Gospel Story Finder

While a member of the Council of the Twelve, Elder McKay owned a big boar named Caesar. One Sunday morning Caesar broke out of his enclosure. Not having time to repair the fence before catching a train, Elder McKay put him in the chicken coop. But he forgot to tell any of his boys about it. That night at 2 A.M., the McKay household was awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Answering it, fearful that a tragic message was involved, they received a telegram over the phone: “Caesar in chicken coop. Water him!”

“Gramps!” Esther Sue ran toward the white-haired man, then stopped short, afraid to hug him. This was hardly the hard-muscled giant she had visited every summer at the farm. He looked like a small, wrinkled, worn-out imitation. So instead of greeting him with the usual bear hug, Esther Sue took his hand and guided him to the comfortable overstuffed chair in a corner of the living room. At least his hands were the same—big and sandpapery yet gentle from years of tending the soil.
“I’ll fix some lunch,” Mama said. “Then you might take a little rest, Papa.”
“A rest?” Gramps sneered at the idea. “All my life I worked from sunup to sundown, and I never needed a nap. I’d feel like some baby, needing a rest.”
Esther Sue patted his hand. “But the train ride must have been awfully hard, Gramps. Maybe you need a rest just this once.”
“Maybe so, little Susie. Or maybe I’m just not good for anything, now that I’m old. Having to sell the farm—I might as well have cut off my right arm, it pained me so much.”
“I know. I’m going to miss it something awful too.” Esther Sue remembered the long, happy days of previous summers, helping Gramps weed the melons and snapping beans under the shade of the crab apple tree. Now they would both be stuck in the city for the entire summer.
As the weeks went by, Gramps looked older and older, more and more tired.
“He needs something to do,” Mama said. “And he misses the open spaces and green growing things. You take him to the park, Esther Sue.”
So almost every day after school, even though it was still damp and chilly, Esther Sue and Gramps walked to the park. They passed rows of tall apartment buildings, the old vacant lot full of trash and dead weeds, and Murphy’s Market and Deli. Then they came to Bradley Park, just an empty patch of winter-brown grass and leafless trees at this time of year. Sometimes on the way home, Gramps stopped at the market and bought a couple of apples. He’d hand one to Esther Sue, and they’d chomp on them the rest of the way to the apartment.
“They’re not like the ones back home,” Gramps would complain. “They’ve lost all their crunch.”
As the weeks passed, Gramps and Esther Sue started looking for signs of new life. The vacant lot turned green with new weeds that almost hid the empty cans and broken glass scattered there. Little weeds sprouted between the cracks in the sidewalk too. And leaves started to pop out on the bare branches of the trees in the park. But Gramps looked more sad, more tired, more stooped.
“Sorry, Gramps,” Esther Sue said one afternoon. “I can’t go to the park today. I have to write a paper for school. It’s going to be a tough one.”
“That’s OK, little Susie. My arthritis is acting up, anyway.”
Esther Sue knew that he didn’t really care about going to the park. After years of walking on good black farm soil, Gramps didn’t like asphalt, and now that spring had come, he wanted to plant, not just look at trees and grass. So when he asked about her homework assignment, she was glad to give him a chance to think about something besides the home he had had to leave.
“I have to write an essay, Gramps: ‘What I can do to save the earth.’ The trouble is, there isn’t much one kid in the middle of Chicago can do.”
“Let’s see. You and your mama take all the old newspapers and cans to the recycling place, and you always write on both sides of a paper before you throw it away. That helps.”
“Oh, Gramps, I know those things are important, but everyone will write about recycling. I want to do something different.”
“Different like what?”
“Well, I read this article about a whole class who went out and planted trees, hundreds of them, to help reseed a forest. But that was in the mountains out west. A city kid can’t do anything like that.”
“No, I don’t suppose they want any more trees in that park of yours.” Grandpa scratched his head as he thought. Then he jumped up. “Come on, we’re going for that walk.”
“But what about my paper?”
“Come on. The fresh air will get your brain working.”
Esther Sue dragged along behind Gramps. What was he thinking? Why did he have to go today? Didn’t he know how important her paper was? But Gramps hadn’t been so lively in a long time. He even whistled as he walked along. When they got to the vacant lot, he stopped. “This is it,” he said. “This is your paper.”
She gave Gramps a blank look. What did this dirty old lot have to do with saving the earth? Gramps just stood there, staring at some vision, expecting her to see it too.
“Is it trees, Gramps? Do you expect me to plant trees here. I don’t think—”
“Not trees, little Susie—a garden! A garden with snow peas and eggplants and fresh red tomatoes. Maybe even a few pansies to pretty the place up.”
“A garden here? Oh, Gramps, do you think we could?”
“I know about gardens. There’s plenty of space and enough sunlight. We’d have to clean it up and see about getting some water, but I think we could manage that.”
“We’ll have to find out who owns the land and get permission.”
“We can go to city hall tomorrow.”
“I don’t think we can farm the whole lot, Gramps. It’s pretty big.”
“We’ll invite the neighbors to help. I can teach them.” The old man stood almost as tall as he had in the fields at the farm. “Just think, garden-fresh vegetables for the city folks here!”
“Just think, a garden right here in the middle of Chicago!”
“A place to dig.”
“It will be a great paper.”
“It will be a good summer.”
“I can make a difference, right here in the middle of Chicago.”
Both of them whistled all the way home.

