Gospel Story Finder

“I forgot my sash!”
Erin looked across the dressing room to where a dark-haired girl named Dinah was frantically searching through her bag of dance costumes.
“I think I forgot to put it in,” Dinah moaned.
“Too bad,” Erin thought, pulling out her own carefully folded blue-satin sash—her favorite part of the costume. Mom had said that it brought out the blue of Erin’s eyes.
“What am I going to do?” Dinah was on the verge of tears. “There’s no time to go home and get it.”
Erin didn’t know Dinah very well. They lived in different towns and went to different wards and schools. But Erin could imagine how embarrassing it would feel to be the only dancer in the recital missing part of the costume. It would be hard to remember the dance steps if you thought everyone in the audience was staring at you and wondering why your costume was different.
Then Erin had an idea. She knew what she could do to help Dinah, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it. Erin silently prayed for strength to do the right thing. Then, with a sigh, she put the lovely blue sash back in her bag. “This is a group dance, not a solo,” she told herself.
Erin quickly explained her idea to the other dancers. She was relieved when they all agreed happily.
As the music began and they took the stage, their dance teacher, Mrs. Davis, gave them a quizzical look from the audience. The girls simply smiled at her and moved to the music. They performed the routine flawlessly.
Afterward, Mrs. Davis came backstage. “What happened to your costumes, girls?” she asked. “Weren’t you all supposed to be wearing blue sashes?”
“Well,” Dinah said, looking gratefully at Erin, “we decided we’d do better if we didn’t wear our sashes tonight.”
“I’m not sure why it made such a difference, but you were right,” Mrs. Davis said. “That was the best performance you’ve ever given. You girls were really together tonight, just like real dancers.”
“Just like real friends,” Dinah said.
The girls grinned, throwing their arms around each other’s shoulders in a group bow. Erin’s smile was the brightest of all. She had discovered that sometimes when you give something up, you find something better.

My final example is a personal one that occurred in my second year as a professor. I had worked closely with a colleague on research the prior year at a different institution. Our combined efforts had led to the publication of several articles and a book. My colleague had also developed a set of computer programs implementing the work we had been doing. During that second year, he and I taught an executive seminar as part of our consulting work. Unfortunately, my colleague had a “buyer beware” attitude, and when one of the participants asked my colleague if the computer programs were included in the cost of the seminar, he answered yes, saying that he would mail them out later.

Subsequently, my colleague decided that the programs were too valuable to include in the price of the seminar. Although I wasn’t aware he’d decided that, that same seminar participant called an associate dean at my university and complained. The associate dean asked me about it, and needless to say, I was both shocked and embarrassed. With my colleague’s reluctant permission, I sent a copy of the programs to that participant, but more importantly, I decided life was too short to do consulting work with someone who had a different standard than I had, and I never did another seminar with that colleague.

On December 23, 1805, a son was born to Joseph and Lucy Mack Smith in a small, insignificant place called Sharon in Windsor County, Vermont. As the Lord prepared for his prophet to be an instrument in his hands in effecting the restoration of the gospel, the growth of printing and transportation proceeded. In 1822 beginnings were made in photography, and 1828 marked the publication of the first American dictionary. As technology was carefully placed to support the introduction and restoration of the gospel, so a prophet was being carefully prepared and groomed for the role he was to play. A portion of his story reads as follows:

Some time in the second year after our removal to Manchester, there was in the place where we lived an unusual excitement on the subject of religion. It commenced with the Methodists, but soon became general among all the sects in that region of country. Indeed, the whole district of country seemed affected by it. . . . [It] created no small stir and division amongst the people, some crying, “Lo, here!” and others, “Lo, there!” Some were contending for the Methodist faith, some for the Presbyterian, and some for the Baptists.

[The clergy contended] in order to have everybody converted, as they were pleased to call it, let them join what sect they pleased; yet when the converts began to file off, some to one party and some to another . . . the seemingly good feelings . . . one for another, if they ever had any were entirely lost in a strife of words and a contest about opinions.

In the midst of this war of words and tumult of opinions, I often said to myself: What is to be done? Who of all these parties are right; or, are they all wrong together? If any . . . be right, which is it, and how shall I know it? [Joseph Smith 2:5–7, 10]

Then he recounts his reading of the first chapter and the fifth verse of the book of James.

Joseph’s inquisitive mind led him to retire to the Sacred Grove and the story we all know so well unfolds—the visitation of the Father and the Son to him in that spring of 1820. Here was explained to him his role in the restoration of the gospel. Though tested and tried during the next few years, he remained strong enough to be worthy of being entrusted with that sacred and holy calling.

