Gospel Story Finder

One thing you can say for the Laurels in the Rockford First Ward, Rockford Illinois Stake, is that they have heart. And they give it away. Their 1991 service project had them sewing valentine outfits for premature babies in a local hospital.
The outfits included nightgowns with red hearts, red knit socks, hats, and mittens. After Valentine’s Day, they continued to make outfits for premature babies in other hospitals in the area.

Consider what you might do if placed in this situation. Early one morning, one of our senior couples serving in South Africa was awakened by a loud knocking at his door. Upon answering the door Elder Packer found two uniformed, armed policemen. They instructed him to dress and that he needed to come with them. They arrested him and placed him in a holding cell with all of the men who had been arrested that night. Some were intoxicated; some had committed robberies and many other offenses. He remained in the cell some nine hours and amazingly was not accosted or hurt. While in the cell, he asked himself, "Why would the Lord allow me to be placed here? He must have something in mind." He decided to discover the reason, and so he began speaking with the men. He even persuaded some to begin singing a few hymns with him. He realized, though innocent, there was an opportunity to stop worrying about himself and begin worrying about those around him. In other words, he put the needs of others ahead of his own.
As the day concluded, the missionary was being called "Elder" by the prisoners. They not only sang the hymns but they defended the missionary from less-than-honorable jail mates. He befriended several who were as innocent as he was. Many were blessed by the Lord through Elder Packer's sacrifice; and Elder Packer was lifted to a new level of understanding and vision of how the Lord can use him, even in prison. Forgetting his own discomforts, he placed others ahead of his feelings and fears.

While I served as bishop, one of the Mia Maids in my ward came in for her annual interview. It was a bright summer day, and the rays of the afternoon sun reflected off the dust floating in the air. She and I talked about the significance of the small things in life versus the highly visible parts of what we are doing.
Without any warning she suddenly burst into tears and wept and wept. I left the chair behind my desk and walked around to where she was seated and sat down next to her. I attempted to comfort her.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I am so awful!” she cried out.
“What have you done that you think is so awful?” I asked.
“I am so cruel to my best friend. I deliberately play jokes on her to embarrass her in front of other people. I am just awful.” Then she cried some more.
“Could you give me an example of how you treat her?” I asked cautiously.
She described several situations that really were vicious, well-planned attacks on this other young woman that she claimed was her best friend.
“What am I going to do, bishop?” I remember her asking me.
As kindly and gently as possible, I explained to her that she must repent.
“How?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “you have recognized that you are doing wrong toward your friend. That is the first step. Now you have to decide if you really want to repent. Do you really want to go all the way with this decision?” She nodded her head that she did.
Through the following days and weeks, this fine young woman worked hard at learning how to stop being quietly vicious. She changed her plans to hurt into plans that would help and lift.
She confessed her sins to me, as her bishop. Then kneeling together in prayer I listened while she confessed them to God. Finally, she went to her friend and made peace. In an attempt to make restitution, my young friend went out of her way to make life easier and less complicated for her true, understanding friend. I learned firsthand how it is equally as important to forgive as it is to seek forgiveness. Fortunately, these were two special young women.
Within a few months my young Mia Maid friend had forgiven herself—her friend had forgiven her weeks earlier—and she had been forgiven in heaven.
Her heart and mind are now at peace. I am certain that she still remembers how she treated her friend. That will help her remember not to ever do it again. However, she feels no heartache or torture of mind because she has fully repented.

Sue Ann wants to share the gospel with as many people as she can. Recently a friend of hers, Elouise Meyers, finished the missionary discussions and was baptized. Sue Ann explained, “I had an appointment with my bishop and decided to take a buddy with me. I took Elouise. I knew she didn’t know much about the Church. While we were waiting for the bishop, the missionaries walked by. I asked them if they were teaching anyone that night. They answered, ‘No.’ ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you teach my friend?’ They set up an appointment.”

