Gospel Story Finder

When I was growing up, playing soccer brought me confidence and happiness. So it was difficult when my soccer team began losing games. We had a history of winning, but now our confidence as a team was shaken. I also got injured and missed some games and practices. I felt disappointed in myself because I wasn’t performing at the level others expected of me.
One evening before a game, the coaches told me that a teammate would be starting in my place. I wasn’t surprised, but I felt discouraged. This teammate and I competed for the same position and had developed an unspoken and unfriendly rivalry.
As I watched my team struggle, I noticed the teammate playing in my spot get pulled from the game. She walked off the field, looking really disappointed. I felt impressed to talk to her. I approached and offered her some words of encouragement. She was surprised, because we hadn’t been friendly to each other before. As I walked away, I felt joy and peace come over me. From that day on, we weren’t rivals but friends.

When Henry arrived in Utah, he couldn’t read or write, but he learned very quickly. Brigham, as Henry was now called, helped to support his family by farming, herding cattle, training horses, prospecting, mining, and blacksmithing. One night he and a friend shot a 550-pound (250-kg) grizzly bear. They sold the hide, and Brigham used his share of the money to help pay for his education at the University of Deseret (now the University of Utah). He finished his two-year course of study in one year, graduating in 1878 at the head of his class.

Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

Sister Massey and I have been married for 12 years; I commend her for keeping up with me. We had the desire of making those sacred covenants in the Temple, we consistently worked towards that goal and were sealed to each other and our 1.5yr old daughter in the Hong Kong, China temple on March 25th, 2015. The moment was desired above all. We felt relieved. We knew that as we keep those covenants, we would not lose each other. There were several blessings we received as we made those covenants. Through ‘rain and sunshine’ we gained a lot, even lost some, but one thing was constant, we always had each other, as each other’s strengths, which I feel is the most needed blessing that comes from living and honoring temple covenants. It is a promise that the Lord will guide us, as we walk in faith together as eternal companions, holding on to each other, nurturing the children the Lord has blessed us with.

From the time I received the first birthday dollar from my grandmother I was taught to save one dime to return to the Lord as tithing. Tithing settlements were something I always looked forward to. I loved to watch the bishop put a check mark by the words “full-tithe payer” and know that the Lord was pleased with me.
I’d never held much of a job growing up, and most of my income came from baby-sitting. I kept my tithing in a separate envelope until I remembered to take it to church. Often six months worth of tithing went with me to tithing settlement.
When I got my first job after high school, I decided to open a checking account so that I would have easier access to my money. Unfortunately, I didn’t open a savings account for my tithing, and I hadn’t formed the habit of paying it on a monthly basis. But I lived at home and spent very little money, so I didn’t worry much about it.
I loved working as a nurses’ aide at the local hospital, and by the first of December I decided to apply for admission to the nearby junior college. I counted what I had in the bank and was excited to confirm that I had enough money for housing and tuition for the next three semesters if I finished working the rest of the month.
So I went to the college, made a down payment for my housing, and paid my tuition. The rest of the housing money was due when I started school the first week of January.
It was then that I realized I had forgotten to take into account the tithing that was outstanding when I balanced my books. What was I going to do?
When my tithing settlement appointment came, I was still unsure how I would handle my situation. It was the first settlement I had attended without my family, and as I sat waiting for my turn, I was tempted for the first time in my life to not pay a full tithe. After all, I reasoned, I’d always paid a full tithe before. What would just this one year matter? Besides, I could always make it up during next year. And my family wouldn’t be there to hear me pronounce the words “part-tithe payer.”
All the stories I’d ever heard about people paying their tithing and still being able to meet bills came to my mind. But they don’t apply to me, I thought. I’m in this situation because I put myself here. I just simply have to choose. Do I want to pay a full tithe, or do I want to go to college?
I still wasn’t sure until the bishop looked me in the eye and asked, “Does this amount represent a full tithe?”
“It doesn’t now, but it will,” I answered as I took out my checkbook and wrote a check for the 80 dollars I owed. Peace flooded over me, and I knew I had made the right choice.
After praying about my situation, I decided to go ahead with my plans for college. I went to the housing office, and I was given a two-week extension. Then I went looking for a job. I found one in the cafeteria, but I wouldn’t be paid in time to meet my obligation.
On the last day of the extension I went to the mailbox and found a check made out to me from the hospital. It was for 90 dollars for the accrued sick and personal-leave days I had not taken. I had no idea it was coming. I now had enough for my tithing and the 80 dollars I owed at the housing office.
This time I paid my tithing first.

