Gospel Story Finder

Years later, when Sister Ellis and I had young children and I was starting a new career, my employer changed medical insurance plans. The old plan would end on June 1 and the new one would start on July 1, leaving us without insurance for one month. We did not know what to do, but at that point we remembered a talk by President N. Eldon Tanner (1898–1982) in which he counseled Church members to always have health insurance.3
I talked with the company, and we negotiated a contract to ensure continuous insurance coverage throughout June. On June 28 our oldest son, Matt, fell off the high diving board at the neighborhood pool and hit the concrete deck. He suffered a fractured skull and a brain concussion. He was rushed by helicopter to the hospital, where he was treated by specialists. The costs were astronomical and would have ruined us financially. Fortunately, health insurance paid for most of his treatment.

Nearly 300 people attended an event jointly organized by the Port Vila Vanuatu Stake and the Vanuatu Port Vila Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on National Unity Day, November 29, 2021.
“We couldn’t think of a better day to hold our event,” said Stake President Yvon Basil. “Unity Day is a public holiday in Vanuatu which was specifically instituted in 1977 to engender a spirit of national unity among Vanuatu’s very diverse population. Invitations were given to community and faith leaders and the general public.”
“People in Vanuatu are curious to know more about our Church and what our temple will be like,” he said. “This was a chance to tell them why it means so much to us.”
The Port Vila Vanuatu Temple was announced by President Russell M. Nelson, during the April 2021 general conference and is in the planning stages at a site near Port Vila.
Community leaders and many friends of other faiths attended. Among them was the lord mayor of Port Vila City, Erick Puyo Festa. He was impressed with the friendly welcome he received and how well the event was organized. Some members of his family belong to the Church, and this was a chance for him to learn more.
“After attending this activity, I have a deeper understanding and knowledge about the core beliefs of the Church,” Mr. Festa said.
“There should be more activities like this in the future to enable the general public to learn more about the teachings of the Church. I think that other churches should organize similar programs to introduce their beliefs to the general public.”
Also attending were two traditional chiefs from the village of Erakor in the southeast area of the main island of Efate—Chief Leo Kalomtak and Assistant Chief Peris Kalopang.
Chief Kalomtak said, “The teachings about the main beliefs were very clear and the answers to our questions during the question time in each booth were good. Today, we can say that we have a better understanding of the Church.”
Guests were invited to visit three areas in the Port Villa meetinghouse, each with a different topic: the Restoration of the Church of Jesus Christ; the plan of salvation; and the temple and family history.
The sessions in each area lasted about 35 minutes each with the help of four hosts who were full-time missionaries or local leaders of the Church. They answered questions and offered their personal feelings about the Church.
Mark Messick, president of the Vanuatu Port Vila Mission, said, “We were gratified that so many from our community came to our church building. This was a chance to explain to the community our faith in Jesus Christ and how it can bless the lives of the people of this beautiful country.”

Such a long absence seemed impossible now that I was home. Behind me was a year spent in Brazil as an exchange student. And here was Marcia, as pretty, smart, and fun to be with as ever. A year away at college had agreed with her, and I was glad we would have a few weeks together before she returned to BYU.
I had never known a Church member until I met Marcia. She puzzled and fascinated me. With our days full of schoolwork, school plays, and more, I found out she attended a religion class before school each morning. When our group of friends planned Sunday activities, she went to church instead of picnics, shopping, or parties. Despite our differences, our friendship deepened.
Marcia once gave me a Book of Mormon, but after reading only a few pages I returned it. I occasionally went to church with her—more frequently to church dances. I considered Marcia my best friend.
“What do you have in this suitcase?” Marcia grunted as we swung the enormous case onto my bed.
“Brazilian candy and a soda called Guarana. You’ll love it. Also, I brought some goiabada. I want to cook some Brazilian foods.”
“Are you telling me this thing is full of food?”
“Hardly. I’ve got tons of pictures, and some music, and …” I snapped the locks up, “presents for my friends!” I flipped the case open and began rummaging for Marcia’s gift.
“Jessica.” Something in Marcia’s voice startled me. Looking up I saw she was holding a Book of Mormon. “Where did you get this?”
I took the book gently from her hand and rubbed my thumb over the gold-embossed title. At the airport Marcia had remarked on the changes she saw in me. I was deeply tanned—a true first for my fair and freckled skin. My hairstyle and clothes had taken on a distinctly Brazilian quality, and I was having trouble completing sentences entirely in English. But the changes she hadn’t yet detected were lasting changes. I’d kept this information close to my heart, waiting for the right moment to share it with her. This was my biggest surprise.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “I was baptized three weeks ago on July 10th.”
I was unprepared for her scream. She fell back on the bed and screamed a second time. She jumped up and, with tears streaming down her face, grabbed me. Hugging, laughing, and crying we spun together in circles.
I was really lost before I found the gospel. In Brazil the legal drinking age is 18. My host family offered me membership to their country club and a nightclub. It sure was exciting. But the excitement wore off. I got tired of the meaningless social scene and started craving spiritual things.
The only churches I knew of were Catholic, and so I started attending Mass regularly. About two months later a couple of elders showed up at my host home. My host sisters were wild with excitement and dragged me to the front gates so I could talk to another American.
On the day I was supposed to have the first discussion, I got cold feet. I was with a friend and told her I didn’t want to go home because some missionaries were coming to see me. She invited me to go to her house to avoid them, but we needed to go to the post office first. We got our mail and were leaving when the missionaries walked in. That was the day they taught me about the plan of salvation.
In telling Marcia about my conversion, I saw clearly that Heavenly Father had gone to great lengths to give me the gift of His gospel. God really wants us to return to Him. And Heavenly Father had provided opportunities through the missionaries for me to receive the gospel. He really wants us to find our way home to Him.

