Gospel Story Finder

I first heard the wonderful story of The Little Engine That Could when I was about 10 years old. As a child, I was interested in the story because the train cars were filled with toy animals, toy clowns, jackknives, puzzles, and books as well as delicious things to eat. However, the engine that was pulling the train over the mountain broke down. The story relates that a big passenger engine came by and was asked to pull the cars over the mountain, but he wouldn’t [lower himself] to pull the little train. Another engine came by, but he wouldn’t stoop to help the little train over the mountain because he was a freight engine. An old engine came by, but he would not help because, he said, “I am so tired. … I can not. I can not. I can not.”

Then a little blue engine came down the track, and she was asked to pull the cars over the mountain to the children on the other side. The little engine responded, “I’m not very big. … They use me only for switching in the yard. I have never been over the mountain.” But she was concerned about disappointing the children on the other side of the mountain if they didn’t get all of the goodies in the cars. So she said, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” And she hooked herself to the little train. “Puff, puff, chug, chug, went the Little Blue Engine. ‘I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can.’” With this attitude, the little engine reached the top of the mountain and went down the other side, saying, “I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could.”1

I hope we can all be like the “Little Engine That Could.” It wasn’t very big, had only been used for switching cars, and had never been over a mountain, but it was willing. That little engine hooked on to the stranded train, chugged up to the top of the mountain, and puffed down the mountain, saying, “I thought I could.” Each of us must climb mountains that we have never climbed before.

Pat was my best friend, at least he was until my sense of humor got in the way.
Pat and I played football together at BYU. He played offense; I played defense. But we became good friends anyway. We lifted weights together, played racquetball together, and ran together in the off-season.
When I first met Pat, I was a recent convert to the Church and he was a lazy life-long member. He went to church once in a while, but he really wasn’t active, at least not as active as I thought he should have been.
We always joked around a lot. He teased me about my skinny arms; I teased him about his pot belly. Any topic was fair game for our joking: the way we dressed, missed racquetball shots, blown plays on the football field. Most of the joking was pretty clever, and it helped pass the time we spent working to become better football players.
One day, as we were getting dressed, I started teasing Pat about being inactive.
“Let’s see, Pat,” I said, “this Sunday is even numbered. Does that mean you’ll go to church? Or do you only go on the odd-numbered days?” He didn’t answer, so I continued to razz him. “Or do you just go every other month?”
I laughed. He remained quiet.
During the car ride back to our apartments, I didn’t let up. My teasing continued nonstop, and he sat sullenly throughout the trip.
Finally, just before we pulled up to my apartment, Pat spoke up, only “spoke up” isn’t the right expression. “Yelled” is more accurate.
“Listen, Chris,” he said, barely controlling his anger, “don’t ever tease me about the Church. Never.” And with that, I got out of the car. He slammed the door closed and drove off. The next day, some of our mutual friends came to talk to me.
“Hey, Chris,” said one, “lay off teasing Pat about the Church. You really hurt his feelings yesterday. See, he’s trying to get active; he’s been working at it for a long time, and you just don’t understand.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that a guy so big, so strong, so good at handing out teasing and taking it, could ever have his feelings hurt. But he did. And worst of all, that incident ruined our friendship. Of course, I apologized to Pat immediately. I felt horrible about the whole thing—horrible that I had really wounded a good friend, and horrible that I had ruined a great friendship. Sure, we remained friends, but it was never the same again.

Several months ago, a stake president and I visited a sister in his stake and her young adult son. After years away from the Church, wandering difficult and unfriendly paths, she had returned. During our visit, we asked her why she had come back.
“I had made a mess of my life,” she said, “and I knew where I needed to be.”
I then asked her what she had learned in her journey.
With some emotion, she shared that she had learned that she needed to attend church long enough to break the habit of not coming and that she needed to stay until it was where she wanted to be. Her return was not easy, but as she exercised faith in the Father’s plan, she felt the Spirit return.
And then she added, “I have learned for myself that God is good and that His ways are better than mine.”

I learned about the gospel together with my family in Barahona. One day, the missionaries came to our home. I was 11 years old. Somehow, I was delighted by what they taught us. Right now I do not remember all my feelings clearly, but what I can tell you is that I liked what they taught. We felt very good; they brought a very special spirit into our home. Thus, when the missionaries invited us to be baptized, I did not doubt; I accepted and entered the waters of baptism together with my mother. That was how I entered into the way and made my baptismal covenants with the Lord.

