Gospel Story Finder

At the beginning of my cross country season, my team went to an invitational. An invitational is a very big race where hundreds of runners meet to race. As I prepared myself for my race, I noticed that the younger girls, mainly the freshmen and first-years, were watching me intently and asking all sorts of questions. They asked about why I always wore a headband in my hair. At the next meet they all had headbands! Then they noticed that I had an energy bar I would eat before my race. Believe it or not, at the next meet they all had energy bars, and they were the exact same flavor! At first it caught me off-guard because I wasn’t used to being the experienced one, and not too long ago I was doing the watching, trying to learn from the older kids who seemed to have so much knowledge and wisdom. This was a really interesting experience for me, and it was really quite cool. I felt like a celebrity.

Travis Arrington awoke to the screams of his mother and three younger sisters in one of the adjoining rooms of their small cabin. It was still dark when he piled out of bed in his rumpled nightshirt and stumbled toward the bedroom door. But before he had taken two steps, the room was lit by a torch that burst through his window, shattering the glass and setting his bed afire.
The frightened lad backed against the wall, numb with dread as a face with a crooked nose, contorted by drink and blind hate, filled the broken window. Travis recognized the face as that of a farmer from a neighboring valley. He had seen him two days before, waving his fist at Pa and telling him that Mormons weren’t welcome in Missouri. As a final warning he told his father that he had better pack up and get out if he knew what was good for him.
Pa had just smiled kindly with a stalwart, quiet courage and told the man that he was homesteading on God’s land and that He didn’t seem to mind. He added that the Almighty was the only one he answered to.
Then the farmer with the crooked nose gave Travis’s father the same kind of nightmare look that he was giving Travis right now!
The boy fumbled for the doorknob, bolted into the next room, then stopped dead on the other side of the door. Fire was lapping up the walls of the main room like a deadly tapestry. His sisters were huddled together under a table, screaming and sobbing. And he could see his mother through the rising smoke, struggling with a man who was holding a half-empty bottle in one hand and a club in the other. Where, Travis wondered frantically, is Pa? At the same time he instinctively threw his twelve-year-old frame at the drunken man who was lifting his club to strike his mother.
The force of the boy’s lunge unbalanced the man and knocked him against the wall. Striking his head on the rough fireplace stones, he fell to the floor. Quickly Mama gathered up two of the little girls in her arms, while the third clutched her leg. She shouted for Travis to follow her down into the root cellar before the man on the floor regained his senses.
“But where’s Pa?” Travis wildly petitioned.
Mama, already halfway through the hole in the floor, glanced at Travis with tears streaming down her cheeks. “With God,” she choked, her voice breaking. Then, forcing herself to switch her attention from her agony to the terrible urgency of the moment, she tearfully commanded Travis to hurry, and then disappeared beneath the floor.
But Travis couldn’t move. He saw something through the smoke and the open front door that held him fast. In the yard outside he spied his father, facedown in the light of a dropped torch with a little pool of blood under his head and a third man standing near him waving a gun in shameful triumph. A ravaging anguish, hate, and fear riveted through the devastated boy like a molten iron rod and buried itself deep into his heart.
Suddenly something else was holding him fast. A hand locked about his leg with a viselike grip. The man on the floor shook the dizziness from his head and glowered up at Travis with a spiteful grin, then he pulled a knife from his coat pocket.
Travis blanched. Suddenly a roof timber wrapped with fire crashed to the floor. The man glanced about the small room, now an inferno, then looked back at Travis and widened his grin. The next moment he was up and gone. The sound of a closing door told Travis that the man had decided to let the fire seal the boy’s fate.
Sooty, strangling clouds of smoke were now so thick that Travis couldn’t see the door to the root cellar, and the fire was so intense it stung his eyes. He stumbled over a chair and fell to the floor. Unbidden tears ran down his face as he extended his hand and blindly felt his way through the ashen mist. His fingers were instantly blistered on the fiery wood as they desperately searched for the opening to the root cellar.
Suddenly, someone was grabbing at him! He cried out and pulled back his hand.
“Travis! It’s me!” came Mama’s anxious voice from out of the fiery tempest. He gave himself over to her saving tugs and let himself be dragged beneath the floor.
A little wind trembled the aspens surrounding the clearing and fanned the embers of still-hot coals where Travis’s family cabin had stood a few hours before. Travis peered out of the root cellar, scanning the black rubble. His reddened eyes stopped on the sight of his lifeless father in the smoke-hazed yard. Morning’s first frosted rays of light were splintering down through the dark trees and resting on Pa’s body. But the advancing light only resurrected the terrible memory the boy had tried to pretend was no more than a bad dream.