A wonderfully instructive story of the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ to lift mankind is found in The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom. You might recall that Corrie and her sister Betsie were Dutch Christians hiding Jews during World War II. They were caught and taken to a German concentration camp, where they were moved to dreadful flea-infested barracks in a place called Ravensbruck. In the depths of this human tragedy, some very profound truths emerged. In Corrie’s retelling of the story, she asked her sister,

“Betsie, how can we live in such a place!”
“Show us. Show us how.” It was said so matter of factly it took me a second to realize she was praying. More and more the distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsie.

“Corrie!” she said excitedly. “He’s given us the answer! Before we asked, as He always does! In the Bible this morning. Where was it? Read that part again!”

I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in First Thessalonians,” I said. We were on our third complete reading of the New Testament since leaving Scheveningen. In the feeble light I turned the pages. “Here it is: ‘Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. . . .’” It seemed written expressly to Ravensbruck.

“Go on,” said Betsie. “That wasn’t all.”

“Oh yes: ‘. . . to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus—’”

“That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer. ‘Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks!”

I stared at her, then around me at the dark, foul-aired room.

“Such as?” I said.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

I bit my lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus!”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

I looked down at the Bible. . . .

[Betsie proceeded to thank God for all of their blessings, even the fleas.]

“‘Give thanks in all circumstances,’” she quoted. “It doesn’t say, ‘in pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

And so we stood between piers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas. But this time I was sure Betsie was wrong. [Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place (Old Tappan, New Jersey: Bantam, 1971), 197–99; emphasis in original]

Surely this story of Betsie and Corrie can be an inspirational model to each of us. Betsie’s thanksgiving and ministry changed Corrie’s life and the lives of others around her. But who was right? Is it important to give thanks in all circumstances? Our natural tendency is to not give thanks but to complain when circumstances are perceived as unfavorable. In doing so, our complaining spirit dims not only our light but that of others.

Many times I have felt weighed down by a circumstance only to reflect later that I had diminished the moment by lacking perspective. We simply cannot understand the ultimate consequences of any trying situation. The irony of Corrie’s circumstances was that those fleas were indeed an ultimate blessing of freedom as they kept the guards from entering the barracks. This allowed Betsie and Corrie to hold group Bible study and to give and receive many other blessings that would not have been allowed with regular inspections by the guards.