In conclusion, will you come with me into a classroom of 12- and 13-year-old young women. Listen as you hear the learners discover doctrine. Notice the experience the teacher provides for the learners so that they can connect the doctrine to the reality of their lives. Feel the accompanying witness of the Spirit:
Our teacher moves her chair closer into the semicircle of five girls. “We have a guest waiting outside,” she begins. “It is Sister Jonas. She has agreed to show us her tiny baby and tell us how she feels about being a new mother. As you watch this new little baby, would you also notice his mother—how she treats the baby, what she does, what she says. We’ll talk about her visit after she leaves.”
Sister Jonas comes in, spends seven or eight minutes talking about her baby and answering questions. The girls thank her, and she leaves the classroom.
“The baby was darling, wasn’t he?” our teacher responds to the delighted hum of the class. “But what did you notice about the mother?”
A minute of silence and then a response: “Well, she was happy.” Another: “She kind of rocked back and forth the whole time she was holding him.” A few more responses, and then Katie slowly begins, “She—ummm—she talked really quietly.”
“Could you say more about that?” the teacher coaxes.
“Well, her voice reminds me of my mother’s voice when she called from the hospital to tell us we had a new baby sister last year.”
The teacher, turning to the other girls: “What do you think? Did anyone else notice her voice?”
The girls become more thoughtful and begin to reply with words like “reverence,” “heaven,” “love.”
The teacher: “I think I understand. I believe those words come to our minds because we are recognizing a great gift from our Heavenly Father. He loves us and trusts us so much that He is willing to share His creative powers with us. We feel such gratitude and reverence for this trust. Motherhood is a divine role.”
After this clear statement of doctrine and testimony, our teacher moves on to an activity where the girls identify qualities their own mothers exhibit that show an understanding of the divinity of motherhood. “Could each of you prepare for motherhood right now by practicing one of these very virtues—maybe being more patient, kinder, or more positive this week?”
Each girl talks about her choice. Our teacher bears personal testimony. The closing prayer is offered.

In September I was invited to give a talk about my conversion at Stake Conference. I was so nervous, but I knew that I had the Holy Spirit with me and I knew that what I was about to say was true. At university I studied Egyptology and Ancient History, and the knowledge I acquired has helped to strengthen my testimony regarding the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I have been able to find many links between the Book of Mormon and the civilisation of ancient Egypt.

On the day of my baptism I was nervous – not about the decision that I had made to become a member of the church, nor about my belief in our Saviour Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon – but because I was worried about being fully immersed in water. However, I should not have worried. I cannot adequately describe the feeling I felt as I was immersed and raised out of the font feeling clean, fresh, pure and rebuilt. As I was confirmed I could feel the Holy Spirit at work. I had a tingling sensation down my spine, I felt calm, strong, and galvanised. I still feel the Holy Spirit with me, especially when I study the scriptures and pray to Heavenly Father. When the Holy Spirit is near I feel goosebumps on my arms and legs, and this sensation gives me comfort, and I know that I will never be alone.

My life has changed dramatically since my baptism. I continued with my weekly lessons with the missionaries to help further my knowledge and understanding of the Book of Mormon. I have spoken publicly regarding my testimony and I have written an article for the Liahona.
I love going to sacrament meetings every week, I have joined the choir and I defy anyone not to leave a Sunday service with a big smile across their face and a feeling of empowerment for the week ahead. I have repaired the relationships within my biological family, but I have also gained a new ‘church family’ and I have a genuine love for the brothers and sisters in my ward.
I am a much happier and far less stressed person since becoming a member of the Church. Everyone has noticed and commented on it, and I am so happy that my husband decided to be baptised too. I look forward to our future – serving in the church, participating in ordinances, attending the temple, and being sealed to my husband for all eternity.
The gospel has transformed my life and for the first time in a long time I am hopeful and excited to see what Heavenly Father has planned for me.