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

Gift of baptism. My companion and I had been teaching a 14-year-old girl named Martha, and she was nearly ready for baptism and confirmation. We had a few more lessons to teach, and she needed to stop working on Sundays so she could come to church. She loved what she was learning and believed it, but she worked for her aunt and was too young to get any other job. Martha struggled with the decision, so we taught her the blessings of the Sabbath day and encouraged her to pray.
Christmas Eve was a rainy day, and when it was almost time to go home, we felt we should stop by and say hello to Martha. Almost before we knocked on the door, she came running out and hugged us, jumping up and down with enthusiasm. She said, “I don’t have to work on Sundays anymore! I’m coming to church! I’m going to get baptized!” Even the rain seemed wonderful after that. Christmas Eve seemed like the perfect time to see someone make the decision to devote her life to Christ. We were two of the happiest missionaries you’ve ever seen.Erin B., Utah

“You want to work, and you don’t want me to pay you?” Residents of quiet neighborhoods in Fairfield County, Connecticut, can’t believe their ears.
It’s all part of a very special scavenger hunt held by the youth in the New Haven Connecticut Stake. They’ve had many similar activities, but none have been as much fun as scavenging for service projects.
On a Saturday afternoon in late autumn, 200 youth gathered for the activity before the stake dance that evening. Each service the youth performed for residents in various neighborhoods was worth a certain number of points, and the team that earned the most points in the allotted time would win an enviable prize.
They realized that scavenging for service projects isn’t like asking for a pink stocking with a hole in the toe, or a green birthday candle. “Everyone gets something out of this,” said Scott Halverson, a priest in the Trumbull First Ward. Service makes you feel good.”
The youth crowded into their advisers’ cars and drove to their assigned neighborhoods. They were a little apprehensive at first, wondering how people would react.
“Everyone was amazed,” said Curry Andrews, a priest from the Newtown Ward. “One guy took about ten minutes just deciding what he wanted us to do.” And the neighbors were even more surprised when they saw that youth enjoyed what they were doing.
Dave Blanchard, a teacher from the Trumbull First Ward, walked a huge dog. “The dog was giving the owner a lot of trouble, so we offered to take him for a walk,” Dave said. “The dog sure was hard to control. He would turn around and snap at me and all of a sudden he would run off. I could hardly hold on to the leash. It got to be funny.”
Jeff Blanchard, Dave’s older brother, carried items from a tag (yard) sale back into a man’s garage and stacked the boxes against the wall. “The guy asked for my phone number so he could call me anytime he wanted me to do some work for him,” said Jeff.
Becky Rupart’s team found themselves in a very well-to-do neighborhood. “It was a little bit scary, but that made it more fun,” said the Laurel from the Southington Ward. “We were surprised to discover rich people can be just as friendly as anyone else.”
Many people wanted to pay the youth, but naturally, they refused. “Although one man gave us a six pack of soda pop,” said Nancy Busby, a Laurel in the Trumbull Third Ward.
New Englanders are traditionally reserved and not accustomed to being open with strangers. Many New Englanders live a fast-paced life and are less involved with their neighbors. “I was kind of surprised this worked here where people keep to themselves,” said Leslie. “It’s fun to loosen people up,” Jeff added, “although one guy thought it was a trick. I guess it’s hard to trust a group of teenage boys.”
The diversity in people’s reactions amazed the youth. “It was really weird,” said Jeff. “You’d offer to do anything for a guy and he would tell you to go away because you were a stranger. I guess our experience going door-to-door is kind of like missionary work.”
And they found plenty of missionary opportunities along the way. Before they had even arrived at their assigned neighborhood, Leslie Randall’s team saw a man on his lawn. They got out of the car and showed him the list so he could choose which service he wanted. “He asked us to tell him about the Church,” Leslie said. They told him about Joseph Smith, and he responded, “I’ve heard that story before, but I’ve never heard it so well said.”
“It’s fun to give the people a good impression of the Church,” said Becky. “Maybe if the people meet the missionaries someday, they will remember us.” Some of the boys even left pamphlets with people in hopes that it would lead to something later.
“We are like the missionaries who represent the Church when they bring the gospel,” said Jeff. “We represent the Church when we bring service.”
Along with the missionary work, the youth enjoyed just being with each other. “Working together was the most fun,” said Leslie Randall. “At one house, two of us washed dishes in the kitchen, while two dusted the living room and one changed a diaper in the baby’s room. All the time we were singing a song.”
Diaper changing was the most notorious assignment of the day. In one group, all five teammates, girls and boys, pitched in together to complete the odious task. But in another group, Joanna McLay, as the only girl among four boys, found she was the one selected whenever her team encountered a diaper to change.
The competitors learned that they had to work quickly and efficiently. “The boys on my team practically grabbed the rake out of one guy’s hand, while I introduced the group and told him why we were there,” said Bret Smith, a Young Men’s adviser. The teams generally split into two groups, two people taking one house and the other two going across the street.
“We washed two cars at one house in record time,” said Curry Andrews.
When the time was finally up and the scores were tallied, Curry’s all-boys’ team found itself in second place, defeated by an all-girls’ team. “I don’t believe they beat us,” Curry said. “How could anyone work faster than we did?”
Next time Curry wants girls on his team. “Girls are allowed to go inside a house because people trust them,” he said.
Kelly Corkrin, a member of the winning team, won’t disagree. She found everyone her team met had a little something for them to do. “It made me feel good that the people trusted us and let us into their homes,” she said. “Nowadays, I’m not sure I would do that. I guess they were impressed that we weren’t just hanging out, wasting time.”
There were no hard feelings between the two top teams, however. Both first- and second-place winners received the coveted prizes: water squirting toys. As the winners loaded their weapons, everyone else ran to arm themselves with the same old tools they’d been using all day: water buckets and empty soap bottles. The activity ended with a splash.
1. Before the event, select a number of neighborhoods that a member of the Church is familiar with. Draw maps that tell how to get from the chapel to the neighborhood. Indicate the neighborhood boundaries that the team should stay within.
2. At the event, divide the group into teams of four to five youth. Give each team a task sheet, assigning each task a point value. You can use the suggested list, or come up with your own list of possible tasks.
3. Assign one adult driver to each team. Provide each team with a map of their assigned neighborhood.
4. The teams have one hour after travel time to earn as many points as possible doing tasks for residents of the neighborhoods.
5. Youth should introduce themselves as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Mormons). They should let the homeowner know they are on a service scavenger hunt and would like to perform a service free of charge.
6. After completing each task, the team should ask the homeowner to initial the task sheet. No more than four tasks should be completed at any one home. Some tasks are worth more points than others. The team who earns the most points in the allotted time wins.
Task
Points
Total
Initials
1. Take out trash
1
2. Scrub sink
1
3. Sweep kitchen
1
4. Pick up yard trash
1
5. Feed the cat
1
6. Water the plants
1
7. Sweep the garage
1
8. Wash the dishes
3
9. Clean a window
3
10. Vacuum the living room
3
11. Bring in firewood
3
12. Read a story to a child
3
13. Walk the dog
3
14. Dry the dishes
3
15. Dust a room
3
16. Iron a shirt
3
17. Sing a church song
3
18. Change a diaper
5
19. Wash the car
5
20. Clean the car windows
5
21. Vacuum the car
5
22. Rake the front yard
5
23. Rake the backyard
5
24. Mop the kitchen floor
5
25. Tell about the Church
5
26. Homeowner’s choice
5