I had awakened that morning to the sound of Trophy’s hooves on the dusty cobblestones outside my window. I jumped from my feather bed and ran to the window, flinging the shutters wide. Through the vines, I saw Trophy bobbing his head and waiting patiently as Malcolm Greenaway delivered milk to our doorstep and walked along the picket fence toward Bridey’s house. “Morning, Mr. Greenaway,” I called as he passed beneath my window.
“Morning, Jessica.” He waved, then continued on his way.
At the sound of my voice, Trophy swung his head slowly in my direction and peered at me from behind his blinders. “Hi, Trophy, old boy,” I whispered.
The black dappled horse followed his master, the milk wagon rumbling quietly behind. I leaned far out the window and pushed the green viny leaves aside, watching as the wagon turned the corner and went on down Church Street.
A horse is a beautiful creature, I thought, and sank back on my bed to stare at the ruffled canopy above. If Pa would only allow girls to ride horses, how much happier I would be! But my father held to the idea that girls and ladies should ride in wagons, with their skirts tucked neatly about their ankles. Grudgingly, I went to the washbasin, splashed water on my face and wrists, pulled my petticoat and dress on over my head, then ran downstairs.
After breakfast, Father took Steven by the hand and headed for the door. Then, without a thought for my feelings, he turned to Mother. “I’m taking Steven for his riding lesson,” he said. “We’ll not be long.”
When the door had closed behind them, Mother came to me. “I know how you feel, Jessica,” she whispered as she straightened my braids and fixed my collar. “But your father thinks riding is unladylike.”
A lump stuck in my throat. Then I swallowed and asked, “Shall I wipe the steps down, Mother?”
I was twelve and my brother, Steven, barely nine. Yet my dream was his reality! It was an unfairness that I could hardly stand! As I knelt on the hard wooden steps, I rubbed the banister railings until they shone. Then I bent my head and scrubbed the stairway, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
‘Course, I couldn’t blame Steven for his good fortune, but when he returned all smiles and smelling of horse and stable, I wanted to box his ears! Instead, I went to our granary and listened to the doves under the eaves. I could see Mother stirring apple butter in the iron kettle in our backyard, but it held no interest for me today.
I ran from the granary and across the meadow. And before I knew it, I was standing outside Malcolm Greenaway’s stable.
“Jessica?” Mr. Greenaway called. “Looking for someone?”
“No, Mr. Greenaway,” I replied. “Just wondering if I could feed Trophy.”
He walked over to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a straw hat on his head. “Certainly!” he said with a smile. “I’m just going to join Mrs. Greenaway in the garden, so make yourself to home.”
I watched as he slanted his hat against the sun, then turned toward the garden. I stepped into the cool stable. Trophy bobbed his head over the door and greeted me with a snort. I held oats up to his mouth and watched his lips gently nibble them from my hand. Then—I don’t know what made me do it—I opened the stall door and stepped in beside Trophy.
He watched me for a moment with soft brown eyes. Then he nuzzled me with his nose, bumping me toward the side of the stall. Suddenly, I had an idea! I raised my skirts with a single motion and climbed up the side of the stall, where I perched on the top board and clicked my tongue till Trophy moved closer. Then, with trembling hands, I grasped his mane and swung my leg over his back. It seemed a long way up, and I thought I was in heaven. Trophy looked over his shoulder at me, then pushed the stall door open while I grabbed for his halter and hung on for dear life. Trophy slowly plodded out into the sunlight with me on his back. Gently I pulled on the halter, guiding him this way and that. I was riding!
Certainly it was a willful, deceitful thing to do, but every chance I had, I went to the stable. And if Mr. and Mrs. Greenaway were not about, I climbed up on Trophy’s back and circled him around the yard.
Then about two weeks later, when Steven was off gathering more berries and Mother and I were sealing preserves, we heard a frantic call. Mother rushed out the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and I followed, my dust cap flying. As we burst through the granary door, we saw Father sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted meanly beneath him. Mother cradled his head in her lap.
“Oh, please, Margaret,” he moaned. “Get the doctor, quick!”
Mother’s trembling hand went to her throat. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Jessica, please get help!”
I ran outside and called in every direction, but the yards were deserted and, without another thought, I ran toward the Greenaway’s stable. I pounded on their door, and although it was open, no one answered. Instantly, I ran to the stable and climbed onto Trophy’s back. Leaning forward, I grasped the halter and urged him toward Doctor Kroller’s house.
A short time later, Trophy stood frothy wet and snorting as I slipped from his back and banged on Doctor Kroller’s door. Panting, I explained about the accident, then watched as Doctor Kroller’s buggy raced toward our home.
Later, as I led Trophy to his stall, Mr. Greenaway came out of the house. “Young lady!” he snapped. “Your father would tan your hide if he knew you ran off with my horse!”
“Please, Mr. Greenaway … I had to fetch the doctor. My father’s had an accident in our granary,” I stammered.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mr. Greenaway replied quickly. “Come, let’s go see if everything is all right.”
After the doctor had left and Father was resting in bed, I tapped softly on his door.
“Come!” he replied.
I tiptoed into the room where the warm breezes of the afternoon blew through the open window. “I deceived you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me sternly, then patted the bed beside him. “I’m glad you came, Jessica. I have something to tell you.” He opened his arms and I slid into them, burying my head in his shoulder. “I know you rode Trophy to get the doctor, Jessica. Will you forgive me?”
I raised my head and stared into his face. “Forgive you, Father?”
“Forgive me for being a stubborn man.” He rocked me gently in his arms and spoke quietly into my hair. “We’re getting a horse, Jessica. It was to have been Steven’s and also to be used with a buggy. But now I see how unfair I’ve been. It will be as much your horse as Steven’s. And when Mother sends for clothing, I want you to look through the catalog and get a pair of riding—“
“Jodhpurs, Father?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, jodhpurs,” he said, his face beaming.
My father is a stern man, well educated and fair, and he always taught us to be truthful. I know he heard me when I said I’d deceived him, but he never mentioned it again, and somehow I know he forgave me.