In life’s spiritual battles, “we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against … rulers of the darkness … [and] against spiritual wickedness” (Ephesians 6:12). We, too, need to be reminded of what the fight is all about. Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004), a former member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, expressed this thought in an eloquent, albeit brief, conversation.

In 2004, I visited Elder Maxwell in his hospital room not long before he died. He was so kind to everyone who visited or helped him. Health-care workers went into his room and came out weeping. I said to him, “Elder Maxwell, this is really hard.” He chuckled and said, “Oh, Dale, we are eternal beings living in a mortal world. We are out of our element, like fish out of water. It is only when we have an eternal perspective that any of this will make any sense.”

But something happened one Saturday when we went cross-country skiing. The atmosphere in the car on our way to the mountains was tense. My dad was yelling at everyone to be quiet, and my mom was telling us to stop bugging her for food because it was only 10:00 A.M. Noelle was being her usual perfect self, cuddling up to Mom and saying, “Those guys are sure awful, huh Mom?” I was giving Laney my worst glare because she told on me just because I pinched her softly.

Once we arrived, things didn’t get much better. Mom started in on her usual threats. “I just paid 50 bucks for us to have a good time. If I hear one more rude remark, we’re leaving and I mean it!”

Finally we started skiing in stubborn silence. Dad was tense because he’d never been skiing before and was afraid he might embarrass himself in front of us and everyone else on the trail.

Suddenly a steep incline loomed before us. I got going too fast, trying to show off for Dad, and practically ran into a tree. In the nick of time I managed to fall, then lay miserably in the snow moaning and complaining loudly. I was sure I’d done something awful to my leg and wanted to make sure everyone knew. As I lay there groaning, I watched Noelle come flying down the hill and take a nose dive just opposite me. Then we both watched in horror as Mom came speeding down the hill shrieking hysterically and heading straight toward Noelle. Luckily Noelle slid out of the way when Mom crashed to the ground just inches from her. Laney had fallen farther back and was now clawing at the snow trying to stop herself from sliding on down the hill.

Dad, his first time ever on skis, was the only one to survive the treacherous slope. He leaned on his poles at the bottom of the hill, laughing loudly at us and pointing. I think Mom really was hysterical because she couldn’t stop laughing either. We girls sat in the snow whining, then began to giggle. No one bothered to get up, we simply laid in the snow laughing and talking until we calmed down a little. Then we helped each other up and began gliding again.

The remainder of the day was terrific. Laney, Noelle, and I had a great time together, and everyone was in high spirits. We laughed and talked, and afterwards Mom and Dad took us out for hot chocolate.

Sam’s dad, Chris, has some precious possessions—six ordinary grey pebbles given to him by his daughter when she was little. Sam tells the story:
“I was about seven when my dad was going on a business trip for three days. He didn’t travel often, and I was nervous that while he was gone he would forget us. I wanted to give him something to remind him of his wife, my two older brothers, me, and even our dog. I don’t know what made me get the pebbles. I guess since I was in Primary, they taught me about the brother of Jared and his stones.
“I went outside and picked up six pebbles. I cleaned them off and put them in a paper towel. I took them upstairs and told him not to forget us while he was gone. I told him that each one was for a family member. It’s a good thing I gave him six, because my youngest sister was born after that, and she took over the dog’s pebble. I didn’t think he would keep them forever. Now he talks about them all the time. He was excited that his little daughter understood the importance of families and how the Church is based on family. He still keeps them in his trinket box and takes them with him whenever he has to travel. I didn’t know that as a seven-year-old I would have such an impact. It makes me feel kind of special as well.”

Shortly after I began my mandatory service in the Brazilian army, I was selected as corporal over a dozen men. Unfortunately, my 12 young soldiers seemed to have the lowest standards in the barracks. I came to discover that they were or had been involved in drugs, theft, sexual immorality, and other serious sins.
Rather than allow myself to be influenced by their low standards, I took advantage of every opportunity I had to share the gospel with them. For example, during breaks or when we were cleaning rifles together, I talked to them about the gospel. I thought they would make fun of my standards and ridicule me, but they listened and came to treat me with respect. However, despite my efforts to teach them gospel doctrines, they didn’t change their attitudes or behavior.
Our time in the army finally ended, and on our last day as soldiers, the men invited me to celebrate with them at a small ranch. “Corporal, you have to come to our party,” one of them said to me. “You aren’t going to insult us by not showing up, are you?”
I was about to accept the invitation so as not to insult them. But the thought came to me that their party standards would be contrary to my Latter-day Saint standards. I remembered what I had been taught in seminary about not going to places where the Holy Ghost would not go. Despite their resentment, I told the group that I wouldn’t be attending. I said good-bye and headed home.
Months passed before I again saw one of the soldiers from that group. What he told me made me grateful that I had skipped their farewell celebration, which featured lots of alcohol. While under the influence, the men had begun throwing alcohol on each other. Then, as a joke, one of them threw a match on his buddy, who was so badly burned that he died a few days later. As a result, all of the participants at that party faced criminal charges related to his death.
Had I attended the party—even without drinking—I would have been in the same predicament. That incident would have followed me and could have hindered my future. I mourned for the young man who had died, but I was grateful that I had followed the promptings of the Spirit and the counsel of Church leaders.