Travis wanted to stay in the hole—forever. But Mama told him, “Get a shovel and dig a place for your pa.” Then more gently she said, “Do it where the sun shows prettily by the willows.”
The boy wondered how the sun could feel so warm, as though nothing tragic had happened. And why does that bright red bird in the aspen tree a little way off sing so joyously, just like it did when Pa was alive?
Travis’s mother had concluded that these things “were for the best,” to help them to keep on going. It was as though his father were saying “All is well,” and telling them to look forward to the good in life that could still be theirs. That eased a portion of the agony some, but it didn’t change the hate that festered inside him for the three men who had taken away his greatest joy—his father.
Travis and his father had been very close, closer than a prayer to an amen. He tried to be strong like Mama wanted him to, but once again tears blurred and burned his eyes and fed the roots of his growing bitterness.
Travis watched his sisters pick little yellow wild flowers and place them atop the grave. Then he listened as his mother read a scripture from the Book of Mormon … something about the blessings due the righteous dead. She stopped once and shook with grief, then quickly lifted her head and turned her face toward the sun.
A twig snapped somewhere in the windy shadows of the nearby thickets and Mama said it was time they hurried on. There was nothing much to pack. Most everything had been lost in the fire, except a parcel of dried food in the root cellar that Travis lugged to the wagon along with his secret hate.
An hour later the hot blackened wood hissed as rain drifted down from a leaden sky, and wagon wheels slushed along a remote, rarely traveled road. Travis sat in the back of the wagon with his sisters, his eye set on the rainy landscape where a happier memory unfolded when he and Pa were in these lovely woods only a week ago. “Your ma loves blackberries, doesn’t she, boy!” Pa had said. “Well, we’ll just fill our hats with enough to make the biggest berry cobbler this side of anywhere a body can rightly think of!” And they did.
Suddenly the wagon stopped. Travis turned to see his mother climbing down and hurrying to the side of the trail, where a man lay facedown in a little gulley filled with rainwater. There was blood on the side of his head, and he looked to be unconscious.
Mama bent beside him and turned him over. Travis paled. It was the farmer with the crooked nose! “He’s one of the men who burned down our place!” Travis shouted.
His mother studied the man, who groaned with pain and fever. “Yes,” she quietly said, “but he needs help badly. He may die without it.”
Travis interrupted with fiery disbelief. “Then let him die! If it wasn’t for him and those other men, Pa would still be alive!”
“Fetch me a hand,” Mama firmly commanded. “We’ve got to get him out of the rain and into the wagon. He’s toting a killing fever.” She glanced about quickly, squinting through the falling rain. “He must’ve ridden past here last night and hit his head on one of these low-hanging limbs.” Her stare returned to Travis who stood back protestingly. This time Mama’s voice was stern. “Don’t just stand there, Travis Arrington, I said—!”
“But, Mama.” Travis countered. Then he paused, the man’s eyes were starting to open slowly. After a moment he stared wide-eyed at Travis, then at his mother. His lips tried to speak, but couldn’t. However, the expression on his blood-spattered face was one of stunned disbelief. Why are these people helping me? it seemed to ask.
Mama tried to lift the man by herself, and as she struggled in the dripping rain, Travis felt moved to help her.
A few minutes later the farmer was laid out in the back of the wagon. Mama removed her shawl and placed it over him. When she looked up she found Travis looking at her in a way he had never done before. Touched by his expression, her eyes filled with tears. Then she looked back at the man. “Can you point?” she asked.
The man looked puzzled, but nodded. Mama continued, “We’re going to take you home. There’s not much I can do for you here. We’ll sit you up so that when we get close to wherever it is you live, you can point in the direction we must go. Do you understand?”
The man nodded again. Is it just rain in the man’s eyes, Travis wondered, or is it tears? Surely not tears! he determined. But that look on his face … Must be out of his head with fever, he concluded.
The man slowly raised his hand. Travis stiffened, then picked up a shovel from the wagon bed. But the man’s hand only tapped Mama’s arm and motioned for her to draw near. The man mustered enough strength to whisper, “Why?”
“It is our way,” she replied simply.
Travis lowered the shovel slowly as he watched the man close his eyes and begin to sob. Then he looked at Mama. She took his hand in hers. Nothing was said, but suddenly Travis could almost hear the words that Pa had used one day … last Easter it was. Something he said Jesus had said of those who had mocked and scorned and whipped Him, and hung Him on the cross to die: “Father, forgive them. …”
Travis’s bitterness would not pass from him as easily as tired leaves dropped from autumn’s windy branches. But from that time on he would hear more and more each day the joyous singing of the birds in the aspens—all the way to Nauvoo and beyond.