With a physical handicap and learning disability, Billie, at 15, was all but forgotten by our quorum. It was not necessary to baptize him. He had his own school to attend. With his physical handicap, Scouting had not seemed realistic. Then a new teachers quorum adviser was called. “If Billie is going to be on the rolls, then he should at least be included in the activities.” Brother Wilson made the first contact, and the response was overwhelming. Sure Billie wanted to come. “No one had even thought to ask,” his mother said apologetically.
Over the next few months of spring and summer Billie was at every Mutual activity, and we started to get acquainted with him. He felt like he belonged. Some of the boys didn’t understand Billie and were critical of him for being clumsy and awkward, but Billie felt wanted and knew our adviser loved him.
When Billie turned 16, he was forgotten again, but only until some of the rest of us turned 16. We remembered Billie and started bringing him out; with us around again Billie felt even more accepted.
Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been knocking on the door, and this was our year. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but everyone recognized the sparkle in his eye when he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten them during the regular season, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had run down to the store for some pop. The first game started without them, but the second string was good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was close, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back. We had to have the next game if we were to win two out of three.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always played all the boys. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.
Basketball season came. Everybody knew Billie by now. Everybody knew he would be playing. The referees knew what to do when he tried to dribble. The teams made certain allowances. He was really part of things.
Stake championship again. We worked our way through the teams in the stake, and the final game was between us and—you guessed it—them.
Well, it was close the first half, but then we fell apart. The coach could see what was happening, and by the third quarter it was pretty obvious that nothing was going to work for us that night. While we were looking for some way to get even with the same guys that beat us in volleyball, something unique was happening on the basketball court.
Billie was playing. He really couldn’t shoot. One arm and hand was withered, and he couldn’t give much direction to the ball. But every time he got the ball, their coach yelled for someone to foul Billie. That was the end; I was fighting mad. Even the people in the crowd couldn’t believe their ears. Why was our bishop smiling? Then one of their players gingerly went out and tapped Billie. One referee was so mystified by what was happening that he just stood there. In fact everybody just stood there for several silent seconds. Then the other referee blew his whistle, and when he did everyone understood. Billie got to shoot a foul shot. In fact, he got to shoot two foul shots (intentional foul), and when he missed those, one of the boys on the other team was standing with his foot over the line and Billie got to shoot again, in fact several more.
The crowd was clapping and cheering for Billie; we were cheering for him, but so was the other team. Was this really losing? Everyone was pulling together. No one seemed to care what the score was; everyone was helping Billie. Both teams were helping and cheering and pulling for Billie.
Billie shot a lot of free throws that night. We all cheered; we laughed a little; and Billie went home the star of the evening. Who won? They did, we did, and the stake did.
We found out that when we forget ourselves and our selfish goals, scores aren’t as important as the individual; and we found out that we all care about the same thing. Those guys on that other team aren’t so bad. The referees are really human. And losing a game isn’t the end of the world, not when you’re winning.
We went on that year to play in the Explorer Olympics. We played team sports in volleyball and basketball, and we won some and we lost some. But our investment in Billie was there, and we taught some other teams—or Billie taught some other teams—that winning only matters if you’re building your own stature or, as our bishop says, “if you’re developing character.” And I guess that’s what we learned from Billie—character.
Our bishop said that Billie is here to teach us. We’re all watching him a little more closely to see what other lessons we might learn from him.

It’s a little different growing up in the Middle East. In Saudi Arabia there’s not a big Young Women program, because the foreign families who make up the branch often send their high-school-age girls off to boarding schools in Europe or the U.S.
But thanks to a special project, the girls will never forget that they are to “stand for truth and righteousness.” Before each girl leaves, she receives a quilt. Each square has been made by one of her classmates and has something to do with the Young Women values. Mothers and daughters worked together for hours to piece and sew the quilts together.
“Our prayers and encouragement have gone off with these quilts and girls,” says Debby Gibson, a YW adviser. They’ve got the girls covered.

I shivered to the very center of my bones as I watched the snow-packed Teton Mountains loom into view. All the fears of the past three months seemed now to be a reality. I was going to freeze to death in the middle of July.
I’d seen the snow unmelted on the peaks. I knew the lakes would be frozen over. We’d live in snow caves and melt ice for drinking water. We’d walk on snowshoes and try to light fires with wet tinder. It was enough to make me forget that it was my turn to be alone with Dad.
My father’s work requires him to spend a lot of time away from home. So each summer, he makes up for it by taking me or one of my two brothers on a trip. This canoe trip through Yellowstone National Park and the surrounding area was to be my turn. The anticipation of having Dad to myself for a whole week was wonderful. But it was overshadowed by my fear of freezing. Even though it was a roasting July down in the valleys, I knew it must be cold up in the mountains.
I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at Camp Loll, our first night’s stop. Though the air was crisp, snow wasn’t flying everywhere. But my fear of freezing quickly returned when a guide met us in the parking lot and told us to get ready for a swim check.
Swim check! No one had told me anything about that. I didn’t think I’d be required to get into the water. I’d come to go hiking and canoeing, not swimming. What good would all my Scout training do me if I froze to death before my 14th birthday?
The lake fulfilled all my nightmares. Slippery black water sucked me down and forced the air from my chest. But somehow I made it to the edge of the dock. By then my body was numb, and finishing the swim check was a conditioned response.
Then, to add to my despair, the guide said we now had to paddle out, swamp a canoe, get all the water out, and paddle back to shore. What if a huge ice cube formed around me and I sank? But wait a minute—ice floats! Some consolation.
Luckily, Dad was my partner. He’s been a canoeing instructor, and he really knew what he was doing. The swamping exercise was over in a matter of minutes, and it was really quite fun.
As we walked back to camp, it occurred to me that even though we were up in the mountains, it was really pretty warm. Maybe my July wasn’t going to be frozen after all. Dad and I spent the rest of the afternoon hiking around the lake, then playing horseshoes.
Morning came as quickly as I had gone to sleep, and after breakfast and a short ride to Lewis Lake we were canoeing our way to our first campsite. Surprise! There were no icebergs floating on the water. We did break a paddle, and at one point we had to pull the canoe up the Shoshone River, but the scenery and the fishing more than made up for the work.
By the third and fourth days, the warm summer sun had taken all my fears of freezing away. Winter didn’t live perpetually in the mountains. In fact, with a little hard paddling I could work up a sweat. I was beginning to wonder if anything exciting would happen on our trip.
Many other things happened on that trip. We hiked over the continental divide, we saw geysers spout and hot pots bubble and fume. We saw an elk in velvet and swam in the Fire Hole River. And guess what—not once did we freeze to death. I never even saw an igloo!