Years ago our young family moved into a home on what was then the edge of development in our community, which afforded a view of the mountains to the east. One Monday morning, just as I finished dressing and was ready to rush out the door to work, our six-year-old son, Craig, came bringing his four-year-old brother, Andrew, into the room by the hand. With determination Craig looked up at me and said, “Dad, yesterday in Primary my teacher told us that if you hold the priesthood, you can move mountains. I told Andy this, and he doesn’t believe me. You hold the priesthood, right, Dad?” Then turning his little body and pointing out the window, he looked back at me and said, “See those mountains over there? Show him, Dad!”
What followed was a sweet experience. How grateful I was for young sons who were beginning a lifetime of learning about the priesthood.

Last year one of my grandsons took his wife to New York City with their parents to attend the beautiful new Manhattan temple. The hustle and bustle and noise of the thousands of people outside was deafening. As the taxi pulled up in front of the temple, Katherine, my grandson’s wife, began to cry. Even on the outside of the temple she felt its sacredness. They entered, left the noisome world, and worshiped in the house of the Lord. It was a sacred and unforgettable experience for them.

I am the only boy in my family, and I have four sisters. I’m really close with them.
I’ll never forget one night when one of my older sisters helped me gain a testimony. My dad was giving the home evening lesson about testimonies. The whole time I was frustrated with myself because I didn’t feel like I had one.
Later that night, I was reading the scriptures in my room, and my sister came in and asked what was wrong. I was afraid she would make fun of me when I told her, but she didn’t.
We decided to read the First Vision story. I had read it many times before, but not like this. As I read, I had a feeling that’s not easy to describe. It was peaceful, calm, and quiet.
We stopped and said a prayer, and I continued to feel the Spirit. Now I can say I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ restored the Church through him.
I love my sisters because they are good examples and they look after me.
Josh J., Alabama, USA

While my mom was expecting my sister Chantel, the whole family tried to guess if she was having a boy or a girl. I was sure it was a boy, since we already had seven girls. We only had three boys, and all of them were older than me. I hoped I was right because it would have been so nice to have a brother who wasn’t big enough to tease me. But when Chantel came to our family, I knew that no one could top this special new girl.
Chantel has Down’s syndrome, which makes it hard for her to learn things quickly. She had to learn sign language because her hearing wasn’t very good. We learned the basics with her and tried to help when we could. We have discovered that Chantel is a peacemaker. When everyone else is fighting or yelling at each other, Chantel is not involved. She is always the one to help us remember that we should be helping, not hurting, each other.
As she grew older, Chan and I became pals. One day I was trying to teach her how to tie her shoelaces. I would show her how to do it and then untie them to let her try. After a while, we both got discouraged. It was hard for Chantel because she couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tie them so she could go play. I lost my patience and began coaxing her with harsh words that were loud and mean. Shocked at my yelling she looked at me with fright in her eyes, and a small tear melted down her cheek. Then she sniffled and pleaded with a soft choked-up voice, “I love you.”
The tables had turned, and now my little sister was teaching me. What I learned that day was something much more important than how to tie a shoe. Even though I was angry and mean, she still loved me. I had tried to teach Chantel something that wasn’t all that important. But in her, I found a Christlike example to follow, an example of forgiveness and kindness.
I can’t think of a more important lesson to learn.

I was given the chore of cleaning up our large playroom by myself. I looked at the mess all over the floor and felt sad because I knew I would be cleaning for a long time. My mom teaches me to pray when I feel sad, so I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help me clean the playroom and not feel sad. I stood up and had the idea of singing Primary songs as I cleaned. As I sang, I felt much better and was able to clean the whole playroom very quickly. I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers sometimes by giving us ideas in our minds.

Some years ago Albert Peters told of the experience he and his companion had of a man being born again. One day they went to the hut of Atiati in the village of Sasina in Samoa. There they found an unshaven, misshapen man lying on a bed. He wanted to hear their message. They presented the first discussion, bore witness to him, and then left. As they walked away, they discussed Atiati’s condition; he had had polio 22 years before that had left him without the use of his arms or legs, so how could he ever be baptized, being so completely disabled?

When they visited their new friend the next day, he was bright and clean-shaven; even his bedding had been changed. “Today,” he said, “I begin to live again, because yesterday my prayers were answered. … I have waited for more than 20 years for someone to come and tell me that they have the true gospel of Christ.”