“Li-sa Lar-son!”
The double L rings out again as the announcer names the scoring player. Lisa, a 17-year-old senior from New Trier High School in Chicago, Illinois, has just scored two more points. Her long ponytail whips from side to side as she runs down the court, stops, and darts back and forth in front of one of the opposing players.
Then suddenly Lisa lunges at the ball, steals it, and a few seconds later, the loudspeaker booms again—“Li-sa Lar-son!” By the time the game is over, Lisa has scored 23 points.
When Lisa plays basketball, she explodes with energy. But it isn’t only on the basketball court that she demonstrates such enthusiasm.
“Lisa’s first word was more,” says her mother, Maya. “I guess that was a promise of things to come.”
Lisa lives in Northfield, Illinois, close to Lake Michigan, and belongs to the North Shore First Ward, Wilmette Illinois Stake. But if you met Lisa at church, you might not recognize her as the same girl who can dominate the basketball court. She is quiet and a little reserved. She attends early-morning seminary. You can often find her deep in thought.
“Time passes faster now than it did when I was younger,” Lisa says. “That worries me. I don’t want life to go by too fast. The gospel helps me put more value on time, and I want to do as much as I can with the time I have.”
When Lisa isn’t on the basketball court or at a Church activity, there’s another place you may find her. She loves animals; horses are her favorites.
“Some neighbors needed someone to watch their stable last summer, so I volunteered, just so I could be around the horses. Horses have a peaceful spirit, and I like to be with them.”
“The horses can tell she cares about them, and they really respond to her,” says her grandfather, James Larson.
Lisa is also interested in piano, tennis, dance, water ballet, and community service. “I want to learn as much as I can,” she says.
The Trevians’ girls’ basketball team is one of Illinois’s strongest. Lisa is cocaptain and the only Mormon—which presents interesting opportunities.
“Once we were playing a tough game, and I was standing at the foul line next to a big girl from the other team. She turned and asked, ‘Why don’t you ever swear?’”
Lisa smiles as she tells the story. Then she gets more serious. “I know that because I’m LDS, the other girls are watching everything I do. I want them to know that being a Mormon can make you work harder, not just in sports but in everything. I think they’re starting to understand that my standards give me more physical drive and help me think clearer when things are moving fast. The gospel makes me stronger in everything I do.”
This priority on gospel standards influences Lisa’s non-LDS friends. They come to her for advice, knowing they can trust her. “During a junior prom, I was able to talk a couple of my friends out of doing something that could have been real trouble for them. My friends are amazed that I can enjoy life without drinking or drugs.”
There are only about 20 LDS students at New Trier, but in spite of their small number, Lisa says, “when we talk about religion, almost everyone listens. They want to know what we have to say, and why we believe the way we do. They keep us busy answering questions about the Church, especially when there’s nothing else to do during bus rides to field trips.”
Last year, Lisa dislocated her shoulder and missed a chance to go to the Blue Star Basketball Camp to be seen by college recruiters. She was disappointed, but she didn’t give up. “I knew that I’d kept my body clean and strong and that it would heal fast.” She came back playing even stronger.
Lisa’s coach, John Schneiter, says, “In my 35 years of coaching, I’ve never seen a harder working athlete.”
Lisa comes by a lot of that determination through her family. The Larsons are like many active LDS families throughout the world. They echo gospel ideals in many of their activities. Their conversations are sprinkled with LDS catchwords. And they relate well with their non-LDS neighbors and friends. The Larsons also have an unusual number of family traditions which seem to bind them together. Visit them in December, for example, and you’ll probably see their family enactment of “The Night before Christmas”—with all of the lines changed for comic effect.
Lisa has two brothers and one sister. Josh, 15, is the oldest brother, just younger than Lisa and also an up-and-coming basketball player; then come Brigham, 12, and Brittany, 9.
Lisa relates well to her father’s athletic background as a college football player. “He’s been a great influence on me,” she says. “He loves sports and is a real fighter. He helps me stick with it when I get discouraged.”
What’s in Lisa’s future? “I’ll always be interested in sports,” she says. “But there’s more. I want to go to college—to BYU and major in dance. And join a dance troupe later on. And then teach.”
She pauses again.
“I’d like to go on a mission somewhere in the middle of all that. And of course get married and raise a family.” And more, and more, and more, and more.
In many ways, Lisa is just a good LDS girl, whose life is continually influenced by her membership in the Church. But because she’s always trying to do the best she can, for her more isn’t just a word; it’s a lifelong challenge.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, Lisa has graduated from high school and is attending BYU.