Faith. When Elder Richards left his first mission to go home, the ship’s crossing proved to be rough. As they neared the American shore a terrible storm arose. Gigantic waves rolled about, and everything not attached to the deck was thrown around. A sister returning from Scandinavia said, “Brother Richards, you don’t seem a bit worried.”
He answered, “Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen to you and the rest of the passengers, but I feel just as much at ease as if I were sitting in my mother’s parlor. I had a promise that if I filled an honorable mission, I’d return home in safety, and I have had the assurance that my mission was acceptable to the Lord, so I am going home.”

As children we always raced past Mrs. Brant’s house. It was white, and we were sure that if we licked it, it would be sugary and spearmint and that Mrs. Brant would come out—dressed in black—and screech, “Nibble, nibble, little mouse. Who’s that nibbling on my house?”
All the children knew that Mrs. Brant was a witch. That was why we ran past her house. The story was that if you stepped on her grass, you would sink down into a dungeon.
No one ever visited her. Nobody ever went to her house, except maybe the mailman, on rare occasions. Not even trick-or-treaters. I had never even seen her until that one day, which is what this story is about. But I had heard what she looked like from reliable sources: Her hair was long and grey, and she wrapped it in snakes that made it look like a bun. Her eyes were black like a raven’s, and she had a wart on her chin and a wrinkled face. And she always wore black.
Grandma came on a Sunday. My big sister and I were walking home from church with her, and I told her, when we came into range of Mrs. Brant’s spearmint house, that we were going to run and she’d better, too.
“Why?” she asked.
“Grandma,” I said, in a slightly exasperated voice, “I know you’re never going to believe this, but a very mean lady lives there, and you just never know what’s going to happen.”
“It’s just a game,” my sister said, reddening.
“You were the one who told me she was a witch!” I whispered.
“Shhh!” she hissed.
Grandma, smiling just a little, asked who lived there.
“Mean old Mrs. Brant,” I stated.
“Mrs. Brant? I wonder if that could be Muriel Arnold Brant,” Grandma said.
I knew immediately what was on Grandma’s mind and eagerly assured her, “It’s not, Grandma. I’m sure it’s not. Let’s go. We don’t have to run.”
“No, girls. I think we need to pay a visit to Mrs. Brant.” Grandma was adamant. It was no good arguing.
She rang the doorbell, and after she had pressed it three times, the door creaked and opened slowly. A little old woman’s face peeked out at us, and the door opened more.
“Yes?” Her voice was high and feeble.
“Muriel?” Grandma said.
“Yes?”
“Muriel Arnold?”
“Brant. Yes? Who are you?”
“It’s Jean, dear. Jean White Carbil.”
“Jean?” The name was barely breathed. “Good gracious—are these yours?”
“Grandchildren, Muri.”
Mrs. Brant was just as I had imagined her, but there were no snakes in her bun, and she was smaller than I had thought. She was tiny, in fact, and her raven-black eyes looked frightened.
“Oh, the years do fly,” Mrs. Brant said, her voice quivering slightly.
“How long have you lived here?” Grandma asked.
“Since Harold died. That was in ’55, so it’s been years.”
“It’s a lovely home, Muri.”
“Oh, I enjoy it. Harry was well-to-do, so when he died …” her voice trailed off.
“May we come in, dear?”
“Oh, certainly!” Mrs. Brant said. “How thoughtless of me! Come in! What am I thinking of? Come in!” I grimaced at the thought and looked anxiously at my sister.
“Your piano!” Grandma said as we entered. “Do you still play?”
The inside of Mrs. Brant’s house smelled like very old talcum powder.
“Me?” She laughed. “I’m too old for that. Too old. Haven’t played in years.”
The carpet was a flat, faded floral print, and the front room shelves were decorated with little china figurines. On the wall was a wedding picture.
“Muriel, your wedding portrait! I missed your wedding,” Grandma said.
“Did you? Well, there it is. I’ve got the dress in my cedar chest upstairs,” she said.
“Do you, Muri? Wouldn’t that be a treat for these girls to see your wedding dress! Do you think we could?”
“Oh?” She seemed startled. “I haven’t looked in there for years! I don’t know if I even have the key anymore.” She smiled quite suddenly and said, “Well, let’s just see.”
We went up the wooden steps (that creaked, as I knew they would) and entered a dingy, lacy, gorgeous room. The bedspread was crocheted and the curtains were lace. Framed needlepoint decorated the wall, and under an ornate, jeweled mirror was the cedar chest.
Mrs. Brant got the key from a desk drawer and opened the chest.
There, neatly folded, was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. It was pink and chiffon, with a crocheted collar and lacy sleeves. Red, silk rosebuds were sewn on the bottom ruffle.
“Is that your wedding dress?” my sister asked.
“Oh, no,” she laughed. “Do you remember what this is, Jean?”
Grandma nodded. “Sister Brant was the May Queen back at the academy. Isn’t this the dress you wore, dear?”
Mrs. Brant nodded. “And they put a wreath of red roses in my hair that just matched these here.” She stroked a silk rose tenderly. “Do you remember, Jean?”
“She was one of the prettiest May Queens they ever had.”
“Oh, you!” She almost giggled.
She put the pink dress on the bed and pulled out a garish, yellow silk dress that glittered with sporadically placed sequins and rhinestones.
“This was for the dance where I met Harry. I went with Peter Miller—do you remember him, Jean? Died quite young. But I danced my fourth dance with Harry. And—well, you know the rest. This,” she pulled out a white dress, “is what I married him in.”
“Isn’t that lovely!” Grandma said. “Did you make it, dear?”
“Yes, I did. With Mother’s help. See?” She held it up. It was mid-length, chiffon with pearl buttons down the front and a velvet sash and bow around the hips. She held it in front of her and looked at herself in the mirror above the chest. “Course, I’ve aged some,” she said, and patted her hair lightly.
“Aren’t these simply beautiful!” Grandma exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” we replied, and watched Mrs. Brant fold the dresses gently and lock them back in the box.
We went downstairs, and Grandma asked, “Muri, did you have any children?”
“One,” she said, too quickly, “a boy. Died.”
“I’m sorry,” Grandma said. Mrs. Brant shrugged slightly. “I wish I could offer you good people some food, but I need to do my grocery shopping before I can really do that.”
“It’s quite all right, Muri,” said Grandma. “We need to be going.”
“Oh.”
Grandma looked at Mrs. Brant for a moment and then took her in her arms and held her close for a long time. Mrs. Brant began crying and looked very limp as she sobbed, “Oh Jean … Jean …”
I whispered to my sister, “She’s not a witch, is she?”
“It was just a game,” she answered.
I heard some little kid outside yell, “Hey, don’t step on Brant’s grass,” and the china dolls on the shelf began to look very misty.