Ben and his baby sister Ellie were all ready for church. Ellie sat on the floor with some toys. Ben looked at a book. Mommy was in Grace’s bedroom helping her get ready.
Then Ellie started to cry.
“Ben, can you help Ellie?” Mommy called.
“I’ll try,” Ben called back.
Ben looked at Ellie crying. How could he help her feel better?
“Look, Ellie. It’s your favorite teddy bear.” Ben gave the teddy bear to Ellie. But she kept crying.
“Ellie, here’s your ball.” He gave her a little red ball. But she pushed it away. Now she was crying even louder. She did not want her toys. What could Ben do?
“Look at me, Ellie!” Ben put his thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers.
Ellie looked at Ben making a funny face. She stopped crying!
“Watch this, Ellie!” Ben stuck out his tongue and wiggled his head. Ellie smiled. She started to giggle.
Ben made another silly face. Ellie was laughing!
“Thank you so much for helping,” Mommy said when everyone was ready for church. She gave Ben a big hug.
“I like it when Ellie is happy,” Ben said with a smile.

I come from a small city in eastern Colombia. It was there that I was taught about the Church and was baptized, and it was also there that the desire to go on a mission was born. I was the only member of my family to accept the gospel.
I remember going out with the missionaries almost every night to help them in the work and at the same time to gain experience in the field. When the missionaries asked me where I wanted to serve my mission, I told them, “Anywhere but Venezuela.” My response was such because this was a time of great tension between my country and Venezuela, and I had little love or appreciation for the Venezuelan people.
Time passed, and I had my interview with the mission president. One of his questions was, “Brother, will you go where the Lord calls you?”
I responded without hesitation, “Yes, President.”
He then leaned forward, looked me in the eyes, and said, “And if the Lord calls you to Venezuela?” I knew then that the president knew my thoughts. After a short time I was able to tell him that I would go where the Lord sent me, but still inside of me I felt as if I could not accept those people.
Finally the day arrived when the mailman brought the large white envelope containing my mission call. I opened it. I was called to serve in the Venezuela Mission. That night I knelt and asked the Lord not to make me go to that country. After talking to him for some time, I said that I needed his help. I got up, turned on the light, and began to leaf through the Doctrine and Covenants. I stopped in the 53rd section. There was the answer from the Lord to me:
“Behold … I have heard your prayers; and you have called upon me that it should be made known unto you, of the Lord your God, concerning your calling …
“Take upon you my ordination, even that of an elder, to preach faith and repentance and remission of sins, according to my word, and the reception of the Holy Spirit by the laying on of hands;
“And also to be an agent unto this Church in the place which shall be appointed by the bishop …
“And again, I would that ye should learn that he only is saved who endureth unto the end.” (D&C 53:1, 3–4, 7.)
I closed the book and knelt once again, this time in the spirit of humility. The tears burned my cheeks, and in my prayer I asked the Lord to forgive me for telling him his will.
Now I was ready to head for Venezuela, this time in a white shirt and tie. I met many people who needed to be saved, and I had to fight for them. I learned to love them with all my heart, persons who today have gone to the temple, who are the leaders of the Church in Venezuela, and others who are missionaries themselves.
I received a great deal of love and satisfaction from the Venezuelan people, and I came to learn why I was sent to that part of the Lord’s vineyard. My greatest blessing came shortly after being released as a missionary when I saw my own mother enter into the waters of baptism. I know the joy that the Lord promises to those who bring others into his kingdom. I know that this is the work of Jesus Christ because I have felt his direction. I know that it is for us to bring the message of the restoration to the millions who are waiting. And I know that one of the best ways to do this is to serve a full-time mission wherever the Lord would have us to go.