I remember vividly an experience I had as a small boy. One day while playing with my friends, I accidentally broke a window in a store near our home. As the glass shattered and the security alarm blared, a paralyzing fear filled my heart and mind. I realized immediately I was doomed to spend the remainder of my life in prison. My parents eventually coaxed me out from a hiding place under my bed and helped me to make amends with the store owner. Fortunately, my jail sentence was commuted.
The fear I felt that day was overwhelming and real. You undoubtedly have experienced much greater feelings of dread after learning about a personal health challenge, discovering a family member in difficulty or danger, or observing disturbing world events. In such instances, the distressing emotion of fear arises because of impending danger, uncertainty, or pain and through experiences that are unexpected, sometimes sudden, and likely to produce a negative outcome.

The chute burst open and a raging, bucking bronco leaped high into the air. A cowboy sat atop, in perfect form, his spurs above the point of the shoulders, the rhythm of each move matched to the twisting and turning of the wild horse.
But then the crowd rose to its feet and gasped as the massive animal came crashing down on its side, all of its weight crushing the left foot of its rider.
Zane Davis picked himself up and hobbled over to the chute. When he got his boot off, the foot began to swell. The crushed bones eliminated his chances to continue in the competition, but that didn’t keep Zane down.
Less than a month later he was back in the saddle, working his way to the title as top college rodeo rider in the United States.

Sweat beads up on Bret Rasmussen’s forehead and drips down his face. He pauses in the brilliant sunshine and wipes his face on his sleeve, then hoists a stack of six folded wooden chairs. A few rows away, Brian Herr and his dad carry tables two at a time and set them up. They move steadily in the afternoon heat, staying just a little ahead of the group cutting white plastic and taping it to the tables as covers.
Bret and Brian are Boy Scouts, and they are part of a ward effort to benefit the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Twice a week, all summer, the youth of the Noblesville Indiana Ward labor in the hot sun. They carry dozens of tables and chairs to the base of a long grassy hill in preparation for a symphony concert. Sweat, Scouts, and symphony—an unlikely trio? What brings them together?
They are not alone. Scout leaders, families, and friends all lend a hand. “It’s a time to see friends and get to know new people,” says Emily Runyan, whose brother Chris is a Scout. “Those of us who aren’t in the troop can still be an example of service to others.”
The LDS youth finish and settle down on the hill with cool drinks and snacks. With their service comes a bonus—they can stay and hear the symphony concert for free. As the sun lingers near the edge of the concert shell, thousands of concertgoers arrive. Sometimes 10,000 people throng the grounds on a symphony night. After the sun goes down, the scattered lights of hundreds of tiny citronella candles flicker like caged fireflies.
The concert is finished. A few fireworks light the sky over the orchestra shell, and the LDS youth scramble up from their places. Swarming down the hill, they start folding chairs, clearing tables, and carrying them back to storage. Now that it is cooler, demonstrations of strength take place. Austin Armstrong carries eight chairs at once. Brennan staggers under 13. Jamie Ketring and Jennifer tote one table between them, but Jon Foote hoists one above his head and carries it alone.
The final tarpaulin is tugged up and over a mountain of chairs. It is time to go home.
The thoughts of all the youth are echoed by Emily Runyan. “My main memory of summers is our work at Conner Prairie.”