I Love the Advice given to Andrew Jackson by his Mother
In 1781 Andrew Jackson, then 14 years of age, enlisted in the American army, was captured and thrown into prison where he had smallpox. His mother Elizabeth Hutchinson Jackson, through exchange arranged for his release and nursed him back to health. Responding to an urgent appeal, she left him to go to Charleston to nurse some sick neighbors who were confined there on a British hospital ship. This errand of mercy cost her life. She caught yellow fever and died.
Almost her last words to her young son were:
"Andrew, if I should not see you again, I wish you to remember and treasure up some things I have already said to you; in this world you will have to make your own way. To do that you must have friends. You can make friends by being honest and you can keep them by being steadfast. You must keep in mind that friends worth having will in the long run expect as much from you as they give to you. To forget an obligation or to be ungrateful for a kindness is a base crime - not merely a fault or a sin but an actual crime. Men guilty of it sooner or later must suffer the penalty... None will respect you more than you respect yourself... Never wound the feelings of others. Never brook wanton outrage upon your own feelings." (By Unknown)

Life was still difficult, so much so that I left home for a brief time to give myself moments of reflection. I went to a friend’s house outside of Abidjan. One day around 6 am, a voice said to me: “Get up quickly and join your children in Abidjan”.
When I arrived, my children taught me that they should be baptized at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose missionaries had previously taught my children, but to whom I paid little attention because I was not attracted to religions. I was therefore invited to attend the baptism of my children at the Quatre Etages Ward.
Bishop Etian’s speech had a positive impact on me. It was the story of the “King with the Severed Finger” told by Muslim folk wisdom. A king had a finger cut off during the hunt and imprisoned his advisor who told him to let Allah (God) prevail in all things. Sometime later the king and his retinue were captured in the bush by cannibals who did not want him because of his disability. He was therefore the only one released and his life spared. He ran to deliver his servant, apologizing profusely. The latter replied that God is never wrong and that everything works together for our good. He said, “If you hadn’t put me in jail, I would be with you, captured, devoured by the cannibals, and probably dead today.”
From that moment on, I made a firm resolution to take my life and that of my children totally into my own hands by being baptized. From then on, I decided to forgive my husband for the wrongs I had suffered. My husband is still not in our home, but I have a more brotherly and kinder relationship with him through the power of forgiveness. I undertook income-generating activities that have allowed me to provide for my family and especially to ensure the schooling of my children for more than 15 years. Today, two of my daughters are starting careers as teachers in public schools. My last son has just been admitted to the university for which I am looking for ways to finance the courses. They make me proud. I have been able to go to the Accra Ghana Temple where I was endowed and sealed to my deceased parents.
I hope one day to be able to remarry in the temple to have an eternal marriage. The lessons I draw from my life is that everything works together for the good of one who believes in God.

Three decades ago, my husband and I made the mad dash to the hospital in the middle of the night. I was in early labor with twins. They were due April 10th but this was February 10th – cold and blustery. Like most expectant mothers, I worried that my child, in this case children, would be born with all their fingers and toes. Would they look like their Dad or me? Would they have hair or be bald? (I was bald until I was three.) I never worried that my child might die.
Immediately following the emergency delivery, doctors stabilized the boys and then whisked them away to a specialty unit in another hospital. They couldn’t breathe and as further diagnosis progressed, there were many more problems. They were identical; each weighed only three pounds and was about the size of my hand. Christian was born first; Cameron seven minutes later.
My husband had been alone through the night with the boys at the hospital across town. He and a physician had administered to them and by the power of the priesthood had called upon the heavens that they might live. They made it through the night. But as the morning progressed, reports of their critical condition stacked up and seemed overwhelming. Our first-born child, Christian, faced odds seemingly insurmountable. My husband asked if there was someplace he could go to be alone. Ushered into the doctor’s office in the Intensive Care unit, he knelt down to talk to our Father in Heaven. He told him how badly we wanted those little sons. How long we had waited for them. How he appreciated the Lord honoring the blessing given that enabled both to live. But then, with all the strength he could muster, he put them in the Lord’s hands: “Not my will but thine be done.”
He walked from the room to the isolette just as the monitor on Christian’s heart flattened out. He died that fast. I had never held him while he was alive. Come, the Lord beckoned. Come home.
I remember those days as if they were just last week. I remember the lights in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit and the sound of the machines sustaining life, buzzing intermittently with alarms. I remember the looks on the faces of other worried young fathers and mothers and the notes they wrote on their cribs, the pictures of family they tacked on the clear walls of the little isolettes. We covenanted then that if the Lord would save Cameron we would serve with devotion, we would hearken to every call. In the months that followed, Cameron fought valiantly for his life astounding the doctors with the grit he could muster from his frail little frame. Today Cameron is 30 and in a medical residency in Kansas City training to save premature babies.