Brother Featherstone recounted an interesting story about Orson Spencer and his wife, Katherine. In the mid-1830s, the Prophet Joseph Smith sent missionaries back to Boston, Massachusetts. When they arrived, they started meeting with a man by the name of Orson Spencer; he believed and was converted. His fiancée was taught at the same time. They wanted to get married, and they both wanted to join the Church; so they went to her family to see if they could get permission. The interview did not last very long; Katherine’s father told her, “If you choose to marry Orson and if you join this Church you are no longer welcome in our home. We never want to see you again. We disown you. We disinherit you.” That was about the summary of the interview. As they left this interview, Katherine said, “Well, Orson, I only know one thing—I want to marry you and will do whatever you say.”

So they joined the Church. They were married, and they had five children back in Massachusetts. But Katherine was a frail little girl, and I guess that having five children rather close together was really too much for her. Her health was not good. They decided that they ought to move to the west with the rest of the Saints, and so they made their way to Nauvoo, Illinois; no sooner did they arrive there than Brother Brigham gave the word that they were going to move on westward.

Brother Orson was concerned; he felt that his wife would never be able to make this kind of a trip. In desperation, he wrote back to her family and he said, in essence, “Please let Katherine come home to be nursed back to health. She has been sick; I despair for her life. I don’t believe she will make it across the plains. We are going to leave soon. Please let me know.” Then he added these words, “I will do anything that you ask.”