Harold B. Lee tells the experience of praying very hard for a material blessing he needed badly. He states that one day while he was praying for this blessing, he remembered that he had recently received some income that he had not yet tithed. It was as if, he said, the accusing voice of the Lord was saying: You want a blessing from me but you have not been obedient to the laws upon which such blessings are based. (“Faith,” address delivered at Brigham Young University, 28 Jun 1955, tape in Historical Department Archives.)
He said that he went and paid the tithing on that income, and then he again sought that particular blessing of the Lord.

Kwan Wah Kam of Hong Kong first decided to plant a garden to supplement her home storage. She had never attempted to grow her own food but assumed she could learn all she needed to know by reading books.
Although the information she found was helpful, Kwan soon discovered that the greatest lessons she learned came through the process of actually planting the garden. With each additional year of experience, she has learned more about the best soil to use for different seeds, how to distinguish between good seeds and bad seeds, different ways to water and fertilize plants, and the best seasons to grow various vegetables.
The lessons Kwan learned were not limited to gardening alone, however. One evening, a terrible storm threatened to destroy her garden. In the morning, she was surprised to discover that the plants were not damaged, but instead, grew stronger from the additional water.
“From that experience, I learned that with faith in God, we can become stronger as we face our trials and difficulties with courage,” Kwan says. “The blessings I have received from gardening are both temporal and spiritual.”

One Saturday morning in February 1996, I traveled 80 miles from our home to Fargo, North Dakota. Stake training was being held, and I carpooled with two sisters from my ward.

As we entered the parking lot, a man ran out to meet us. He said to return home immediately as a severe blizzard was on its way.

We were about 10 miles outside of town when the snow and wind began to rage. It was as if white paper had been taped on every window of the vehicle. We could see neither road nor signs directing the way, only swirling snow. Our situation was precarious, and my nerves were raw.

After hours of white-knuckle driving, we saw faint taillights of a vehicle ahead. We could barely make out the lights, but seeing them gave us hope.

Creeping along for an additional four hours, we trusted if we followed the light ahead, it would guide us safely home.

In the production of Annie, Sandy, the dog, broke loose, missed his cue, entered too soon, and came in from the wings center stage. He could have spoiled the show, but Annie came to the rescue and helped him wait until it was his time to enter.

As participants on the stage of life, we too must be sensitive to the timing and must work to support each other. There are times that some will, for a brief moment, move center stage in front of the lights, then backstage or even offstage into the wings for a time, confident that the entire cast will participate in the final curtain call.

I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

A moment in time from my own family history exemplifies a commitment to care for those in need. Many have heard of the Willie and Martin handcart companies and how these faithful pioneers suffered and died as they endured winter cold and debilitating conditions during their trek west. Robert Taylor Burton, one of my great-great-grandfathers, was one of those whom Brigham Young asked to ride out and rescue those dear, desperate Saints.
Of this time Grandfather wrote in his journal: “Snow deep [and] very cold. … So cold that [we] could not move. … Thermometer 11 degrees below zero [-24°C] … ; so cold the people could not travel.”
Life-saving supplies were distributed to the stranded Saints, but “in spite of all [the rescuers] could do many were laid to rest by the wayside.”
As the rescued Saints were traversing a portion of the trail through Echo Canyon, several wagons pulled off to assist in the arrival of a baby girl. Robert noticed the young mother did not have enough clothing to keep her newborn infant warm. In spite of the freezing temperatures, he “took off his own homespun shirt and gave it to the mother to [wrap] the baby.” The child was given the name Echo—Echo Squires—as a remembrance of the place and circumstances of her birth.
In later years Robert was called to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church, where he served for more than three decades. At age 86 Robert Taylor Burton fell ill. He gathered his family to his bedside to give them his final blessing. Among his last words was this simple but very profound counsel: “Be kind to the poor.”

“I also helped with other chores, which included feeding the pigs, milking the cow, keeping the stable clean, and feeding the other animals. Unfortunately we frequently had little to feed the animals. During the summer I used to herd the cow out on the street, where she would eat the grass along the ditch bank at the side of the road. One of the great trials of my young life was that sometimes I had to herd her on Sunday. Otherwise, she would not get anything to eat, and she furnished a large part of our food supply. We also had a chicken coop with a few laying hens. My mother used the eggs to trade at the store for things we needed.