I have always admired my great-grandmother Mary Bommeli’s devotion to sharing the doctrine of Jesus Christ. Her family was taught by missionaries in Switzerland when she was 24.

After being baptized, Mary desired to join the Saints in America, so she made her way from Switzerland to Berlin and found work with a woman who employed her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. Mary lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the home’s living area.

At that time, teaching the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was illegal in Berlin. But Mary found she could not keep from sharing the things she had learned. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear Mary teach. She spoke of the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, the visitation of angels, and the Book of Mormon. Remembering the accounts of Alma, she taught about the doctrine of the Resurrection. She testified that families can be reunited in the celestial kingdom.

Mary’s enthusiasm to share the doctrine of the restored gospel soon caused trouble. It was not long before the police took Mary off to jail. On the way, she asked the policeman for the name of the judge she was to appear before the next morning. She also asked about his family and if he was a good father and husband. The policeman described the judge as a man of the world.

In the jail, Mary requested a pencil and some paper. She spent the night writing a letter to the judge, bearing witness to the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, discussing the spirit world, and explaining repentance. She suggested that the judge would need time to reflect on his life before facing final judgment. She wrote that she knew he had much to repent of, much which would deeply sadden his family and bring him great sorrow. In the morning, when she had finished her letter, she gave it to the policeman and asked him to deliver it to the judge, and he agreed to do so.

Later, the policeman was summoned by the judge to his office. The letter Mary had written was irrefutable evidence that she was teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel and, by so doing, breaking the law. However, it wasn’t long before the policeman returned to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had caused her to be cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail.

Mary Bommeli’s teaching did not end with her release. The record of her words passed true doctrine down through generations yet unborn. Her belief that even a new convert could teach the doctrine of Jesus Christ has ensured that her descendants will be strengthened in their own battles.

Jenny came home from school, dropped her backpack off in her room, and slumped down on the couch.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Jenny sighed. “Today Mrs. Patterson gave each of us three paper flowers. If anyone talks during quiet time, we have to give someone one of our flowers.”
Mom nodded.
“Emily keeps saying I need to give her a flower. But I’m not even talking!”
“Have you talked to your teacher? Maybe she can help,” Mom said. “But sometimes when people act like that, they really just want a friend.”
Jenny scrunched up her forehead. “It seems like a strange way to show you want a friend.”
“I know. But if you pray, Heavenly Father will show you how to be a friend to Emily.”
That night Jenny prayed for help. She asked Heavenly Father to help her know what to say when Emily asked for her flowers.
At school the next day, her teacher announced that she would retire soon. A lump grew in Jenny’s throat. She loved Mrs. Patterson! Jenny wanted to cry as she thought about how empty her school would feel next year. Later she went home and told her mom about Mrs. Patterson leaving.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “I bet Mrs. Patterson is sad too.”
Jenny nodded. “Maybe our class could buy her a new wind chime. She loves those.”
“Great idea! Let’s go to the store tomorrow. You could invite some friends to come too,” Mom said.
Jenny smiled. She was excited to give Mrs. Patterson a present.
“Speaking of other kids, did you talk to Emily today?” Mom asked.
Jenny shrugged. “She kept asking for flowers again. I didn’t know what to do, so I just gave them to her. I prayed for help last night, but it’s not getting any better.”
“Don’t give up,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father hears your prayers. Just keep praying, and you’ll know what to do.”
That night Jenny prayed again for help with Emily. When she got to class the next morning, she quietly sat down at her desk next to Emily. Almost immediately Emily told Jenny to give her a paper flower.
Jenny hesitated. Suddenly she knew what to say. “Emily, I have a question for you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I want to buy Mrs. Patterson a new wind chime, and I need help picking one out. Do you want to come shopping with my mom and me?”
Emily’s face lit up. “Really? I guess I could help you.” She looked down at her hands. Then she reached into her desk. She carefully pulled out several paper flowers and handed them to Jenny.
“I’m sorry I took your flowers.”
Jenny reached for the flowers, and the girls smiled at each other. Mom was right, Jenny thought. Maybe she just wanted a friend!
As Jenny turned to her desk, she felt happy inside. Heavenly Father had heard her prayers! She was sad to lose her favorite teacher, but she was happy to gain a new friend.