For several weeks the two missionaries taught this sincere, intelligent man. He asked them to fast with him so that he would have the strength to go down into the water and be baptized. The nearest baptismal font was eight miles (13 km) away. So they carried him to their car and drove him to the chapel. Then Elder Peters and his companion picked up Atiati and carried him to the font. Atiati said, “Please, put me down. This is the most important event in my life. I know without a doubt in my mind that this is the only way to eternal salvation. I will not be carried to my salvation!” So they lowered Atiati to the ground. After a huge effort, he managed to pull himself up. The man who had lain 20 years without moving was now standing. Slowly, one shaky step at a time, Atiati went down the steps and into the water, where the astonished missionary took him by the hand and baptized him.

He told Elder Peters that he knew that he would be able to walk on the morning of his baptism. He said, “Since faith can move a stubborn mountain, I had no doubt in my mind that it would mend these limbs of mine.” (See “One Trembling Step at a Time,” Liahona, June 1995, 28–31; Ensign, June 1994, 56–58.) I believe we can say that Atiati was truly born again!

When Peter returned after completing his mission, he quickly began the routine of work and visits to the hospital as he continued with corrective surgery. At this time, he was called to serve a stake mission. In this capacity he met the secretary to the stake mission president, Marjorie Clegg of Tooele, Utah. They became good friends, and Peter started arranging dates for her with his friends. Finally, after having had too many dates arranged for her, Marjorie asked him to please not arrange any more dates for her. Peter asked her for a date for himself. Based on a foundation of friendship, the relationship grew into love, and they were married.
Except for the very first time Marjorie met me, she never seemed to notice my burns. I’m very much aware of people noticing that I’m different. I’ve never noticed that Marjorie ever thought me any different on the outside than she found me on the inside. She makes me feel very handsome. I love her not only because she’s my sweetheart, but because she’s my very best friend. She is the girl I prayed for who would take me for what I am on the inside. That’s what I needed because I couldn’t get very far using the outside.

In October of 1998, Hurricane Mitch devastated many parts of Central America. President Gordon B. Hinckley was very concerned for the victims of this disaster, many of whom lost everything—food, clothing, and household goods. He visited the Saints in the cities of San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa, Honduras; and Managua, Nicaragua. And like the words of the loving prophet Elijah to a starving widow, this modern prophet’s message in each city was similar—to sacrifice and be obedient to the law of tithing.
But how can you ask someone so destitute to sacrifice? President Hinckley knew that the food and clothing shipments they received would help them survive the crisis, but his concern and love for them went far beyond that. As important as humanitarian aid is, he knew that the most important assistance comes from God, not from man. The prophet wanted to help them unlock the windows of heaven as promised by the Lord in the book of Malachi (see Malachi 3:10; Mosiah 2:24).
President Hinckley taught them that if they would pay their tithing, they would always have food on their tables, they would always have clothing on their backs, and they would always have a roof over their heads.
When serving a meal, it is much easier to set one more plate at the beginning of the meal than it is to find food for a latecomer once the meal is over and the food has been served. Likewise, isn’t it actually easier to give the Lord the firstlings or the firstfruits than it is to hope that there are sufficient “leftovers” for Him? As the founder of our feast, shouldn’t He be the guest of honor, the first to be served?
My loving mother, Evelyn Robbins, taught me the law of tithing when I was four years old. She gave me an empty Band-Aid box, the tin kind with a snapping lid. She taught me to keep my tithing pennies in it and then take it to the bishop. I am eternally grateful for her, for that Band-Aid box, and for the blessings that have come from paying tithing.
In A Christmas Carol, Mr. Scrooge changed his ways—he was not the man he had been. Likewise, this is the gospel of repentance. If the Spirit is prompting us to more fully obey the law of sacrifice in our lives, may we begin making that change today.
I am so grateful for the Savior, who was the perfect example of obedience through sacrifice—who offered “himself a sacrifice for sin” and became, in Lehi’s words, “the firstfruits unto God” (2 Nephi 2:7, 9; emphasis added). I bear witness of Him and of these, His doctrines, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I had always planned on serving a mission when I turned 20, the age of missionaries at the time. After playing two seasons of football at Utah State University, I had a difficult decision to make. I knew that, at that time, very few returned missionaries played football after their missions. I had put a lot of effort into football, and I loved the game. I decided to delay my mission a few months so I could play one more season and then serve a mission. By the end of that season, I had won the starting quarterback position for the next year.
My coach was surprised and disappointed that after all my hard work in football, I was going to leave. He encouraged me to stay and play my final season. He couldn’t understand why I would walk away from this opportunity. I listened to his comments and his logic, but I told him that I could not wait another year to go on my mission. If I did, I feared I would miss my opportunity to serve a mission. After all my hard work in football, I said good-bye to the team and left for Great Britain to serve the Lord.
I never regretted that decision. I learned so many things on my mission. To witness people embracing the gospel was an incredible experience, which shaped the rest of my life in many important ways. My mission helped make me into the person I am today and had far greater impact on me than football ever could have.
As it turns out, when I returned from my mission, I got the chance to play football again. Although it was unexpected, I played my final year and achieved more than I believe I could have done before my mission. I was given incredible opportunities that probably would not have come about had I chosen to further delay or even forego my mission.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
I’m right, and you know it, and I know you know it!
You mean you’re wrong, and I know it, and you know I know it!
Yeah? Well, what you say you know is what we both know you don’t know!
You mean that what you say we both know I don’t know is what we both know I do know I know!
What are you arguing about?
I can’t remember.
Me neither.
Want to do some Funstuf activities?
You know it!