The weeks passed and it became a month, and it was time to leave. They fixed a little pallet for a bed and put it in the wagon, and they began to roll westward. It was in the middle of the winter, as you know, and the going was very difficult. At night the roads froze hard as granite; but when the sun came out in the morning the roads became a quagmire, and the wheels were up to their axles in mud many times. They could only make a few yards an hour. Finally, about eighteen days out, they made an encirclement, and into the camp rode Porter Rockwell. He had picked up mail, and he distributed it around the camp. He gave Orson a letter written by Katherine’s parents.

He read the letter, “Yes, we would love to have our daughter come home. We’d love to see her again, but only on the condition that she leave you and leave her newfound Church. Then we will nurse her back to health. We would love to see her again, but only on these conditions. If not, we never want to see her again. We disown her. We disinherit her, and she is not welcome in our home.” Orson, feeling terrible, climbed into the wagon and gave the letter to Katherine. She read it; she had not known until then that he had written it. He said, “I told them that I would do anything. And this is their answer.”

She asked, “Orson, would you hand me the Bible?” He did. She opened to a particular scripture; you will find it in Ruth, the first chapter, verse sixteen. She handed it back to Orson and said, “Would you read this, please?”

He read, “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

“No, Orson,” she said, “I won’t leave you.”

He sat by her a while. They held hands and shared a tender moment. And then he touched her pallid face as she closed her eyes, never to open them again in mortality. The next morning they held a brief service beside a shallow grave, with nothing but the lowing of cattle as music. Then Orson climbed up onto the covered wagon and prepared to roll westward. His oldest daughter came and climbed up beside him. Her name was Aurelia Spencer Rogers; she was to become the founder of the Primary.

I love Sister Aurelia Rogers for what she did. It has affected my family, and it will affect my family’s family. It came as a result of sacrifice. But even more, I love Katherine, because it was her sacrifice that really made it possible. You see, sacrifice does bring forth the blessings of heaven, and I am convinced that sacrifice is absolutely necessary if one is to develop true spirituality. It may seem at the time to cost dearly, but in the end the Lord restores it all in full measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

When I practiced law one of my partners was Marion G. Romney's son. His grand father George Samuel Romney was once president of this university. Marion G. was then in the First Presidency of the Church. One day my friend and I spoke of deeply spiritual things. We wondered, as perhaps some of you have, how many people in the history of the world had seen the Savior. I remember saying that if anyone on earth at the time had, it would most likely be President Romney.
I said to my partner, "Have you ever asked him?" "No. Not really," he replied. I said, "Why don't you? You are his son. He will surely tell you." He thought a moment and said, "All right, I will. We have a family home evening scheduled with dad next Sunday night. If the opportunity presents itself I'll ask him."
I could scarcely wait for the week to end. The following Monday, early in the morning, I stood in the doorway of his office and said, "Well?" "Well what?" he asked. "Well. Did you ask him?" I said. "Come in and close the door," he replied. I went in and sat down.He laughed and said, "Yes. I did ask him. And do you know what he said to me--his own son?" "Tell me," I said. "Well, when I asked him if he had ever seen the Savior my father just looked at me and said, 'Not to speak of son. Not to speak of.'"

Quest for the Eagle Feather Quiet Water—or John Butler? Several years before, a storm had caused the boy to be separated from his parents, who were going to seek gold in California. Now he had to decide whether to try to find them or stay with Tall Deer and Blue-Flower-Blooming, who considered him their son. Somehow he knew that his quest with Running Fox and Screaming Crow would end the turmoil he felt.John Duncklee8–12 years

I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockeys answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.