The work and privation were intensified for the entire family when Brigham’s mother died of tuberculosis in his 14th year. The father soon after moved to a new homestead on 100 acres of timber 15 miles from any settlement and was sometimes away working or getting supplies in the nearest towns. At these times the children were left to clear land and care for the maple trees by themselves. Brigham’s younger brother, who was named after the great Methodist preacher, Lorenzo Dow, recalls that one time when he and Brigham were left alone for a few days while their father went for food, they were famished from living only on the insubstantial maple sugar. Brigham finally shot a robin that lit near the house, and while it was cooking, they managed to thump a few spoonfuls of flour out of the cracks of the empty flour barrel and thus “thickened the broth.”7 The grimness of such an existence was intensified by the father’s continuing insistence that the children not indulge in any amusements. Brigham remembers that his brother Joseph, older by four years, seemed never to smile “during some four or five years.”8

I was released from the hospital on New Year's Eve and found my world upside down. True, I wasn't in the hospital anymore, but being home with my children who clearly were having a hard time connecting with me was much worse than I had thought.

One night I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, pondering unanswerable questions. Who is that person in the mirror? Will I ever like the way I look again? Can I love myself if I look this way?

I wondered if makeup would help. I hadn't opened my makeup bag for months, but I knew it had been unpacked and put in our bathroom. I found a tube of mascara and with my clumsy hands brushed it on my eyelashes.

I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror. Mascara didn't help.

I stood in front of the mirror crying, dark mascara streaming down my face, and Christian came in and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb another of his loving speeches.

There was a cry from downstairs. Nicholas. We both knew he wanted Christian and not me. If I went down, he'd probably end up crying even louder and wake up Ollie and the girls. But I wanted to be the one to comfort him. Nicholas cried out again, and Christian started toward the stairs.

"No, let me try," I said. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight he would let me soothe his troubled sleep, like I'd always been able to before.

Christian helped me down the stairs, and when I got to the boys' room, Nicholas was crying and Ollie was zonked with a Zorro mask and cape still on. "Nicholas, Mommy's here," I said softly, and I lay beside him on the edge of the bed. " I'm here," I crooned, in much the same voice Christian had used to comfort me just a few minutes earlier. Nicholas settled down a little, and I proceeded cautiously, shocked that he was letting me touch him at all. He lay beside me, breathing deep, relaxed breaths. I looked at every detail of his face and his long brown lashes resting against his round cheeks. His chubby hands nestled their way under his cheeks. Even his white-blond hair seemed to be peacefully resting on his smooth, soft forehead. His perfect beauty struck me, and I was filled with love for this little boy, and gratitude that he would let me lie down near him. I had almost missed these precious moments with my children.

I had a choice: I could go from victim to survivor. But I didn't want to just be a survivor; I wanted to be a thriver. And I knew it was my choice, and I also firmly knew that the only way I could achieve happiness again was through my Savior, Jesus Christ.

That night I poured out my heart and soul to God. I told him that I wanted my job back again. And I didn't just want to be part of the family; I wanted to be in charge again. I wanted to do everything I did before the accident. I was determined to be present and active.

I missed me. I missed my long hair and healthy body. I missed holding my babies, and I missed snuggling up to Christian after a long day. But each day I found success knowing that I was that much closer to getting my apron back on or my fancy heels on for a weekend date.