Malcolm Tent was still a young man when he began putting rocks in his pockets. It started one day when his boss, Mr. Gump, got angry at him for something that wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t yell back at his boss, because he might get fired. In fact, there wasn’t anything he could do except be angry inside. “But,” he thought, “I’m not going to forget this. no way.”
On the way home from the bus stop that night, he thought to himself, “I’ve got to remember how angry I am. I don’t want to forget in the morning.” Suddenly he had an idea. There was a small rock on the sidewalk in front of him. He picked it up and said softly to himself, “I’ll keep this rock in my pocket to remind me of how unfair Mr. Gump was.”
And that’s what he did. That night he put the rock on his dresser with his keys and comb. The next morning, when he got dressed to go to work, into his pocket went the ugly gray rock.
All that day and the next, the heavy bulge in his pocket reminded him that he should be angry at Mr. Gump. Strangely, Mr. Gump seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. But not Malcolm Tent. Oh no. In fact, during the next two weeks, Mr. Gump made Malcolm angry several more times, and Malcolm decided he’d better get a rock for each time so he could keep better track of these things.
And so it was that Malcolm Tent’s trousers began to look baggy and strange. But at least he remembered not to forgive Mr. Gump or be friendly or anything like that.
Maybe if Malcolm had only collected rocks when he got angry at old Gump, this thing might have died out and been forgotten. But there was the taxi driver who drove right by and left Malcolm standing in the rain. Into his pocket went a shiny, rain-slick pebble from the gutter. (Of course, Malcolm had no idea of the taxi driver’s name, but it didn’t matter.) Then there was the grocery clerk who short-changed him. And the newspaper delivery boy who threw his paper into the lawn sprinkler. And the neighbor whose dog barked late at night. And … well, Malcolm discovered that there were all kinds of people and things in the world that can bother you.
Speaking of discoveries, Malcolm also discovered that when all of your pockets are full of rocks, a plain old belt won’t hold up your pants. (He discovered that fact while his arms were full of grocery sacks.) So he made himself a sturdy pair of leather suspenders to help hold up his pants.
But soon the time came when he didn’t have enough pockets in his pants, so he had to wear a jacket everywhere he went—the kind of jacket with lots of pockets. And it wasn’t long before the jacket looked as funny as his trousers. And smelled just as dusty. And got even heavier because it had more pockets.
Anyone else might have given up at this point, but not Malcolm. He bought one of those big sturdy briefcases like salesmen use. After all, when you start to look for them, there are all kinds of things in life that can bother you. And when you are always tired from lugging so many rocks around, you get angry even easier.
Years went by, and Malcolm’s collection of reminder rocks spilled out of his pockets and briefcase and all over his house. He had rocks on the kitchen sink, and in his closets, and all over the floors. A few times he even put a rock in his bed so he could remember to be angry during the night. Let’s face it. Malcolm had become a strange, unpleasant man. And most people avoided him when they could, which made him even touchier. Rocks are not very good company. They are hard and dusty, and in the winter they are very cold.
Now, Malcolm might have gone on to become a mean old man completely buried in rocks. But one day he received a phone call from a geology professor at the university. Dr. Igneous had heard of Malcolm’s large rock collection (who hadn’t?), and he wanted to bring his geology class on a field trip to see it.
“Well,” thought Malcolm, “at last here is someone who appreciates my rocks. Wait until they see all of these reminders of how often people have wronged me.” An appointment was made for the next Saturday, and Malcolm spent the next few evenings dusting and arranging.
At last Saturday came, and at two o’clock in the afternoon the doorbell rang. There, on the porch, stood Professor Igneous and seven of his best students, all dressed in their best field-trip, outdoor clothing. Several had rock hammers dangling from their belts, and one or two carried cameras. And everyone carried a notebook and pencil.
Professor Igneous himself looked rather ordinary. But he had a ready smile. And his face was deeply tanned from spending years out of doors. As a matter of fact, there was something about his eyes, too. They looked deep and dark, but they had a sparkle that said he enjoyed life. And when he looked at you, it was the same look he gave mountains and rock formations—as though he were trying to peer inside. This was a scientist who liked people at least as much as he liked rocks.
As the professor and students stepped into the rock-filled living room, Malcolm expected to hear oohs and aahs. You know, like you hear at a fireworks show. Instead, there was an uncomfortable silence. The group just stood there looking around, nudging a few of the rocks with their toes. Then the students looked at their professor, waiting for him to say something. After all, this was not the collection of beautiful gems and minerals they had expected. These were ordinary hunks of limestone and sandstone and quartzite. Why, there were even chunks of broken asphalt and concrete!
Finally, Professor Igneous spoke: “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your collection to us, Mr. Tent. I can honestly say we’ve never seen another collection quite like it.” In the background, his students nodded in agreement.
“Well,” Malcolm began nervously, “I, uh, well … that is. …” It had been a long time since he had said much of anything to anyone.
Professor Igneous could see how nervous Malcolm was. The poor man kept swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down. (Some of the students thought he was trying to swallow one of his rocks.)
Trying to help, the professor said, “Why not begin by telling us why you chose these rocks.” He picked up an ordinary gray rock that looked like most of the others. “Why did you choose this particular piece of limestone for your collection?”
“Oh, is that what it is? Well, I think that’s the one I picked up when the laundry didn’t have my shirts ready on time. Wait! No, I think that’s for the time my favorite TV show got canceled. Or was it the time I ran inside to answer the phone, and the caller had the wrong number? Or …” Here he paused to search his memory. There were so many rocks! And they were so much alike—gray, hard, cold, dusty. Suddenly, Malcolm realized that that was all Professor Igneous and his students could see. To everyone else these were just plain old everyday rocks. Malcolm had to explain, to make them see.
“There’s more to these rocks than you might think. Every one of these rocks represents a time somebody made me mad or hurt my feelings. I picked up these rocks as reminders.”
Now the professor and his students were really amazed. They all began to speak at once: “I never heard of such a thing.” “How long have you been doing this?” “Can I take a picture of you with your rocks?” “Some field trip!”
Professor Igneous spoke again, and everyone became quiet. “Well, Mr. Tent,” he began slowly, “I must admit you’re the first person I ever met who collected rocks for that reason.” He paused and looked around. “You’ve been very kind to invite us into your home. And we don’t want to take up too much of your time. But do you suppose that while we are here we might see your other collection?”
A blank look came over Malcolm’s face. “I don’t have any other collection.”
“Oh, I see. I just thought you might have collected something to remind you of the nice things people have done and said. But, well, never mind. Perhaps we ought to be going now. Thank you so much for allowing us to come into your home. I think my students have learned something important.”
He gathered his students around him, and they moved toward the door. Then, turning to Malcolm once more, the professor said, “We still have some time left this afternoon. Could you perhaps direct us to some of the other people with similar collections?”
Once more Malcolm was caught off balance. “I don’t know of any other collections like mine.”
“Oh. I just thought that perhaps some of the people you know would have collected something when you … I mean … if you ever … uh … annoyed them.” Then, quickly, he added, “Yes, well, good-bye, and thanks again.”
Without waiting, the professor and his students turned and marched off down the sidewalk.
Long after they were gone, Malcolm stood there, looking just like one of his rocks—cold and gray and very still. Within him, the professor’s words echoed. Around him, the house was silent. Too silent. He suddenly realized how pleasant the students’ friendly chatter had been. How long since he had had a friendly talk with anyone? Come to think of it, did he even have any friends anymore?
Then, before he could stop it, the thought came into his mind: “I’m becoming just like my rocks.” As Malcolm sat alone in the dark, he finally realized what unpleasant companions rocks are. And how unpleasant he … Well, some thoughts are hard enough to think without actually saying them.
For several days, for hours at a time, Malcolm sat still as a rock, thinking rock-hard thoughts. You might have thought he had finally become petrified. But deep inside him, something was waking up and beginning to grow, like a seed in the spring soil.
If you think it’s hard to find a home for kittens or gerbils or such, you should try finding someone who wants a bunch of very ordinary, dusty, gray rocks. In fact, just try gathering them up when they are scattered all over. Malcolm tried to hire cleaning ladies. They all told him the same thing: “I don’t do windows, and I don’t pick up rocks!” A “Free Rocks” sign in his window brought no results. Finally he realized that this was something he would have to do himself.
The neighbors still talk about the time Malcolm backed a rented trailer up to his front porch, and about the tremendous cloud of dust that rose as the rocks flew out into the trailer. They also talk about how much better Malcolm looks, how his clothes fit so much better (has he lost weight?), and how he actually smiles now.
Malcolm’s neighbors also point with pride to his attractive yard, with trees and flowers and bushes planted everywhere. They don’t have any explanation for his sudden interest in gardening. But one neighbor, Mrs. Kratz, did notice that after she had taken a piece of cake to him, Malcolm went out to the flower bed and planted a single seed.