Ned Winder, a lifelong friend and formerly the executive secretary of the Missionary Department, tells of an amusing and humbling encounter which he experienced.

Two of the General Authorities, accompanied by Brother Winder, were walking down a staircase in view of a mother and her son, who were sitting on a couch facing the staircase. Seeing the brethren approach, the boy said to his mother, “Who is that first man?”

She replied, “He is Elder Marvin J. Ashton, a member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles.”

The boy continued, “Who is the man next to him?”

Mother replied, “He is Elder Loren Dunn, of the First Quorum of the Seventy.”

Then the boy concluded, “Who is the other man?”

The mother spoke more softly, yet she was still audible to Brother Winder: “Oh, he’s nobody.”

A wise leader recently counseled a man who was trying to overcome years of destructive choices. The man felt ashamed, doubting that he was worthy of anyone’s love.
His leader said to him, “The Lord knows you, loves you, and is pleased [with] you and the courageous steps you are taking.” But then he added, “[You] need to hear the commandment to love yourself so you can feel [God’s] love and love others.”
When this brother heard that counsel, he saw life with new eyes. He later said, “I have spent my whole life trying to find peace and acceptance. I have looked for those things in many wrong places. Only in the love of Heavenly Father and the Savior can I find comfort. I know They want me to love myself; it really is the only way I can feel Their love for me.”