The log cabin was small and homey, a chimney rising from one end and two windows and a door on the front.
Around it the fertile fields of Fayette, New York, were greening. Nearby trees were awakening to spring, shading the fresh, new blossoms struggling to lift their heads to the sun. Parked around the cabin were the horses, buggies, and wagons that had carried the many men and women who were gathered there on that Tuesday morning. It was April 6, 1830, the day chosen by the Lord for the official organization of His church in the last days (see D&C 20:1–2).
Inside the main room of the cabin, the Prophet Joseph Smith, only twenty-four years old, asked five of the men present to join him in legally organizing the new church so that the requirements of the law could be met. Then, after all those present had knelt together in solemn prayer, Joseph asked them if they would accept him and Oliver Cowdery as their teachers and leaders. They agreed. Joseph turned to Oliver, laid his hands on his head, and ordained him an elder in the Church. Oliver in turn ordained Joseph. In a confirming revelation, the Lord called Joseph “a seer, a translator, a prophet, an apostle of Jesus Christ, an elder of the church” (D&C 21:1).
The sacrament was blessed and passed. Others were ordained and confirmed. The gift of the Holy Ghost was given to many, and its presence filled the hearts of all. The small cabin overflowed with gladness and hope.
Among those who accepted baptism into the Church that day were Joseph’s parents, Joseph Smith, Sr., and Lucy Mack Smith. The young prophet was so moved by this and by the joy of the occasion that he went alone into the woods and wept.
The Church of Jesus Christ was again upon the earth. A prophet of God stood at its head. Its members were few and humble, some with little formal education, but that Tuesday they faced the future with great courage, and they were eager to learn the things of God and to serve Him and His church. Mistakes would be made and some would stumble, but the work would go forward, for the Lord promised them, and us, “I will bless all those who labor in my vineyard with a mighty blessing” (D&C 21:9).

The responsibility of communication is not alone on the shoulders of parents. The youth also have a responsibility to contribute love and strength to the family organization.
I recall a stage play that recently was made into a movie. It dealt with parents whose only child, a son, returned from military service. The father and son had never been close. It was a situation in which both father and son loved each other but were unable to find ways to express themselves, and therefore hostilities arose because each thought the other did not like him. It was a breakdown of communication.
But now the son was home from the army, and things were different. The father and son began to establish a whole new relationship. The high point of the play came when the boy said to his father something like this:
“Dad, I always resented you when I was younger because you never told me that you loved me, but then I realized that I had never told you that I loved you either. Well, Dad, I’m telling you now: I love you.”
For one electrifying moment the father and son embraced each other as the pent-up love and appreciation of years came flooding out. This probably would never have happened had the son not realized that he was as guilty of lack of expression as his parents.
Loren C. DunnConference ReportApril 1969, p. 22.