Last March, as you remember, devastating rock and mud slides engulfed six small towns in the mountains east of Lima, Peru. All of these towns were within the Lima Peru San Luis Stake. The slide left 25,000 people homeless. Eighteen LDS families lost their homes completely, and 198 other families were left in dire need of food, clothing, and medical supplies.
The day after the slides, one member of the stake presidency and two other Church members waded through waist-high mud and debris for five kilometers to assess the damage. They found that more than three hundred people, members and nonmembers, had taken refuge in the Chosica chapel.
The following day, the stake presidency called a meeting of their eleven bishops and branch presidents. They made many assignments to furnish needed supplies. They asked each ward and branch to furnish work teams to go to the homes of members and help them clean up.
The stake presidency resolved to handle the problem without seeking help from outside stakes. They soon found that they could not handle it all alone. They went to their Regional Representative and asked him to coordinate economic help from other stakes in the region. The Saints of Peru rallied together.
As an example, the Iquitos stake sent thirteen crates of clothing, each weighing thirty kilos (about sixty-six pounds). Other stakes and wards donated food, bedding, and mattresses.
Selling quilts and refreshments, young women raised more than three hundred dollars. One young priest, a senior at his high school in Lima, led a group of twenty-eight of his classmates, all nonmembers, to Chosica to help with the cleanup.
The stake Relief Society presidency visited the area frequently and instructed the sisters in classes on hygiene, sanitation, nutrition, and “how to organize family living in a tent.”
The stakes did not intend to seek assistance from the general welfare funds of the Church. Stake leaders called in all fast-offering reserves from their wards and branches. They asked stake members to participate in a special fast on 29 March 1987 to raise funds that would help cover the expenses.
Some bore tender testimonies. Let me share just two. Sister Guadalupe, a nonmember, lost everything. Then in the shelter of a little room in our chapel, she gave birth to a baby boy. She stated that the Lord had helped her escape. She learned that everything of the world is temporary and can be lost. She thanked the branch and the Church for opening its doors to her and for the assistance she received.
Sister Leonora de Contreras, a Relief Society president, said she knew the gospel was true. She expressed thanks for her husband, who holds the priesthood and is a pillar of strength. The catastrophe destroyed the fruits of their lifetime of labor in less than thirty minutes. She recalled the words of their son who is serving in the Peru Trujillo Mission. As he left home, he said to her, “Mami, whatever happens, if you need help, ask the Lord, and stay close to the Brethren.” She expressed appreciation to stake leaders for their assistance.

Recently, a friend working on her Ph.D. received an impression during a Relief Society conference to shift the focus of her dissertation. She also felt prompted to go directly to the temple to ask the Lord further questions. She said, "While there, I was told how to make [this new focus] work...[and] how I could be both academically unbiased and spiritually honest. I occasionally receive clear words from the Spirit, but never have I been given such clear instructions....The task ahead feels incredibly difficult, but I know what direction to go and that the Lord expects it of me, and that makes all the difference."

A few years ago, a 19-month-old girl, Hope Gentile, was diagnosed with a tumor in her lower back. “Over the next five months of surgeries and chemotherapy,” Hope’s father, Nicholas, said, “Hope’s battle for life created a kaleidoscope of experiences.”
One night during Hope’s second five-day round of chemotherapy, Brother Gentile noticed how much hair she had lost. Her remaining strawberry blonde wisps painfully reminded him of her mortality. Nevertheless, he found solace in the Lord’s promise that “a hair of [her] head shall not fall to the ground unnoticed” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:116).
“I felt that Jesus Christ was deeply aware of Hope’s journey—and our heartache,” Brother Gentile said. “He did ‘not leave [us] comfortless’” (John 14:18).
During bedtime one evening as he read a board book to Hope, Brother Gentile asked in a silly voice, “What does the owl say?” Giggling, Hope replied, “Hoo, hoo!” Then he asked, “What does the cow say?” Hope proudly responded, “Moo, moo!”
At that moment, a picture of the Savior in Hope’s bedroom caught Brother Gentile’s attention. The Spirit prompted him to ask, “Hope, and what does Jesus say?”
Hope snuggled into his shoulder, opened her big blue eyes, and whispered, “‘Hold you.’ Jesus says, ‘Hold you.’”
Brother Gentile gently hugged Hope’s tiny body and deeply sobbed. As Hope hugged back, she whispered, “Love you, Dada.”
Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him.
Hope’s trial and uncertain future drew Brother Gentile, his wife, Christina, and their family closer—to each other and to the Savior. “Jesus was holding our family in His loving arms,” Brother Gentile said. “I have pondered the tender truth God taught me through my daughter’s words: Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him.”1
Hope Gentile, four days before her first chemotherapy treatment in March 2015.
I am happy to report that the Gentile family’s faith and prayers were answered. Today, Hope is a healthy, happy 10-year-old.

“When Elder Goaslind was a young boy, he fell and hit his head while skiing. “That morning when I came home,” he recalled, “my eyes were very dark. The next morning when I tried to get up, I could hardly move, so my parents called the doctor and took me to the hospital. It was determined that I had a concussion. I still remember the blessing that my father gave me, and shortly after the blessing I regained complete mobility. That priesthood blessing had a real effect on my life, not only because I was healed but also because I learned firsthand that the Lord answers prayers.