My mother made me this journal, and this is my first time writing in it. My name is Patrick O’Hurley. I am 11 years old, and I live with my family on a potato farm in Ireland. A potato famine has been going for five years now. Many people have died from hunger and disease, like my friend Bartholomew and my grandmother Melvina.
Everyone is hungry, even my dog, Whiskers. He keeps chewing on my shoes, no matter where I hide them!
I don’t know if God really cares. Da and Ma say He does. They say we just have to have faith, but the famine is still going on. Why doesn’t God answer my family’s prayers? I think maybe He has forgotten about us. We’re only potato farmers—maybe we’re not important enough for Him to remember.
Two Mormon missionaries visited us yesterday. They spoke about God and His Son and a plan God has for everyone, even us. The missionaries said we are children of God and that each one of us is very important to Him. At first I wasn’t sure about it, but last night I prayed hard, and I felt something inside of me. A feeling as warm as the blanket Ma made me to use on cold winter nights.
The missionaries helped us understand the reason for trials. We learned that difficulties help us grow and test our faith so we can become more like Heavenly Father. I asked them why some trials go on and on, and the tall one said, “If all our trials were fixed in a single moment, how could we become stronger inside? Our legs couldn’t become stronger if we could climb any mountain in a single step.”
My faith is a lot stronger now, and I am happy. The famine has not ended yet, but we know that in the Lord’s good time it will. We prayed we could leave Ireland, and Heavenly Father has provided a way. We will be leaving for Canada in about two weeks. I know now that it is after the trials that the blessings come.
Whiskers still chews on my shoes. Da says it keeps me humble. Then he laughed. So did everybody else. Even me. We know blessings come after our trials, so I asked Ma if after Whiskers chews my shoes up, I will be able to get a brand new pair. I didn’t hear what she said because Da laughed even louder!