My sister, Sandy, and I were playing in the cornfield on Saturday morning, pulling up dried cornstalks and piling them up for a fort, when I saw something white sticking out of the weeds by the road. I ran to see what it was. “Sandy!” I yelled, running back toward her.
“What’s wrong, Jamie? Did you see a snake?”
“It’s a horse!” I panted excitedly. “It’s white with a gold and orange and blue saddle. There’s a gold tassel on its head.”
We quickly ran back to the spot where I had discovered the horse. “See!” I shouted.
“Wow! I wonder where it came from.”
“It must be from a carousel,” I said.
“But how did it get here?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? It’s ours—finders, keepers! Help me carry it.”
“Carry it where?”
“Let’s put it in the old stable,” I said. “Dad never goes in there anymore since he bought the tractor and sold old Jake. It’ll be our secret. Just wait until we get the dirt washed off!” I rattled on excitedly, hardly stopping to get my breath.
Sandy and I managed to drag the horse into the old stable.
“Jamie, I just want you to tell me one thing,” said Sandy. “How are we going to ride this horse? It won’t stand up.”
“If we had a pole like the one on a carousel, we could stick it in the ground,” I said thoughtfully.
“But that wouldn’t be any fun,” Sandy objected. “It wouldn’t move.”
I sat on a bale of hay with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hand, trying to figure out what to do. Then I gazed up at the roof. “Do you think that if we got some ropes, we could hang the horse from that rafter so that it would swing back and forth?”
“That’s a great idea!” Sandy squealed. “Let’s try it. I’ll look for some rope, and you get a ladder.”
Sandy held the stable door open while I pulled the ladder in. She had found one rope hanging on the wall of the stable, but it wasn’t long enough.
“Let’s take the tire swing rope off the oak tree,” she suggested. “I’d rather swing on a horse than an old tire any day.”
The tire swing came down quickly. With two pieces of rope, we were on our way.
I held on to the ladder to keep it from slipping while Sandy climbed to the rafter. She locked her legs around the rafter and inched her way along with the rope held between her teeth. Then she hung the first rope over the rafter. “OK, bring me the other one,” she said.
With the second rope in place, we carefully made our way back down. One rope we tied around the horse’s neck, the other under its tail.
“I get the first ride,” I claimed, climbing onto the horse.
Sandy gave me a push.
“Hi yo, Silver!” I yelled as I sailed back and forth.
The next morning, between spoonfuls of oatmeal, Sandy and I grinned across the table at each other while Mom insisted that we hurry and get dressed for church.
My Primary lesson was about the Ten Commandments. When we got to “Thou shalt not steal,” I asked the teacher, “Is finding something and keeping it the same as stealing?”
She answered, “It’s wrong to keep something that belongs to someone else unless you honestly can’t find the rightful owner.”
After dinner the next day, Dad turned on the television to watch the local news. A reporter told about a missing carousel horse that had apparently fallen off the back of a truck. “If anyone knows anything about this horse,” he announced, “please call the police or the television station as soon as possible. It is not only a favorite mount on the carousel but also a valuable piece of equipment.”
I left the room, wandered slowly out to the stable, and stood looking at our horse. It must be the same horse, I thought. Then, But maybe it isn’t.
The rest of the day, I kept thinking about the horse and the fun that we were having. But it wasn’t as much fun, and I didn’t feel right when I tried to say my prayers that night. I had trouble falling asleep too.
When we got off the school bus the next day, we raced to the stable. Sandy got to the horse first and started to swing.
“What are we going to do?” Sandy asked.
“I don’t know, but I liked it better when I thought it was really ours. I’m going to call the TV station,” I said.
A couple of hours later, a truck pulled up in front of the house. The driver got out and said, “I’m looking for Jamie Thomas.”
“That’s me,” I answered gloomily.
“I understand that you found a carousel horse.”
“Yes sir.” I led him down to the stable. The horse was still hanging there. Sandy stood in the shadows, frowning at me.
“I know how hard this is for you,” the man said as he untied the ropes.
“Swinging on that horse must have been real fun.” He handed me an envelope. “You come to the fair this weekend, and you can have all the free rides that you want.”
After he left with the horse, I held the envelope out to Sandy. “It’s full of tickets,” I said.
“You’re kidding!” She looked inside. “You’re not kidding!”
We both grinned from ear to ear. And I felt a whole lot better.

Carrie Laub, in Hebron, remembered when she and her mother went out to the watermelon patch and enjoyed a watermelon. Her father ate with them and then went to work, but her mother stayed with her and continued eating. In a few minutes her father came back and said, “You still eating?” and the mother replied, “I am going to eat enough so in the winter when they are all gone, I won’t wish I had eaten some more when I had a chance.”