Karen Nielson was born in Aalborg, Denmark, in 1844. She was the daughter of a farm family. In her early years she was taught the skills of successful dairy farming at the knee of her father.
In 1861, Karen was baptized and was never able to return to her home because of her father’s opposition to her conversion. She left Denmark and immigrated to Utah with a group of Scandinavian Saints in 1862. She lived for a few years in Utah County where she married Benjamin Franklin Barney, and then they were called to settle the Sevier Valley.
Karen bore ten children and then was left a widow with several of her children still at home. She had no close family to return to, so she drew on the knowledge she had gained on the Danish farm. She improved the dairy herd using the breeding skills she’d learned from her father. Her herd was soon recognized as one of the finest in the area, and she was able to support her family and care for their needs. Until Karen was well into her eighties, she milked her cows night and morning and cared for her farm with the help of her sons and grandsons. Her legacy was one of hard work and the knowledge that our lives are only as good as we make them. She never turned away from hardships—they seemed only to strengthen her.

My name is Peteru Mamoe (Elder Birita), and I want to share a story that taught me how Heavenly Father answers prayers—not just for us but through us.
One day our pantry was nearly empty. We had rice but nothing else. I knelt in prayer and asked Heavenly Father to provide for our needs. Specifically, I asked for fish—a simple yet nourishing addition to our meal. I trusted that He would provide, but I had no idea how He would do it.
Later that day, as I sat outside our home, a man walked by carrying a sack full of fish. My wife was washing dishes near the fence when, suddenly, the sack burst open and fish spilled onto the ground. The man was clearly distressed, but my wife quickly offered him a new sack. Grateful for her kindness, he entrusted her with the fish while he went to find his brothers to help.
When the man returned, he gave my wife two large fish as a gesture of gratitude. We were overjoyed! Not only did we have fish for our meal, but we had enough to share. I felt prompted to take some of the fish to a friend who was unemployed and struggling to provide for his family. When I arrived at his home, I discovered that his wife and child were in the hospital, and he had been praying for a way to feed them.
My friend’s eyes filled with tears as he accepted the fish. He told me that his wife had already prepared breadfruit for their meal, but now they could add fish to it. Later, I learned that his wife had shared some of the fish with a widow and her two sick children at the hospital. This widow had also been praying for food, and God had answered her prayer through the kindness of others.
As I reflected on this chain of events, I was overwhelmed by the love of Heavenly Father. He had not only answered my prayer for fish but had also used me to answer the prayers of my friend and the widow. It was a powerful reminder that God often works through us to bless others. In the words of the Savior, “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required” (Luke 12:48).
This experience taught me that God’s love is not limited to our individual needs. He sees the bigger picture and uses us as instruments in His hands to bless His children. Since that day, I have made it a habit to pray not only for my own needs but for the needs of those around me. I have seen how God can take a simple prayer—like my request for fish—and turn it into a miracle that touches multiple lives.
I testify that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are aware of our struggles and our needs. They hear our prayers, and They answer them in ways that strengthen our faith and bless others. May we always be willing to act on the promptings we receive, knowing that we can be instruments in God’s hands to share His love and provision with those around us.

I was over in Samoa. I couldn’t sleep for worrying about the centipedes and so forth, so I got up. It was three o’clock in the morning. I went in the room where they had the radio. I started turning the dials, and all of a sudden I heard a voice say, “Station KSL, Salt Lake City. Songs of Harry Clark.” I sat there and listened to Harry Clark sing for fifteen minutes. Then I had to get up the next morning at three o’clock because I’d sent him a wire and I wanted to see if he got it. He did. He mentioned it over the air. So I listened to him sing for another fifteen minutes.

You know, the strange thing about it was, I was hearing him sing four hours before he actually sang. And you talk about miracles.

I grew up with the feeling that the gospel was true. I had strong feelings about the priesthood, partly because we had to rely on it so often. In Bunkerville, we didn’t have any trained medical people. One family in a neighboring town had a telephone. If there was an emergency, someone had to go four or five miles to call for help from St. George or Las Vegas. As a child, I once rolled off the bed onto a gallon pickle jar that shattered and sliced my back open. A doctor came down from another town to sew me up. Another time my brother Doug had sunstroke. In my mind, sickness was always connected with the priesthood because we had no medical doctors. I remember my mother saying to us, “It’s hard to get a doctor, but we always have the priesthood.” I grew up with a deep awareness of the power of the priesthood. In a spiritual way, I had an ideal childhood because the gospel was the center of our lives.

One such sister was inactive for several years. She didn’t remember why she had stopped going to church. Her only contact with the Church came from the visits of her home and visiting teachers. Whenever they encouraged her to come back to church, she insisted that it was “too hard” and “too late.”

Then, one day, she shared with her visiting teachers a poem she had written. They asked her permission to use it in the ward newsletter, and she said yes.