Two weeks later, the teachers at the Consolidated let us out early without telling us why. My sisters and I ran home and crashed through the door only to find Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table. Their faces were white and gray, the color of locomotive steam, and they told us the mine had closed and Dad was heading east that night—to find work in the Ontario mines. He’d send for us when he got settled.
I turned cold. My younger sister yelled that she couldn’t leave. I remember Mom and Dad holding her and saying something comforting, despite her rage. And I remember taking Dad down to the station, carrying one of his heavy suitcases.
“Sell the Ford if you have to … if you can,” he said to Mom on the platform. Then he kissed her.
The train let out a groan and inched away from us. Dad reached down the stairs and shook my hand. “Don’t let Sam slip away,” he said, and our hands were pulled apart.
I resented that, at the time. I hated that my father’s last words to me were about Sam, and I kept it in the pit of my stomach for a long time.
Several weeks later, we had a big meet. I saw Sam from the front room window peddling his bike up the street. We had a 10-mile ride to make, and the district finals began at five, so I didn’t expect him to stop for long. But he didn’t stop at all, and I had to grab my shoes, run outside, jump on my bike, and race to catch up.
“In a hurry?” I asked near the corner.
“What took you so long?” he asked, smiling.
We rode to Crowsnest in near silence; the only sounds were the rhythmic metallic clink of my peddle rubbing against a chain guard and the heavy rumble of passing lumber trucks on the highway. By five we were waiting in a hot gym as a man with a megaphone and a few sheets of paper stood on a chair and began reading rules. The wrestlers were grouped according to weight and record, the man explained. The athletes with the best league records, like Sam, would face the wrestlers with the worst league records in the first round. Losers would go home; winners would go on to the medal round. So-so wrestlers like me would face the other so-so wrestlers, and then, if we won, would meet the top kids.
He began to read names, and Sam’s was one of the first called. He’d wrestle third. I’d go sixth, which meant I’d have to wait almost an hour. I was excited and nervous and knew that I’d be tired for the match if I didn’t relax. I moved Sam into a corner of the gym and spent my time getting him warmed up for his match. I remembered what Dad used to do—practice moves, stretching, and the like, although my jokes weren’t as good. We kept ourselves away from the crowd and the faint ring of the bell and cheers of the boys. Finally I heard, “The winna!” and looked around to see the ref holding one boy’s hand in the air.
That’s when I noticed a familiar figure in the doorway—out of place. It was Mom. She smiled and waved, and I ran over to her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “It’s a gym.”
“I can go anywhere I want,” she said. “I’ve come to see you and Sam wrestle.”
I shook my head, but it was obvious she was staying.
“And I brought you something.”
She held a box tied with string. It had a return address in Ontario.
“Your dad found work,” she said.
I nodded and ripped the box open. Inside was a letter and something bulky wrapped in newspaper.
“Open the letter first,” said Mom.
I shrugged and did as she said, pulling the letter out of its envelope as I walked outside to read it alone. It was in Dad’s unmistakably bad handwriting made worse because it was written on a bumpy ride. He began:
“Dear Jed,
“I’m here. The train ride is long, three days of wheat fields and another couple of pine trees, so I got to thinking about you and Sam.”
I stiffened with the thought of Sam sharing my only letter from Dad, but I read on.
“As you know, I did some missionary work with him, and I hope the Spirit can touch him. He needs that direction in his life. I guess it was embarrassing for you sometimes to be put on the spot, but I wanted you to share that missionary experience with me. I care a lot for the Church and believe in the restored gospel with all my heart. I hope you can carry on the work without me.
“Somewhere near Winnipeg, as the wheat fields began to end, another thing occurred to me. I got to worrying that you didn’t know why I paid so much attention to Sam, and that maybe you felt like I was a better dad to him than to you. I guess I need to apologize for that, but after Sam’s own dad died, it was obvious that he needed a father in his life, even more than you did at the moment. You have a maturity and a direction that Sam doesn’t. I can’t tell you how proud I am that you’re my son.
“I guess that’s all for now. We’ll meet up soon enough and talk then.
“P.S. The package is for you. I hope you do well in the district tournament, but remember that Sam is a much greater challenge in the grand scheme of things. Good luck.”
I folded the letter carefully and reached into the loose paper inside the box. Even before I unwrapped it I knew by the feel that it was a book. I pulled it out and breathed in the deep scent of new leather on the copy of the Book of Mormon.
I don’t exactly know why, but I had to shake my head to fight back tears. I can’t say what moved me—if it was the valuable gift from my penniless dad, or the fact that I finally understood that he was not playing favorites with Sam. He was just trying to be an example.
And something whispered to me, just then, that I could do the same. Suddenly I knew that it wasn’t important if I won or lost my match that night. It was more important to be there for Sam, to be an example, to lead the way.

When I was a young girl, a group of us were invited to Elder Widtsoe’s home for a fireside, and afterward he showed us his pedigree chart, a result of devoted research. As he unrolled the chart, it stretched across three rooms of his house. This was so impressive to our young minds that it motivated us to begin searching for information about our own ancestors. What a wonderful beginning to a lifelong interest and participation in this sacred work! A spiritual dimension is truly added to our lives when we work on our family histories.

When my seminary class discussed anything that had to do with the hereafter, from spirit prison to sealed couples being sorted into their degrees of glory together, my stomach started to do somersaults. I won’t lie—I do worry about where my family will fit in after death. I try to trust in the knowledge that God is good and that my dad is good, but right now, there’s a gap in our family’s eternal future. We simply don’t know what will happen.

Tip: Show empathy for others. Families with less-active members aren’t the only people who deal with this, but it can be emotionally taxing, especially in Church settings. When I share my concerns, I’m not looking for answers—I’m just looking for empathy, for someone to agree that this is hard sometimes.
I eventually realized that I could soften a negative discussion by piping up and saying, “Oh, I disagree. My dad is less active, and …” Almost immediately, people’s comments became kinder, and many even backtracked on their previous insensitive statements.

Tip: A good rule of thumb in Church discussions is to assume that no matter what you’re discussing, someone in your group has experienced it, is experiencing it, or will experience it—or they have a loved one who is going through it. Once people knew about my family situation, they were much gentler. They knew that, to me, this wasn’t just a conversation about less-active or disaffected members—this was about my father.