As I looked over my new visiting teaching assignment, I saw the name of a new member of our ward. I felt apprehensive about calling someone I didn’t know, but my companion and I made an appointment to visit Jane (names have been changed). We arrived on the appointed morning and quickly said a prayer before approaching the door. We found Jane and her three young sons waiting for us.
As we grew closer to Jane through our monthly visits, we also tried to get to know her sons. The two youngest would sit next to my companion and me, and we would read them books and play with them. But four-year-old Alex, the oldest of the three, was not so eager to warm up to his mother’s frequent visitors. He was independent and hesitated to become friends with us.
I had been Jane’s visiting teacher about a year when I received a call that Jane’s house was on fire! My husband and I felt prompted to grab crackers, bottled water, and toy cars and to hurry over to see if we could help. We found Jane standing on the sidewalk across from her smoldering home. Jane’s husband had joined the firefighters to take stock of the damage while Jane comforted their three crying children, who were clinging to her knees.
When we spoke to her, she told us she was eager to join her husband. We took her two youngest children to our car. They were hungry and thirsty, and I was grateful for the inspiration of the Holy Ghost to bring food and water. They were soon content. But Alex, still sobbing, held tightly to his mother. Jane could not take him with her, and she felt torn between going to her husband and comforting her son.
I encouraged her to go and then leaned over and asked Alex if I could hold him while his mom went to find his dad. To my surprise, he agreed. When I scooped Alex into my arms, he rested his head on my shoulder, and I rubbed his back. While Jane went to find her husband, I whispered comforting words into Alex’s ear. I could feel his sobs slow and his breathing relax.
As we stood on the sidewalk, Alex said softly to me, “You’ll take good care of me ’cause you’re my mom’s teacher.”
I quietly shed tears as I realized that Alex knew we were important in his mother’s life. He recognized that he could trust and rely on me to take care of him too ’cause I was his mom’s teacher.

One night my friend saw my scriptures and asked, “What book is that?” I said, “It is the Book of Mormon, the Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price.” I read to him from the Book of Mormon. I showed him all the pictures, and we talked about them. I said, “Come with me.” I took him to our basket with copies of the Book of Mormon and gave him one. It felt good inside to share the gospel with my friend.

One day two full-time missionaries who were working in my village felt prompted to take a detour to go home. On their way home, they met my mother. She stopped them and made an appointment for me to meet them. I wasn’t happy about that. I didn’t want to talk to them. I thought they would say, “You must listen to us. You must believe what we are going to tell you.”

When the missionaries arrived for our meeting, I told them, “Don’t waste your time. I have my own beliefs. What you are doing is good, but I believe that family is very important. I believe that church leaders should be married. I believe that a church should have twelve Apostles. I believe that God will save as many of His children as He can. And I don’t believe in smoking and drinking.”

I was surprised to learn that their teachings matched my beliefs. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. I felt the Spirit when I read the book, and I felt the Spirit with the missionaries. But I thought, “Maybe I’m just creating these positive feelings.”

I prayed and got an answer in a dream. In my dream, I opened the Bible. Inside the Bible were tabs with the different books of the Bible. The last tab said “Mormon.” This message helped me understand that the Bible and the Book of Mormon contained the same gospel (see Ezekiel 37:15–19).

My testimony was further strengthened through other experiences reading and studying the Book of Mormon. When the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I accepted with joy. I was baptized exactly one year after my girlfriend left me. My baptism marked a big change in my life. I lost some friends when I joined the Church, but I found new ones in the branch I attended.

“The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness,” says Nicolas. “God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters.”

The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness. I was filled with the Spirit and with joy. I thought, “All that I have suffered before has brought me here.”

God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters. Two of them have served missions, helping others understand what I came to understand years ago: “The family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children,” “the dead who repent will be redeemed, through obedience to the ordinances of the house of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 138:58), and the Lord calls apostles and prophets in our day to lead His Church (see Ephesians 2:20).

“For me, an eating disorder is as physical as it is mental. When I was in the middle of my eating disorder, food seemed to have lost its savor. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat, but I physically couldn’t get myself to eat. There was a constant lump in my throat that prevented me from indulging in anything.
“I felt alone and trapped, like nobody could possibly understand why I couldn’t eat an adequate amount of food—it was just me and my eating disorder. In the end, I realized that this was how I was coping with various things in my life. I felt the only thing I was able to control in my life was what I did (or in this case didn’t) put in my body.”

“I had a friend who must have been moved by the Spirit to talk to me. One day as we were chatting, she told me that she had noticed my peculiar eating habits—small bites, skipping meals, etc. Even though that conversation didn’t cause me at that moment to get the help I needed, it opened a door that allowed me to finally accept the fact that I had an eating disorder and needed to get help.
“I started exercising regularly and praying more intently, and I told my closest family members about my eating disorder. The exercise helped me clear my head, and the honest conversations I was having helped me address the underlying issues. It was a process, but I can finally say my favorite food is pizza again!”