When the poem was printed, another sister was reminded of their earlier friendship, and she visited the woman. They talked about poetry, and the warmth of their former closeness was renewed. At the end of the visit, the visitor said, “I would give anything if you would come back. The ward is not the same without you.” The less-active sister’s reply surprised them both: “I think I will.”

She didn’t come that week or the next, but phone calls and visits to her home continued, and finally she came. The affection and excitement that greeted her gave her hope and courage, and she came again—and again. Gradually, her habit of inactivity was broken, and a new habit of involvement took its place.

Love and appreciation from others was the spark that ignited this sister’s desire to come back. Like her, many less-active members feel lonely and isolated. President Ezra Taft Benson has given us the charge of helping bring them back to the fold?: “We, as members of the Church and followers of the Lord, must extend and renew our love and heartfelt invitation to come back,” he said. (Ensign, September 1987, page 3.) How can we do so? By following four steps:

Following high school, Robert attended the University of Utah for two years. Unfortunately, his low self-esteem went with him. And there were other worries. World War II was looming on the horizon, and like most students, Robert enrolled in ROTC. If war was inevitable, as it appeared to be, he felt it was better to go in the army as an officer. But at the end of his sophomore year, he had to make a decision. Should he go on with ROTC or go on a mission and probably end up in the infantry when he came back? “I wrestled with that decision. Should I go on and get my commission or do as I ought to do and go on a mission and take my chances? Most of my friends chose to stay in college. Very few of them served missions.”
But Elder Backman was not like most of his friends. He chose to serve the Lord. “There are so many decisions you make as you go along and you really can’t say why, except that somebody was on your shoulder making suggestions. And I can say without any hesitation whatsoever that anything good that’s happened to me since, I can trace directly to that missionary experience. I feel so strongly about that that whenever I have a chance to talk to young people, I tell those boys that if they miss that chance to serve a mission, they’re cheating themselves out of the greatest experience of their lives. I feel that keenly about it. I’ve had a lot of schooling since then, but I don’t think I could have gone to any university in the world for any length of time and have the experience equal what that two-year period in my life did for me. I don’t know whether I did any good. I didn’t baptize a single soul on my mission, but I sure converted me.”

“We didn’t expect any help when we got to Utah,” Fredrick said. “But that’s not what happened.”
“The first person we met made us feel welcome,” Esperance recalled. “She came with her family to visit our apartment. They saw how we ate, how we slept, what we worried about. It was the first time someone was concerned about how they could help.”
“She and her husband were like parents to us,” Fredrick said. “They helped us learn about the customs of this new country. They helped us find work.”
“We could tell they were Christians, and we were Christians, too,” Esperance said. “We asked if we could learn about their Church.”
And learn they did. Soon they were meeting regularly with the missionaries. “Each teaching made sense to us, especially what they called the great plan of happiness,” Esperance said. “I cried and cried when they told us we could be together as a family in eternity, and that we would see Patric again. We knew it was true.”
Fredrick and Esperance were baptized and confirmed. Joshua was baptized when he turned eight. And Joshua and Patric have been sealed to their parents, giving them the opportunity to be together when this life is through. Other family members are still learning about the gospel.

I once met a young sailor who was a member of the crew of an atomic submarine based in Scotland. He was the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the crew. The submarine would go on long trips taking many weeks. As this young Church member was assigned to his station on his first cruise, he found that other crewmen had covered the walls in his area with improper pictures of women with very little clothing on. This offended him. He took all the pictures down and destroyed them. He was conscious of the probable reaction of the other men but, nevertheless, had the courage to do what he thought he should. Not one picture was put up again. As a matter of fact, on that first cruise, he began to teach a Sunday School class attended by two or three of the other men. He learned an important lesson—generally speaking, others will show respect for one who has the courage of his or her convictions and isn’t afraid to do what he feels is right.