Announcement of our decision was made in the April 1996 general conference. I said on that occasion:
“I regret that many who wish to meet with us in the Tabernacle this morning are unable to get in. There are very many out on the grounds. …
“My heart reaches out to those who wish[ed] to get in and could not be accommodated. About a year ago I suggested to the Brethren that perhaps the time has come when we should study the feasibility of constructing another dedicated house of worship on a much larger scale that would accommodate three or four times the number who can be seated in this building” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1996, 88–89; or Ensign, May 1996, 65).
It was a little more than a year later when ground was broken. This occurred on the 24th of July, 1997, the 150th anniversary of the arrival of our forebears in this valley.
At the conclusion of the groundbreaking services, President Packer offered the benediction. In that prayer, he asked the Lord that He might preserve my life to be present for the dedication of the new building. I am grateful for the evident answer to that request.

"A story is told that during the bombing of a city in World War II, a large statue of Jesus Christ was severely damaged. When the townspeople found the statue among the rubble, they mourned because it had been a beloved symbol of their faith and of God's presence in their lives.

Experts were able to repair most of the statue, but its hands had been damaged so severely that they could not be restored. Some suggested that they hire a sculptor to make new hands, but others wanted to leave it as it was a permanent reminder of the tragedy of war. Ultimately, the statue remained without hands. However, the people of the city added on the base of the statue of Jesus Christ a sign with these words: "You are my hands."

"As we emulate His perfect example, our hands can become His hands; our eyes, His eyes; our heart, His heart"

“When the missionaries were teaching me, I knew right away that it was true. I didn’t have any doubt. My dad got baptized; then I got baptized the next Saturday,” said Stephanie Rawlins. “I enjoy being in the church I know is true. Friends I have who aren’t members can’t talk the same way. They don’t understand. With my friends in the Church I can open up; I can talk about things that are really important.”

He gave much of this service while he and Susan were raising three young sons and he was making a remarkable contribution in his work at the University of Arkansas. Doyle Z. Williams, dean of the College of Business at the University of Arkansas, describes Elder Bednar’s contributions not in terms of offices held or honors received—of which there were many—but in terms of personal influence: “David Bednar was part of our leadership team. He sharpened our vision. He always exuded enthusiasm for students and a passion to help his fellowman. To all our discussions he brought reason and compassion. He inspired his colleagues and students by his example and was held in the highest esteem.”

Dean Williams, who is not a member of the Church, saw a power to influence others that was also observed by Jerry Abram, President Bednar’s counselor in a far-flung Arkansas stake. Brother Abram describes his impressions this way: “We traveled an average of 2,000 miles [3,200 km] per month together, so I got to know him very well. He called my wife to be the stake Relief Society president, and he set my daughter apart when she departed for England to serve her mission. He spoke at her twin sister’s funeral with such power and compassion. Our daughter was 17 years old when she and two of her girlfriends died in a tragic automobile accident. The funeral was tender, but Elder Bednar helped make it bearable. He stood behind our family during our darkest hour. After the funeral I wrote in my journal that he was the most spiritual and compassionate man I had ever met.”

