which you had sacrificed, would you rebel?
I was surprised at the question, not knowing why I had asked it. I tried to imagine myself among the Saints in Nauvoo, feeling what they felt. I concluded that I did not know what my reaction would be, but I sincerely desired to have sufficient faith to always accept God’s will. I had no idea that just such a test would confront me that very night.
A few days before, while pondering what I would do after my mission, I had decided to pursue a career in music. Before my mission, I had practiced as much as six hours each day on the piano and had completed course work at a music academy. Just recently, my teacher had sent me a letter, promising to help me launch a career as a pianist.
We had three baptisms arranged for that night. Our meetinghouse did not have a baptismal font, making it necessary for us to go to the center of Recife to hold the baptismal services. It rained much that night, and as the city was experiencing a shortage of gasoline, it was difficult to find a taxi. It was getting late, and I began to worry. Suddenly I saw a taxi a block away and ran in its direction. The rain moistened my glasses, and I did not see a popcorn vendor crossing my path. When I finally saw his cart, I could not stop and I crashed into it. I suffered a very deep cut on my left wrist and was taken to the emergency room at the hospital.
There I discovered that the tendons had been cut. Two fingers on my left hand were paralyzed. Because a surgery room wasn’t available, I was not able to have an operation immediately. Since I would be returning to my home in a few days, the doctors just sutured the wound and instructed me to seek a specialist in São Paulo.
On my return home, I received a priesthood blessing from my father and was attended by the best hand surgeon in São Paulo. My recuperation was excellent, and after much physical therapy I was able to return to playing the piano. But I had no illusions about a professional career. My life followed another path instead. Today I am a neurologist with the training and opportunity to help many people.
I believe God had a plan for my life different from what I had anticipated. When we “trust in the Lord with all [our] heart,” I know “he shall direct [our] paths” for our good (Prov. 3:5–6).

Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

One day my friend Foxx came over to my house. At night, my family reads the scriptures and prays together. Foxx is not a member of the Church, but I asked him if he’d like to join us in doing those things and he said yes. After we read the scriptures and prayed, Foxx told us his favorite Bible story. I felt good because I was being a missionary. I am going to ask him if he can come to church with me someday.

I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and kicked the ball that was rolling toward me. Then I frowned as I watched it soar out of bounds instead of going into the goal.
A girl named Nan had been standing on the sidelines watching our game. She ran to pick up the ball, tripping in her excitement. Everyone laughed. No one thanked her as she threw the ball back to us.
I felt guilty. I knew Nan wanted to play, but I didn’t want to be the one to invite her.
Nan was quiet, with messy brown hair, thick glasses, and a squeaky voice. She didn’t have one friend in our whole class. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her. I had just never talked to her.
That afternoon our teacher announced that she was going to move our desks around. She would make a new seating chart.
The room buzzed with excitement. My best friend, LeAnna, and I smiled at each other.
Just then Caroline leaned toward me. “I heard Nan tell Mrs. Martin she wants to sit by you. Gross!”
I sat in shock. “Why me?” I wondered. I had never been mean to Nan, but I had never been nice to her either.
“Tell the teacher you don’t want to sit by her,” Caroline whispered. “Otherwise no one will want to sit by you.”
I looked at Nan. Her head was lowered. She must have known what everyone in the room was thinking.
Mrs. Martin called me up to her desk. I knew Nan was a child of God and that Jesus said to love everyone. But if I became friends with Nan, everyone would think I was weird.
“Who do you want to sit by?” Mrs. Martin asked me.
“LeAnna,” I said. That was easy.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Would you be willing to sit by Nan too?”
I looked down at the floor and whispered, “I’d rather not.”
Mrs. Martin looked surprised. “Are you sure, Angie?”
“Yes,” I muttered.
The next day our desks were rearranged. I sat by LeAnna. Nan was across the room. The two girls sitting by her pushed their desks away from hers so it looked like she was sitting alone. She looked like she was going to cry.
A few weeks later Nan changed schools. A girl in my ward went to that school, and I asked her if she had met a new girl named Nan.
“I think so. What does she look like?” she asked.
“Well, she’s really quiet. Her hair is messy, and she wears thick glasses. No one in my class liked her.”
“Really? It must not be the same girl,” she said. “The new girl I know is really fun. Everyone likes her. She’s a great soccer player.”
I thought about the day Nan had watched us playing soccer. She only needed a chance and a friend. And I could have given her both.
That day I made a promise to myself to always be nice to everyone and never let a girl like Nan slip by me without trying to be her friend.