Friends who don’t share your standards could actually weaken and tear your standards down. When I first moved to my new school, I tried to fit in by saying some of the things people around me would say. I almost forgot some of my standards while trying to be like everyone. I know now that in order to build your standards, you need friends who support and share your standards. I’m grateful I eventually found friends like that because they remind me of my standards.
Logan J., 15, Utah, USA

“He started it!” Robbie wailed.
“I did not,” Robbie’s big brother, Will, protested. “He took my stuff without asking. I was just getting it back.”
“I don’t care who started it,” Mom said. “What I care about is who stops it. And I wish it didn’t always have to be me. You are both confined to your rooms until you can work this out peacefully. And here”—she handed each of them a piece of paper—“maybe you should write down some things you can do to avoid fights in the future.”
Glumly the boys walked down the hallway to their bedrooms. Just before Will went into his room, he waved his paper at Robbie and sneered, “I’m going to write down all the reasons I can’t stand you!”
“Oh, yeah? Well, my list will be twice as long as yours.” Robbie’s response was cut off by Will’s slamming the door.
Robbie shut his own door and plopped down on his bed. What a jerk! He thought. Just because he’s bigger than I am, he thinks he can push me around. Robbie found a pencil and wrote on his paper: Reasons I can’t stand Will. Then he skipped a few lines and wrote, “1. He’s bigger than me.”
Robbie tapped his pencil on his chin and tried hard to think of another reason. He looked around his bedroom. His eyes caught sight of the model airplane that hung from his overhead light. Will had hung that model for him because Robbie wasn’t big enough to reach the light, even if he stood on a chair. Sometimes Robbie was glad that Will was bigger. It wasn’t a bad thing.
Robbie needed to write down something else. He noticed the baseball mitt hanging on the footboard of his bed. It was Will’s old mitt. Robbie hardly ever got anything new. He usually got Will’s hand-me-down stuff, including his clothes and sports equipment. Robbie wrote, “2. I always get his old stuff.”
Of course, that wasn’t always a bad thing, either. Will usually took good care of his things, and he bought a lot of them with his own money. As a result, Robbie ended up with some pretty good stuff that he didn’t have to pay for. And Will always taught him how to use the equipment, so he got free lessons, too.
Robbie knew that he was going to have to think harder to come up with a reason why he hated Will. He noticed a candy wrapper on the floor. That gave him an idea. “3. He eats a lot of food.”
That was true. Will ate at least two bowls of cereal at breakfast, and he always seemed to have a snack in his pocket. Mom said that he was an active, growing boy, and she always made sure there was a lot of good food in the house. Of course, that wasn’t a bad thing. That meant more food for Robbie to eat, too. And Will often had some little treat in his pocket to share with Robbie.
Robbie frowned. He was never going to get his list done. Will must have dozens of things written by now.
Just then there was a knock on Robbie’s door. Through the door Will quietly said, “Are you ready to see my list, short stuff?”
Robbie sighed. I might as well get this over with, he thought. Then he got up and opened his door to let Will in. Will didn’t seem angry anymore. He almost seemed happy. He’s happy his list is so long, Robbie thought. Will walked in and sat down at the desk, his list folded carefully in his hand.
“You go first,” Will said.
Robbie sat down on the bed and picked up his list. “I could only think of three reasons,” he admitted. “And they aren’t really reasons why I can’t stand you—they’re reasons why I like you.” Robbie crumpled up the paper. “Guess it’s your turn now. How many reasons did you come up with—a million?”
Will unfolded his paper and showed it to Robbie. It was blank.
“I couldn’t think of even one reason why I can’t stand you,” Will said.
Robbie’s eyes got wide.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. You’re all right, for a little brother.” Will pulled a package of pretzels from his pocket and offered some to Robbie. “So now I guess we’d better do what Mom asked and figure out how we can stop fighting so much.”
“I think we just figured it out.” Robbie popped a pretzel into his mouth. “We just have to remember how much we like each other.”
Will nodded. “I guess you’re right. OK, we’re done here. Let’s go play some ball.”
Robbie grabbed the old mitt off the bed and followed his big brother down the stairs.

When I was a young boy, my father owned a hardware store in our small town. Later he formed a partnership with two other men, and together they expanded the business.
One day I decided I needed a pocketknife. I went to the store and found the case where the knives were kept. I picked out the knife I wanted and put it in my pocket. While I was still standing by the knife cabinet, my father came up to me and asked what I was doing.
I explained to him that I needed a knife and had selected one from the store case. He very kindly and patiently explained to me that the knife did not belong just to him. Two-thirds of the knife belonged to his partners. Therefore he told me that I must put it back, because it was not his to give nor mine to take.
This lesson in honesty made a real impression on me. I have always appreciated my father’s taking the time to teach me right from wrong. Because he respected the rights of others and was honest in his dealings, his life was a constant example to me.