Rachel ran through the living room and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. She and her best friend, Becca, were going to the park to try out Becca’s new rollerblades.
As Rachel was pulling her own rollerblades out from under her bed, Mom came into the room. “I’m going over to Sister Heaton’s for a few hours, and I need you to stay with David.”
“But Becca and I are going to the park right now!”
“I’m sorry to ruin your plans, Rachel, but Sister Heaton still isn’t feeling well after her operation, and I promised to help take care of her today. David will be up from his nap in about a half hour, and then you two can play for a while until Dad gets home.”
“But I don’t want to play with David—I want to go to the park!”
“I know you do, but today you need to stay home and take care of your little brother. You can go to the park tomorrow. I’m sorry, but Sister Heaton needs me, and I need you to help me.”
As Rachel watched Mom going down the street, she was so angry that she almost cried. Why did she have to take care of David? It wasn’t fair that she had to give up a trip to the park just so her mom could take care of somebody.
She called Becca to tell her the bad news, and as she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. It was Aunt Pearl, her mom’s younger sister.
“Hi, Aunt Pearl. Mom’s not here.”
“That’s OK—I can’t stay. I just came to return your mom’s sewing machine. Mine is fixed now, so I don’t need hers anymore. And I thought that maybe I’d spend a few minutes with my favorite niece!”
Rachel gave her a weak smile and tried to seem happy, but Aunt Pearl noticed Rachel wasn’t really feeling happy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I was going to go to the park with Becca, but Mom told me I had to stay and take care of David so she could help a woman in our ward.”
“That’s too bad. If it were any other day but today, I’d stay so you could be with your friend. But I have a doctor’s appointment, and I can’t reschedule it.”
“I guess I’ll be OK. It’s just that I really wanted to go to the park today.”
“You know, there might be something I could do.”
“What?”
“Sit down with me, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Rachel wasn’t sure a story would fix things—a story couldn’t baby-sit for her. But Aunt Pearl usually knew what she was talking about, so Rachel followed her to the couch.
“When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.
“You see, Rachel, part of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is helping others. There’s even a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us how important it is to ‘bear one another’s burdens’ [Mosiah 18:8]. Heavenly Father wants us to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.”
“You mean, just like Emily took care of the chicken and like the chicken took care of the ducks?”
“And just like the Lord took care of the pioneers and how He still takes care of all of us. He wants us to be happy, so He watches over us.”
“Why doesn’t He take care of Sister Heaton instead of having Mom do it?”
“That’s how He is taking care of Sister Heaton—through your mother. Most of the time Heavenly Father answers our prayers through someone else.”
“So Mom is Heavenly Father’s answer to Sister Heaton’s prayers?”
“Probably. Your mother is helping Sister Heaton rest and get her mind off her troubles, sort of like those ducklings helped the tired pioneers find a little bit of enjoyment at the end of their long days.”
“But why do I have to baby-sit?”
“So your mom can help Sister Heaton. The ducks wouldn’t have been able to bring some enjoyment to the pioneers if the chicken hadn’t cared for them. Your mom wouldn’t be able to help Sister Heaton if she did not know you would take good care of your brother while she’s gone.”
“So, in a way, I’m helping Sister Heaton too?”
“In a very big way.”
“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad about waiting until tomorrow to go skating.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
As Aunt Pearl left, Rachel heard David waking up. On her way upstairs to get him, she thought more about what Aunt Pearl had said. Rachel was still a bit disappointed to miss out on the trip to the park, but it helped to know that taking care of David helped Heavenly Father take care of Sister Heaton.

Girls in the Walnut Creek California East Stake shared a faith-promoting experience when they were asked to participate in the search for a three-year-old boy lost not far from their stake girls’ camp.
The girls divided into teams and searched until dark, but the boy was not found. Searchers did fin his footprints, however, and the girls fasted and prayed throughout the night that the boy would be found. They felt their prayers were answered when the night remained warm and clear and searchers found the boy the next morning.
Afterward, 150 girls and leaders tied and signed a quilt for the boy and reflected on the test of faith they had endured. All agreed that they had learned a lot about relying on an already full reservoir of faith rather than trying to develop faith in a time of crisis. They won’t forget that girls’ camp or that lesson very soon.

A few years ago I was teaching an Old Testament Gospel Doctrine class. I had to be absent for a couple of Sundays and so I sought someone to substitute in my absence. I found a sister who was excited to teach the class until I told her that the two lessons she would teach would be the first two lessons from the writings of Isaiah. Her eyes glazed over and I thought she was going into cardiac arrest! She said, "You have to be kidding! I can scarcely understand Isaiah. How will I ever be able to teach those lessons?"

In no way do I consider myself an authority on the teachings of Isaiah. However, like you, I recognize the powerful feelings I receive when I read and study his sacred record. Although I cannot be certain that I always comprehend the full extent and continuing impact of his teachings, I bask in the warm glow of truth as the Spirit bears witness of its relevance.

Read your scriptures. “It’s one of the best ways to come closer to Heavenly Father and to have your problems answered,” says Doralee Solomon, 17, of the Douglas Georgia Stake. “You can always go to your scriptures for help and get answers.” At one time Doralee had a friend who was smoking, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She didn’t know whether she should talk to the person, the bishop, or the parents. But after reading, praying, and listening to her Young Women lessons, she knew she needed to confront her friend. “I know reading my scriptures helped put me in tune for an answer,” Doralee says.