My grandmother always used to say, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
When I was really little, I didn’t know what that meant. When I got a little older, she explained it to me: If you don’t keep busy, you’re likely to get into some kind of trouble. Mischief she sometimes called it.
Last summer, right after I turned ten, I went to stay with her in Missouri for two weeks. She has a neat old farm, but when Grandpa died eight years ago, she sold almost all the animals and stopped farming the land. Now she rents most of the land to someone else, who grows corn on it. She does have a nice, big garden. She also has some chickens, one milking cow named Elizabeth, two dogs, three cats, and a giraffe. The giraffe is really just a plywood cutout painted to look like a giraffe that stands in the front yard. Mom says it was Grandpa’s idea of a joke, and Grandma hasn’t had the heart to take it down.
My dad says Grandma is the workingest woman in the world, and it’s true. She gets up early, goes to bed late, and never stops in between. The problem is, when I’m there, she expects the same of me—except for the going to bed late part, which is the part I would like best.
I don’t really mind work, and last summer I learned a lot about how to feed chickens, gather eggs, and pull weeds. But every time I’d stop to play, Grandma would say, “Come on, Kimberley, you know that idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” And then she’d hand me a rag to clean the windows or a broom to sweep the porch or some gloves to do more weeding. She must have said those words to me at least ten times a day the first week I was there.
You’d think that she’d want to sit out on her big front porch and watch the sun go down. She has a perfect view, and the sunsets in Missouri can be extra beautiful. But when I’d ask her about it, she’d always say, “I haven’t time for that.” Instead, she’d get busy tidying up the place and then maybe do some mending or baking. Sometimes it seemed as though she was just looking for something to do in order to stay busy. I used to wonder if she believed that she would get into mischief if she stopped. Surely Grandma wouldn’t get into mischief.
Then one evening after we’d eaten and washed the dishes, she handed me some white fabric in an embroidery hoop and some bright-colored embroidery thread. I was happy that at least I was going to get to do something that I liked.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, as I settled down to embroidering.
“I have mending,” she said, picking up her sewing basket and heading for her favorite chair.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Grandma, can we go out and do our sewing on the front porch? The sun will be going down soon, and the sky is so beautiful here.”
“Same sky as any place else,” she said, sounding almost crabby. “There’s not enough light out there, anyway.” She headed for her chair.
I almost gave up, but something inside told me not to, at least not yet. “Please, Grandma. We can come in when it gets too dark. And we could move your big lamp so that it shines through the front window, where your porch chair is. Please?”
For a minute I didn’t think she’d give in. Then, with a sad-sounding sigh, she nodded. “All right, but only till it gets too dark to see.”
There was a warm breeze blowing that evening, and the sky looked as if it was getting ready for a really colorful sunset, but Grandma didn’t seem to notice. I liked the way the wind blew my hair against my face and wondered how it felt to Grandma, but she was so busy with her sewing that she probably didn’t even feel the little gray wisps of her own hair tickling her face.
I embroidered for a while, but then the sky started to turn all pink and purple with gold streaks shooting through it, and I set my sewing in my lap and just watched it. At last the sun seemed to perch, like a bright pink ball, right on the edge of the world. When I couldn’t keep my happiness to myself any longer, I said, “Grandma, look!”
She looked up from her mending as if she didn’t really plan to look at all. But then she stopped, and for a second her face seemed frozen in surprise as she stared at the purpling sky.
The whole world seemed frozen just then. I didn’t even breathe. I knew something very important was happening.
At last Grandma whispered, almost to herself, “I’d forgotten it could be so.” Her hands seemed to settle in her lap, and she relaxed back into her chair, never taking her eyes off the sky.
When the ball of sun had finally disappeared, leaving only color, Grandma didn’t say a word about going in, even though it was then too dark to sew. I didn’t want to go in, but since she’d kept her part of the bargain by coming out, I thought I should keep my part.
“Don’t you want to go in now—to finish our work?” I asked.
“The work can wait.” Grandma’s words surprised me. I’d never heard her say such a thing.
“But Grandma, you always say—”
“I know—‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ But here’s another saying, one my mother used to favor: ‘Take time to smell the flowers.’ I’ve forgotten to do that. Or maybe I’ve just made myself forget. Keeping busy all the time is a wonderful way to forget all kinds of things.”
“Forget what?” I asked. Then I noticed tears glistening on her cheeks. “Grandma, what’s the matter?” I hadn’t meant to make her cry.
She smiled. “Kimberley, believe it or not, there was a time when your grandpa and I used to sit out here every night and watch the sun go down. We took long walks in the mornings. We even used to play checkers. Oh, not that we weren’t busy, but we found time. We made time.”
I was starting to get the idea. “But after Grandpa died, …”
She nodded. “I guess I was afraid to face the sunsets alone. So I stopped looking, stopped taking time to think and remember, because I was afraid it would hurt too much.” She paused a moment, then looked at me. “But thanks to you, my little chick, I found out something tonight.”
“What, Grandma?”
“That it doesn’t hurt nearly as much to look at the sunset as it has hurt trying not to see it all these years. I felt closer to your Grandpa just now than I have since the day he died.”
Then she asked me to come sit on her lap, and even though I’m a little big for that now, I still did it. She put her arms around me, and we sat there for the longest time, just watching it get dark.