“I encourage you children to get close to your Heavenly Father, and one of the finest ways to do that is to really talk to Him. He will hear and answer your prayers in His own way and in His own time. I would encourage you not to be discouraged but to put your trust in the Lord, especially when you have important decisions to make.”

During high school graduation ceremony, all kinds of thoughts can zoom through your head. What happens next? Are you ready? Will you and your friends stay in touch?
Not me, though. I had only one question when it was my turn to walk up in front of everybody as they announced my name: was I actually going to graduate?
I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a scholar. Studying pretty much never topped my ideal to-do list. And during my senior year I was doing so poorly in one class I didn’t even know if I had passed the class. The final exam earlier that week would seal my fate, but grades wouldn’t post until a week later.
If I failed this class, I wouldn’t graduate high school.
In the end, I squeaked by on the thinnest possible margin and did graduate. (Whew!) At that point I had 14 months until I turned 19, the missionary age at the time. I intended on working during that time to save money for my mission. I knew I wasn’t much of a student, so under no circumstances did I plan on attempting college.
Have you ever felt like that? Like your past performance in some part of your life has proven your abilities once and for all?
Don’t fall for that line of thinking. It’s one of Satan’s biggest lies!
“Once any of us conclude—‘That’s just the way I am,’ we give up our ability to change,” taught Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Presidency of the Seventy. “We might as well raise the white flag, put down our weapons, concede the battle, and just surrender—any prospect of winning is lost.”1
School can seem especially intimidating when you’re not doing well. With even a few bad grades on your record, it’s all too easy to decide that’s as good as you’ll ever get. But it’s not true.
“Who we are is not who we can become,” Elder Hallstrom said.2
Despite what nagging whispers of doubt or failure might reach our ears, we can always choose to look ahead and stop beating ourselves up over the past.
“There is something incredibly hopeful about a fresh start,” taught President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency.3
When deciding to make a fresh start, don’t forget to pray to God for help. Tell Him you want to succeed and then pay attention to promptings and guidance from the Holy Ghost and from your leaders.
This might require a bit of priority shuffling. “Our daily conduct and choices should be consistent with our goals,” said Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Many choices are not inherently evil, but if they absorb all of our time and keep us from the best choices, then they become insidious.”4
Fast-forward three and a half years from my high school graduation ceremony. I had worked for around a year and a half, served a two-year mission, and ultimately decided to try college after all.
I wish I could say I felt all grown-up and ready for school, but that’s laughable. I felt more intimidated than ever. If I was so bad at high school, how in the world could I handle college? This time I resolved to do my best and involve God along the way. I prayed fervently to develop new and better study skills.
To my complete shock, I ended up doing so well that semester that I qualified for academic scholarships. Nobody was more surprised than me! Even so, I could also easily look back over the previous months and see the hand of God helping me along as I learned to become a good student.
What I believed about myself back in high school simply wasn’t true. From that point on and with God’s help, I was able to forge a completely new path that carried me through college graduation and beyond.
When we involve the Lord in our climb and decide to make a new start in any area of life, we can reach heights we never dreamed possible.

One who saw such a star and followed it was Boyd Hatch of Salt Lake City, Utah. Deprived of the use of his legs, faced with a lifetime in a wheelchair, Boyd could well have looked inward and, through sorrow for self, existed rather than lived. However, Brother Hatch looked not inward, but rather outward into the lives of others and upward into God’s own heaven; and the star of inspiration guided him not to one opportunity, but to literally hundreds. He organized Scout troops of handicapped boys. He taught them camping. He taught them swimming. He taught them basketball. He taught them faith. Some boys were downhearted and filled with self-pity and despair. To them he handed the torch of hope. Before them was his own personal example of struggle and accomplishment. With a courage which we shall never fully know or understand, these boys of many faiths overcame insurmountable odds and found themselves anew. Through it all, Boyd Hatch not only found joy, but by willingly and unselfishly giving of himself, he found Jesus.

Insight Number One
When he was thirty years old, Roland Crabtree was sprawled under an army truck in his little garage. A Cadillac pulled in, and the driver asked if the boss was around. “I hollered out that I’d be through in a minute,” said Brother Crabtree. The customer responded politely, “Take your time, I just want to talk to you about a job.”
The car had trouble with the left rear wheel. Several other garages had refused help. Brother Crabtree fixed the wheel. It took three and a half hours and nine dollars worth of parts. He charged him eighteen dollars. The man gave Brother Crabtree a thousand dollars and told him to keep the change. He refused; he said there wasn’t that much to it.