All of this boils down to what we already know and what we are taught: be empathetic and loving. Elder W. Craig Zwick, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, said: “The willingness to see through each other’s eyes will transform ‘corrupt communication’ into ‘minister[ing] grace.’ … It may not change or solve the problem, but the more important possibility may be whether ministering grace could change us.”1

Mortality means we all end up in unique circumstances. And whatever those circumstances are, we can always be accepting and kind to all. My family is a part of my unique mortal journey, and I love them as they are. But I do have hope that Heavenly Father will help everything work out for our eternal family in the end.

Cheery music plays on the radio. Colored lights twinkle on our Christmas tree, and lighted candles gleam in the kitchen. The smell of homemade pizza slowly fills the house.
I feel like jumping and squealing, but Mommy asks, “Will you please set the table?” So I set seven places—one each for me, Mommy, Daddy, Great-Grandma, Uncle Phil, Heather, and Stacie. Tonight they are coming for dinner. After we eat, I can play with my cousins until bedtime. I can’t wait to show them my favorite dolls!
Soon the doorbell rings. Uncle Phil helps Great-Grandma through the door. “What are you doing up so early?” he teases in his loud, jolly voice. I giggle. He always says this, even when it’s late. Great-Grandma kisses me on the cheek and says, “Hello, sweetheart.” She always says this too.
I sit between my cousins, and Daddy asks a blessing on the food. We eat and laugh, and I am happy that Mommy has saved me five whole olives. I put them on my fingertips, then eat each olive one by one.
After dinner, I tug Stacie’s arm. “Do you want to play dolls?” She shakes her head and follows Uncle Phil into the living room. “Will you play dolls with me?” I whisper to Heather. But she follows Stacie.
“Let’s sing Christmas carols!” Mommy says, pulling back the piano bench. Laughing and clapping, we sing “Jingle Bells” as loud as we can. We sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Deck the Halls.” I don’t know all the words, so I hum and clap until I’m tired.
“Do you want to play dolls now?” I ask Stacie.
“No,” she says. “I want to keep singing with Great-Grandma.”
My throat feels tight. Soon big tears roll down my cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Daddy asks, leading me away from the piano.
“I want to play with Heather and Stacie,” I cry. “I’m bored!”
“But, sweetie,” Daddy says, “Great-Grandma would be bored without you.”
I frown and wipe my eyes.
“See how happy she is,” Daddy says. “She loves you. She likes spending this special time with us, singing her favorite songs.”
I watch Great-Grandma sing. She smiles at me, her eyes shining like twinkling Christmas lights. I walk over to the couch and snuggle next to her. “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers, putting her arm around me.
Mommy starts playing “Silent Night,” and I sing along.
I don’t want to jump and squeal anymore. But I don’t want to cry either. Playing dolls doesn’t sound as fun as I listen to our reverent voices. I feel calm, happy, and warm—like gleaming candles on a winter night.

Let me tell you a story—a parable.

There once was a man who wanted something very much. It seemed more important than anything else in his life. In order for him to have his desire, he incurred a great debt.

He had been warned about going into that much debt, and particularly about his creditor. But it seemed so important for him to do what he wanted to do and to have what he wanted right now. He was sure he could pay for it later.

So he signed a contract. He would pay it off some time along the way. He didn’t worry too much about it, for the due date seemed such a long time away. He had what he wanted now, and that was what seemed important.

The creditor was always somewhere in the back of his mind, and he made token payments now and again, thinking somehow that the day of reckoning really would never come.

But as it always does, the day came, and the contract fell due. The debt had not been fully paid. His creditor appeared and demanded payment in full.

Only then did he realize that his creditor not only had the power to repossess all that he owned, but the power to cast him into prison as well.

“I cannot pay you, for I have not the power to do so,” he confessed.

“Then,” said the creditor, “we will exercise the contract, take your possessions, and you shall go to prison. You agreed to that. It was your choice. You signed the contract, and now it must be enforced.”

“Can you not extend the time or forgive the debt?” the debtor begged. “Arrange some way for me to keep what I have and not go to prison. Surely you believe in mercy? Will you not show mercy?”

The creditor replied, “Mercy is always so one-sided. It would serve only you. If I show mercy to you, it will leave me unpaid. It is justice I demand. Do you believe in justice?”

“I believed in justice when I signed the contract,” the debtor said. “It was on my side then, for I thought it would protect me. I did not need mercy then, nor think I should need it ever. Justice, I thought, would serve both of us equally as well.”

“It is justice that demands that you pay the contract or suffer the penalty,” the creditor replied. “That is the law. You have agreed to it and that is the way it must be. Mercy cannot rob justice.”

There they were: One meting out justice, the other pleading for mercy. Neither could prevail except at the expense of the other.

“If you do not forgive the debt there will be no mercy,” the debtor pleaded.

“If I do, there will be no justice,” was the reply.

Both laws, it seemed, could not be served. They are two eternal ideals that appear to contradict one another. Is there no way for justice to be fully served, and mercy also?

There is a way! The law of justice can be fully satisfied and mercy can be fully extended—but it takes someone else. And so it happened this time.

The debtor had a friend. He came to help. He knew the debtor well. He knew him to be shortsighted. He thought him foolish to have gotten himself into such a predicament. Nevertheless, he wanted to help because he loved him. He stepped between them, faced the creditor, and made this offer.