One day I was playing with a kid at school, and he got mad and threw a stick at my eye. I could have chosen to get mad or to calm down. I chose to calm dawn. When I got home, my mom was worried about my eye. I told her it was OK. I stayed home from school, and on my break, I read the scriptures. The scripture that I read talked about loving others. That reminded me of the kid at school.
Diego M., age 10, Florida, USA

Wayne still lives in the neighborhood in which he grew up. But his favorite spots have taken on a new meaning. He and his buddies used to fish and build tree houses along a small section of Burch Creek. “I often go back to the spot where we played,” said Wayne. “I go when I have something to think over. It used to be a place where I would go to have fun with my friends, but now it’s a place to go and think.”

Joey watched as his mother opened her big trunk full of cloth. She was going to make new jackets for the boys. The first piece she pulled out was a beautiful red—redder than the apples on the tree outside.
Mother measured the fabric and said, “There’s enough here for one coat.”
Joey hoped it would be his. He held the red cloth against his cheek. It was soft and warm.
Mother searched for another piece. “Here’s a green one,” she said. “Let’s see if there is enough to make a jacket.” She stretched it out between her arms. The green reminded Joey of the grass in his backyard—the color it was when you lay down and looked at it closely.
“There’s plenty,” Mother said with a smile, handing the material to Joey. He took it and sniffed, hoping it would smell like the grass. Instead the material smelled just like the cedar trunk. But that was a good smell too. Joey thought he might like a green jacket almost as much as a red one.
Soon bundles of cloth were piled around Mother. One stack was taller than Joey as he sat on the floor beside the trunk.
“This is a beautiful bright yellow, Joey. Do you like it?” Mother held up some fabric the color of the school bus Joey’s brothers rode.
“Oh, yes. May I have a yellow coat?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Let’s measure you and find out.” She took the measuring tape and held one end on Joey’s shoulder, then stretched it down to the top of the pocket on his jeans. “Fifteen inches,” she said. She measured the yellow cloth and shook her head. “There isn’t enough for sleeves, Joey.”
Joey was disappointed. He sat down and picked up the red and green and yellow fabrics and looked at them carefully. All of them were pretty.
Mother found one last piece of jacket material. This one was blue. Joey couldn’t think of anything as blue as this piece of cloth. He decided that the blue material was the nicest color after all.
Mother carefully packed all the pieces of fabric that wouldn’t be used back into the trunk. Joey was sorry to see the yellow cloth disappear. He gathered the green, red, and blue pieces into his arms and carried them into his mother’s workroom. He wondered which of the bright colors his jacket would be made of.
As he walked past the window, Joey looked out and saw the school bus. His three big brothers were coming up the lane, and he ran out to meet them.
“Hey,” he shouted as he ran toward his brothers. “Mom is making new coats for everybody, and I’m helping!”
Peter grabbed him and swung him around. “How can you help Mom sew?” he asked.
“Well, she’s not sewing yet. She just got the material out. And it’s pretty.”
Tommy laughed. “Boys don’t wear pretty clothes.”
“Sure they do,” Joey said, smiling at Tommy. “Your football shirt is pretty.”
Tommy laughed again.
“We made cookies today too,” said Joey.
Tommy picked Joey up and carried him, upside down, into the house.
“Boys,” Mother said, “I’m making new jackets. Peter, please eat one cookie at a time. Which color would each of you like?”
Mike picked up each piece of fabric. He considered each color. “I really like the blue,” he said. “May I have the blue?”
“Does anyone else want the blue?”
“I do, I do!” said Joey.
“Who wants the red one?” Mother asked.
“I want the red too,” Joey said.
“But you can’t have them both. Besides, I like the red material too,” explained Tommy.