Last spring Mom and Dad went into town for a little while. Since I had turned twelve, they let me baby-sit my two younger sisters and baby brother. Everything went fine, but when they got home, Mom was feeling sick.
That night there was a stake Young Women and mothers’ dinner and the General Young Women Meeting broadcast from Salt Lake City. I really wanted to go to it, but with Mom’s being sick, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to.
Mom lay down to rest for an hour. After she got up, we dyed some Easter eggs, and then she told me to get ready to go to the meeting. She said I could wear my new Easter dress. She still wasn’t feeling great, but we were going!
At the church, we ate a really good dinner of lasagna and salad, with brownies for dessert. After dinner, Mom said that she had a bad headache, but we went into the chapel with everyone else to watch the broadcast. During the broadcast she started to get really sick and told me that she needed to go home. She asked me if I wanted to stay and see all of the meeting, saying that I could get a ride home with a friend. I said, “Yes.” But I got a feeling inside me, and a voice said, “Go home with your mom, or she will crash.” Another voice said, “Don’t go—she’ll be fine.” I couldn’t decide which voice to listen to.
Mom sat there a few more minutes, then again said that she was going home and asked if I wanted to stay or go with her. The first voice came again: “Go home with your mom.” This time I listened to it and went with her.
As we left the church, I could see that my mom was getting worse and was very sick. On the highway going home, she could barely drive and told me, “Talk to me, Kendra, and tell me that we are going to get home.” I talked and talked and kept reassuring her that we would get home. We did.
I made the right choice to get us home safely. My dad helped my mom into bed; then we had family prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for getting us home safely and asked Him to help Mom get better.
That night I had a bad dream. I dreamed that if I had not gone home with Mom, she would have been hurt in a wreck.
I’m grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost and that I was faithful enough to listen to His promptings to go home with Mom.

My little sister and I weren’t the best of friends. But then, I guess we weren’t the worst of enemies either. Looking back at it, I guess we were typical teenage siblings. Sure, we loved each other, but we didn’t always show it.
We lived in an old Quaker farmhouse in the eastern Pennsylvania countryside. I was in ninth grade, Jenni was in seventh, and we both went to the same middle school. Every day we would walk to our own private bus stop, board the bus, and sit in separate seats. We didn’t want to be seen together. We didn’t even want our friends to see us talking to each other. It wasn’t cool.
But my heart changed one day. It was a cold, frosty, late-fall morning. I remember riding home from early-morning seminary in a dense fog. We had to drive slower than normal because we couldn’t see very far ahead. As soon as we arrived home, I went into the dining room, sat down, and began eating the scrambled eggs Dad had made.
Jenni came downstairs and joined us. My older brother and sister had to leave earlier than I did, so Jenni and I were soon sitting alone eating breakfast. We argued over something at the breakfast table—something so insignificant I can’t remember what it was anymore.
As usual, Jenni and I walked the distance to the bus stop without saying a word to each other. Our coats were bundled tight, and our scarves warmed our necks.
I arrived at the end of our quarter-mile, tree-lined driveway first. The fog was dense. I knew the sun was up, but we couldn’t see very much. I looked down the winding, two-lane highway for cars. I looked the other way. I couldn’t see more than 20 feet through the fog, so I listened keenly for sounds of traffic. I knew the coast was clear, so I darted across the highway safely to the bus stop.
I stood and waited for Jenni and the bus. Neither came. There was no traffic, either.
Am I even at the bus stop? I thought. I looked down at the gravel and knew that I was.
Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching caused my heart and body to jump. I looked, but couldn’t see anything. Is the car going to hit me? I wondered in an instant.
Then, through the thick haze I saw Jenni dodging a car. She ran to me for safety, but stopped, not knowing if she dared hug me. The car had missed her by inches.
My heart filled with love and concern for her. I wrapped my arms around her as she cried.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Everything is okay.”
I held her for what seemed several minutes, then let go. Soon the bus arrived, and we were on our way.
Ever since then, when my friends or family have been in difficult times of their lives, we’ve held hands and crossed through the fog together.