“I will pay the debt if you will free the debtor from his contract so that he may keep his possessions and not go to prison.”

As the creditor was pondering the offer, the mediator added, “You demanded justice. Though he cannot pay you, I will do so. You will have been justly dealt with and can ask no more. It would not be just.”

And so the creditor agreed.

The mediator turned then to the debtor. “If I pay your debt, will you accept me as your creditor?”

“Oh yes, yes,” cried the debtor. “You save me from prison and show mercy to me.”

“Then,” said the benefactor, “you will pay the debt to me and I will set the terms. It will not be easy, but it will be possible. I will provide a way. You need not go to prison.”

And so it was that the creditor was paid in full. He had been justly dealt with. No contract had been broken. The debtor, in turn, had been extended mercy. Both laws stood fulfilled. Because there was a mediator, justice had claimed its full share, and mercy was fully satisfied.

BARBARA: I have a friend who was so mad every time we mentioned the Church. We walked to school together each day. It was about a 20-minute walk. One day I said, “Oh, I’m so busy. I have to read this story in Sunday School, and I don’t have time to practice. Would you mind if I read my part to you while we walk to school?” And it just happened to be about a nonmember who was converted. When I got through with the story, my friend said, “You know, that was really neat how that Mormon girl kept trying with the nonmember friend even though she had a lot of hate toward the Church. It was good that she never gave up.” And I thought, “Aha! She’s telling me something!”

At the unofficial 1906 games in Athens, Greece, an Austrian weight lifter, Josef Steinbach, was scorned by the partisan crowd because it was alleged he was a professional. The frustrated Austrian left the stadium, allowing the Greek in second place to win the event. The flag was raised and the crowd cheered. Then Steinbach re-entered the stadium, walked up to the weight the winner had lifted with great effort, and with ease hoisted it three times over his head.

In 1952, super-athlete Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia won both the 10,000 and 5,000-meter races. To celebrate his victory, he announced he would enter the marathon, even though he had never run the 41.8 kilometer event before.

“Do you really think you can win?” a newsman asked.

“If I didn’t think I could win, I wouldn’t have entered,” Zatopek replied.

At the 24.1 kilometer mark, Zatopek was side-by-side with Him Peters of Great Britain, the pre-race favorite.

“Don’t you think we should be going a bit faster?” Zatopek asked, then ran ahead. He was grinning when he won.

Football player Floyd Little of the Denver Colorado Professional Football Team summed up self-confidence: “I choose not to be an ordinary man. It is my right to be uncommon if I can.”

Shortly after my sweetheart, Devonna, and I were married, she shared with me a story about how she learned in her youth this important doctrine that we are free to choose but that we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions. With the help of my daughter Shelly, I would like to relate Sister Arnold’s experience:

“When I was 15 years old, I often felt that there were too many rules and commandments. I wasn’t sure that a normal, fun-loving teenager could enjoy life with so many restrictions. Furthermore, the many hours spent working on my father’s ranch were seriously dipping into my time with my friends.

“This particular summer, one of my jobs was to ensure that the cows grazing on the mountain pasture did not break through the fence and get into the wheat field. A cow grazing on the growing wheat can bloat, causing suffocation and death. One cow in particular was always trying to stick her head through the fence. One morning, as I was riding my horse along the fence line checking on the cattle, I found that the cow had broken through the fence and gotten into the wheat field. To my dismay, I realized that she had been eating wheat for quite some time because she was already bloated and looked much like a balloon. I thought, ‘You stupid cow! That fence was there to protect you, yet you broke through it and you have eaten so much wheat that your life is in danger.’

“I raced back to the farmhouse to get my dad. However, when we returned, I found her lying dead on the ground. I was saddened by the loss of that cow. We had provided her with a beautiful mountain pasture to graze in and a fence to keep her away from the dangerous wheat, yet she foolishly broke through the fence and caused her own death.

“As I thought about the role of the fence, I realized that it was a protection, just as the commandments and my parents’ rules were a protection. The commandments and rules were for my own good. I realized that obedience to the commandments could save me from physical and spiritual death. That enlightenment was a pivotal point in my life.”

Around the turn of the previous century, two missionaries were laboring in the mountains of the southern United States. One day, from a hilltop, they saw people gathering in a clearing far below. The missionaries did not often have many people to whom they might preach, so they made their way down to the clearing.
A little boy had drowned, and there was to be a funeral. His parents had sent for the minister to “say words” over their son. The missionaries stood back as the itinerant minister faced the grieving father and mother and began his sermon. If the parents expected to receive comfort from this man of the cloth, they would be disappointed.
He scolded them severely for not having had the little boy baptized. They had put it off because of one thing or another, and now it was too late. He told them very bluntly that their little boy had gone to hell. It was their fault. They were to blame for his endless torment.
After the sermon was over and the grave was covered, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the mother, “and we have come with a message for you.” As the sobbing parents listened, the two elders read from the revelations and bore their testimony of the restoration of the keys for the redemption of both the living and the dead.
I have some sympathy for that preacher. He was doing the best he could with such light and knowledge as he had. But there is more that he should have been able to offer. There is the fulness of the gospel.
The elders came as comforters, as teachers, as servants of the Lord, as authorized ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
These children of whom I spoke represent all of our Heavenly Father’s children. “Children are an heritage of the Lord: and … happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”2