One such account written after the 1968 Olympic Games held in Mexico titled, "The Greatest Last Place Finish",
is worthy of reflection:
"Out of the cold darkness he came.
John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania entered at the far end of the stadium, pain hobbling his every step, his leg covered by a blood stained bandage.
The winner of the marathon had been declared over an hour earlier. Only a few spectators remained. But the lone runner pressed on.
As he crossed the finish line, the small crowd roared out its appreciation. Afterwards, a reporter asked the runner why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning. He seemed confused by the question. Finally he answered:
'My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish.'"
What a remarkable example of human endeavor and dedication to a cause.

Cindy heard a sad meowing coming from the withered marigolds.
“Oh!” she cried. “Another stray kitten.”
A month ago she had found Tinker. When her mother said that Cindy could keep the black kitten, she also made it plain that they had room for only one cat.
But now when a thin, scraggly yellow kitten crawled out of the marigolds, Cindy knew she had to help it somehow. “I can’t leave you here!” Cindy cried. “Winter’s coming, and you need a home.”
When Cindy’s mother saw the little animal, she said, “You were right, Cindy, not to leave it out in the cold. Put it in the garage and give it some milk.”
The kitten drank all the milk. Then it crawled into the box Cindy had fixed up with an old towel and went to sleep.
Cindy cared for the yellow kitten just as she did for Tinker. As it became healthy and strong, Cindy worried about where it could live. All of her friends already had pets.
One day Cindy asked her mother, “Mom, do you still listen to that radio program where people call to buy or sell something? Maybe a listener might want a cat.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Moss replied. “It will be on this evening. We can call in then.”
Later that night Cindy and her mother listened while they waited for their turn on the air. A lady had a quilt to sell, and a man wanted to buy a used lawn mower.
Finally Cindy got to tell about the yellow kitten and give their telephone number.
Soon the phone rang. A man named Mr. Willis was interested in the kitten. “I need a cat for my barn,” he said.
“Is it warm?” Cindy asked. “This kitten needs a warm place to stay.”
“My barn’s full of hay,” Mr. Willis said. “A kitten can curl up in it and keep nice and warm.”
“A kitten needs milk too!”
“Every time I milk my cows, I’ll give the kitten warm milk,” Mr. Willis assured her.
“A kitten needs someone to love it!”
“I like cats,” Mr. Willis said. “I’ll pet it every day.”
“Then I want you to have the kitten,” Cindy said.
When Mr. Willis came to get the kitten, he asked, “Does it have a name?”
“How about Marigold? I found it in the marigold bed.”
“That’s a fine name,” Mr. Willis said. “Come along, Marigold. Let’s go home. It’s almost time to milk the cows.”