“Hey, Mom,” said Peter, “how are you going to make four coats with only three pieces of material?”
Joey was surprised. He hadn’t thought of that problem.
Mother smiled. “Would one of you like to have a patchwork jacket?” she asked hopefully. “There would be plenty left from three jackets to make one more.”
“Like the quilt on my bed?” Mike frowned. “No, I don’t think I would like that.”
“Peter?”
“No, Mom. I want the green material. It’s the same color as my Sunday pants.”
Mother looked at Tommy who asked, “Why not Joey? He’s the littlest and doesn’t have to go to school and be laughed at.”
Joey thought about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have a coat that Tommy, Mike, and Peter thought was funny.
“That’s a good idea,” Peter said. “Joey won’t mind.”
But Joey was beginning to mind. “Peter, why don’t you want a patchwork coat?” he asked.
Peter looked down at him. “Patchwork is made from scraps. I don’t want a coat made from leftovers.”
“Oh.” Joey sat down and thought about it. He looked at Mother. She looked sad. “It’s OK, Mom, I’ll wear the patchwork coat,” he said. He hoped that maybe the patchwork coat would get lost while he was at the playground or at Primary.
Mother smiled and got out her scissors. “OK,” she said, “four coats for four boys coming up.”
Finally the jackets were finished. Joey had watched Mother sew the red one. He had collected the scraps when she cut out the green material. And he had seen her putting the sleeves in Mike’s blue coat. But he had never seen the patchwork coat. He wondered what it would look like and if his brothers would laugh at him.
When the boys finished doing the supper dishes a few nights later, Mother called them into the sewing room. Dad came, too, to see the new coats.
First from the closet came Tommy’s red jacket. He put it on. “Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful,” he said. Joey agreed. It was a beautiful coat.
Next Mother handed the green jacket to Peter.
“Thanks, Mom, it just fits,” Peter said.
Mike was waiting impatiently. Mother gave the blue coat to him. He tried it on and zipped the zipper up and down. “Perfect,” he said.
Joey knew it was his turn next. He stood behind Dad, hoping Mother wouldn’t see him and would leave the jacket made of scraps in the closet.
Mother reached into the closet once more. Joey closed his eyes.
“Joey,” Mother said. “Joey, open your eyes.”
Joey opened his eyes. Mother was holding a jacket that was red in front, with bright yellow stars, one on each side. The sleeves were blue, and on the green back J O E Y was stitched in big yellow letters.
Joey put the jacket on.
Peter said, “Wow, Mom, that’s a super jacket.”
“It sure is,” Tommy agreed.
“Yes,” Mike added. “You’re lucky you’re so little. Otherwise your big brothers would wear your jacket and you’d never see it.”
Joey smiled. “Mom’s smart,” he said. “She knew I’d like all the colors best.”
Mother smiled and put her arms around all of her boys, squeezing them in a big hug. “Just like I like all of you best,” she said.

His suit is brand new. So is his white shirt. Elder Enrique Hernandez is on his way to the airport to fly from San Jose, Costa Rica, to the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Guatemala City. After thirteen days, he’ll return to Costa Rica to serve his mission.
Why are missionaries—rather than the elder’s family—taking him to the airport? “My parents aren’t members of the Church,” he says. “And they are too poor to take me all the way to the airport. I awoke each family member this morning and said good-bye before I left.”
He explains that his father, who is sixty-four years old and unemployed, didn’t want him to go. Only Enrique and his sister have had jobs to support the family of seven. Now he will be gone, and his income will be missed.
“It was hard to leave them this morning,” he says. “I wonder how they will get along without me. I hope the Lord will bless them.”
He sits pensively as the van speeds toward the airport. “I’m strengthened by the example of the pioneer brethren,” he says. “They left their families, often in poor conditions, to serve the Lord as missionaries. If they could do it, I can too!”