Of these women, the only one I had known was my cousin Olga.
Olga, who was from Italy, married at a very young age, but sadly, her husband was violent and unfaithful to her. With the help of her father and her brother, Olga decided to escape when she was expecting her fifth child.
She went to live with her parents and brother. After the birth of her child, Olga passed away. Olga’s parents never recovered from the shock of her sudden death.

In the 1830s, missionaries baptized Mary Grimshaw and her family into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Grimshaws immigrated from England to the United States and made their home in Nauvoo.
Mary was given the assignment of helping Emma Smith, the wife of the Prophet Joseph Smith, with her laundry each week. Mary and Emma worked side by side in the Smiths’ kitchen.
“I’m so glad that you have agreed to help me,” Emma said as she lifted a large tub of water onto the black coal stove.
“I’m glad that I’m able to help,” Mary answered while she put shirts and dresses into the water to simmer and soak.
The kitchen air soon became hot and moist, and it smelled of strong lye soap. Mary wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She dipped a wooden spoon into the water and pulled out a shirt. Kneeling beside another tub of sudsy water, she scrubbed the shirt up and down the washboard. When the shirt was scrubbed clean, Mary handed it to Emma.
Emma rinsed it first in one tub of cool, clear water, then in another tub of clear water. The last tub had a few drops of bluing added to the water to make the shirts whiter.
After each article of clothing was washed and rinsed, it was pulled through a hand-turned wringer, which looked like two rolling pins hooked together with a crank on one end to turn them. The wringer was attached to another galvanized metal tub. As the clothes went through the wringer, the water was squeezed out and ran into the tub to be saved and reused. The clothes were then hung neatly on the clothesline to dry.
“Thank you for your help,” Emma said.
“Oh, it was fun. I enjoy having an excuse to come to your home,” Mary told her.
Mary did enjoy helping on laundry day at the Prophet Joseph Smith’s home. For five years Mary faithfully returned each week.
Then one sad day the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot and killed. Wanting to go and comfort Emma in some way, Mary said to no one in particular, “Sister Emma needs me more now than ever.”
As she walked to the Smiths’ house, she smoothed the braids that hung from both sides of her head, straightened the apron tied around her waist, and forced on her best smile.
She thought of how different the day felt. The very air was filled with sadness and uncertainty. She wondered about her future and the future of the Church. Stepping on to the porch, she knocked on the wooden door.
Emma looked pale and lonely, and her eyes were red and swollen.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary heard herself say. “Do you still want my help today?”
“Yes,” Emma replied. “I was hoping that you would come. Please go into the kitchen and get started.”
As Mary began to sort the clothes, she jumped back unexpectedly. On top of the pile of clothes lay a man’s shirt. The left side was stained with blood, and there was a small hole singed by gunpowder. The sight of it made Mary feel weak. She fell to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
At the close of the day, Mary wrote in her diary, “Today I washed the shirt the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot in.”
Mary’s faith in the gospel grew. She sustained Brigham Young as the new prophet. Later she crossed the plains with the other pioneers and made her home in Smithfield, Utah.

As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought one day as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily lived. They were older—even in the twilight period of life. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association.
That day I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on my way to a meeting. It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. Emily answered. When she recognized me, her bishop, she exclaimed: “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped that the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today is my birthday?”
I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”
In the quiet of their living room, I said to Ben and Emily: “I don’t know why I was directed here today, but our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. Emily, who had a beautiful voice, was asked to sing in the choir—even to provide a solo for the forthcoming ward conference. Ben was asked to speak to the Aaronic Priesthood young men and recount a special experience in his life when his safety was assured by responding to the promptings of the Spirit.
She sang. He spoke. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day to the time each was called home. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and lives saved.

We shouldn’t have a problem with masturbation. I know one fine father who interviewed his 11-year-old son and he said, “Son, if you never masturbate, the time will come in your life when you will be able to sit in front of your bishop at age 19, and say to him, ‘I have never done that in my life,’ and then you can go to the stake president when you are interviewed for your mission and tell him, ‘I have never done that in my life.’ And you would be quite a rare young man.”

The father again interviewed the young man, who is now 18 years old, and he asked the son about masturbation. The son said, “I have never done that in my life. You told me, Dad, that if I didn’t do that, I would be able to sit in front of the bishop and stake president and tell them I had never done it, and I would be a rare young man, and I am going to be able to do it.”