ARE YOU WEAK AND PUNY?
DO BULLIES PUSH YOU AROUND? BE THE STRONGEST BOY IN TOWN!
ORDER MR. HERCULES’ BODYBUILDING COURSE TODAY!!
SEND NO MONEY! ABSOLUTELY NO OBLIGATION!
Tracy sat in her bedroom, tugging at the end of a pigtail as she studied the advertisement in the comic book. In the ad were two photographs. The photo labeled “Before” showed a skinny boy with arms and legs like sticks. The other, labeled “After,” showed the same boy with enormous muscles popping out all over his body.
“Wow!” Tracy said. “I bet no one pushes him around anymore!” She thought of Buster Bailey, who liked to bully her as she walked home from school.
“I wish I could take Mr. Hercules’ free bodybuilding course. Then I’d really get Buster Bailey. But it’s only for boys.”
Tracy sprang up. “I know!” She tore out the ad and printed her name as only “T. Allison.” She addressed and stamped on envelope and put the ad inside it.
“Where are you going?” her mother called from the kitchen as Tracy opened the front door.
“For a walk,” Tracy said. She felt funny about not telling her mother what she was doing, but she didn’t want her to know about Buster Bailey. Her mother had enough to worry about. Tracy’s father had had an operation and was recovering very slowly. He had to stay in bed most of the time.
Tracy walked to the mailbox at the corner. I’m eleven years old, she thought. I can handle my own problems.
The next afternoon Buster was waiting for her as usual with his bike at the opposite end of the bridge. Tracy took a firm grip on her books and walked as fast as she could, pretending not to see him. But when she reached the center of the bridge, he got on his bike and headed straight for her, pedaling as fast as he could. She stopped and gritted her teeth. Within inches of running into her, Buster skidded sideways.
“I’m king of the bridge!” he shouted. “On your knees, peasant, and beg for safe passage, or I’ll throw your books into the river.”
Even though Buster was bigger than anyone else in their class, Tracy stood her ground and tried not to show that she was scared. She thought of the bodybuilding course. “You just wait, Buster Bailey,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to get you!”
“Bookworm,” he jeered. “Teacher’s pet.” After a few minutes of popping wheelies, he let her pass.
Every afternoon when Tracy got home, she stayed close to the front door and watched for the letter carrier. Luckily for her, the mail was delivered late in the day. A week after she sent in the ad, a bulky brown envelope addressed to Mr. T. Allison arrived. Tracy ran up the stairs to her room, shut the door, and opened the envelope.
Inside she found a letter, also a series of booklets titled Mr. Hercules’ Bodybuilding Course, filled with instructions and pictures of Mr. Hercules doing exercises, each more advanced than in the preceding booklet. Tracy didn’t understand all the words in the letter, but she understood the last line: “Please remit $45.00 within thirty days.”
Forty-five dollars! How could she possibly get forty-five dollars? She emptied her piggy bank on the bed and counted the money. Six dollars and thirty-eight cents. She couldn’t ask her parents for the money because they had lots of doctor’s bills. When she didn’t pay, would the police arrest her? Maybe Mr. Hercules himself would come looking for her!
That night she prayed for a miracle, and the next morning she woke up with an idea. She asked the neighbors if she could work for them. She weeded their gardens, swept their sidewalks, and washed their screens. She did errands and baby-sat. She saved every penny.
I’m working so hard, Tracy thought, I have a right to use the exercises. So every morning before breakfast and every night before bedtime, she took a booklet from the closet shelf where she kept them hidden and did the exercises. At first her muscles ached and she got tired after just a few minutes. She couldn’t do even one push-up. But she kept at it, and each day she could exercise a little longer. Soon she felt herself growing stronger.
The trouble is, Tracy thought as she walked home from school one afternoon, the exercises haven’t solved my problem with Buster Bailey. He’s always riding his bike, so I can’t get near enough to use my new muscles on him. She stepped onto the bridge and saw him waiting at the other end. When she reached the middle, he started toward her, coming faster and faster. This time he really would run into her! She jumped to one side. Buster twisted his wheel to stay in front of her, but the bike spun out of control and he was flung onto the pavement.
“Serves you right!” Tracy shouted.
Buster tried to get up and fell back, moaning. “My leg, my leg!”
Was he pretending? Maybe it was some sort of trick. But when she saw that he was crying, Tracy knew that he really was hurt. Buster would never cry, especially in front of a girl, if he could help it. “I’ll go get help,” she said.
“No! Don’t leave me, please!”
Tracy stared. “Why not?”
Gulping back his sobs, Buster blurted, “There’s this guy in sixth grade who’s out to get me. If he catches me off my bike …”
Tracy bit her tongue. Forgive your enemies, she reminded herself. She put down her books and helped Buster to his feet. “Lean on my shoulder, and try hopping on your good foot,” she told him. “My house is just down the street.”
They progressed very slowly toward Tracy’s house. She kept hoping that a car would stop and help them, but the street was deserted. “You’re heavy,” she said.
“And you’re strong,” he said, “for a girl.”
When they finally reached Tracy’s house, her mother took one look at Buster and phoned his home. While they were waiting for his father to arrive, Tracy’s mother asked what had happened. One thing led to another, and soon Tracy was pouring out the whole story about Buster, the body-building course, and the work she’d been doing to earn money.
“Wow!” Buster said. He was lying on the couch, his injured leg resting on pillows.
When Tracy showed her mother the book-lets, the letter, and the bill from Mr. Hercules, her mother frowned worriedly. “This is a big bill, Tracy. How much have you saved?”
Tracy tugged at a pigtail. “I only have twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents so far.”
“That was a very unwise thing to do, Tracy. Let’s write to Mr. Hercules and send him what you have,” her mother said. “When he learns the whole story”—she looked at Buster—“he might let you pay the rest when you can.”
To Tracy’s great relief, that’s exactly what Mr. Hercules agreed to.
Finally Tracy was able to pay her bill, but she learned a good lesson. Mr. Bailey asked Tracy to help Buster with summer school so that he could be promoted into fourth grade with the rest of their class, and Buster genuinely appreciated her help. Tracy was glad to help him—but this certainly wasn’t the way that she had planned to get Buster Bailey!