1. Cory prepares himself for baptism by attending Sunday School and Primary.
2. He also attends sacrament meeting with his family and friends.
3. Reading the scriptures helps Cory prepare himself.
4. Everyone in Cory’s family celebrates his birthday during family home evening.
5. Cory’s father and mother discuss with him the importance of his special birthday and what it means to be baptized.
6. Cory talks with his bishop about his worthiness and willingness to be baptized.
7. He also talks with our Heavenly Father and offers a special prayer for his baptism on Saturday.
8. At the baptism Cory sits with his father and some of his friends who are also being baptized. They all must be dressed in white.
9. After an opening song and prayer a short review is given about the importance of baptism.
10. Each child is helped into the water by the person who does the baptizing.
11. When it is Cory’s turn, his father shows him what to do.
12. Then Cory’s father raises his hand to the square, says the prayer, and baptizes him by immersion.
13. Cory’s family is very proud of him, especially Grandma and Grandpa.
14. After the baptism is performed, Cory and his father leave the baptismal font. Next fast meeting Cory will be confirmed a member of the Church and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.

I learned to appreciate the principle of fasting by fasting for just one meal the first time I did it. That helped me develop confidence that I could fast for two meals. I also learned to ask for Heavenly Father’s help, so that the experience might be spiritually uplifting.

My aunt became a member of the Church after we fasted and prayed in her behalf.

Marianne Vaags, 13Muelheim Ward, Dortmund Germany Stake

Craig didn’t know what he was going to do or where he would end up. That afternoon after church his mother had informed him that his parents were getting a divorce. His father would be moving back to Iowa. He could live with whichever parent he chose.

He had listened to her news and then asked, “Is that it then?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Craig had gone outside and ridden his ten-speed all afternoon, his feelings churning up inside him. He loved both his parents. How could he choose between them? What was he going to do? He never would have thought that his parents would get a divorce. They had even been married in the temple. Why would they want to break up after all these years?

He had never felt so alone in his whole life. It was like his entire world was coming unglued.

At the fireside now, still in shock, he wiped a tear from his eye. Julie noticed, and reached over and touched his arm.

He wanted to tell how much her concern had meant to him. Right now he felt like his friends in the Church were the only thing he could count on. He loved them all so much. He knew some of them had had problems, and they had seemed to get through okay. Maybe if they all stuck together, he’d be able to get through this crisis.

He knew he couldn’t stand up and say anything to the group, but he wished everyone in that room knew how much he loved them.

“Ethan,” Dad called, “stay here on the path next to me.”
Five-year-old Ethan frowned. He loved hiking with Dad, but he didn’t want to stay on the boring old trail. There was much more to see alongside the stream.
“Come here,” Dad called again. “You might stumble and fall in those tall weeds.”
Obediently, Ethan bounded toward Dad. But as he walked, his eyes kept wandering off the trail. It wasn’t long before he saw a fallen tree and scampered toward it. Climbing on top of it he cried, “Look at me, Dad!”
Dad shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay on the trail?” Ethan groaned and shuffled back toward Dad.
As they hiked, they soon came to a section of the stream lined by large boulders. Each rock looked as if it had been carefully stacked in place to hold back the soil. Ethan pointed. “Look, Dad!”
Dad nodded. “Interesting rock formation, isn’t it? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.”
Grinning, Ethan bolted toward the stream and leaped onto a boulder. Dad followed. Ethan hopped from boulder to boulder, as if playing hopscotch, until he was standing on the highest one. He watched the stream swirl and cascade over rocks below, enjoying the sight—until he heard a terrible sound.
Hiss, rattle, rattle, rattle.
There, wedged between two rocks near Ethan’s feet, was a rattlesnake.
“Daddy!” Ethan cried.
Dad was on the other side of the rattlesnake and couldn’t reach Ethan to help him. “Don’t move!” he yelled.
Ethan trembled. The only way back to the trail was to hop down the rocks the way he had come, and he was afraid that the snake could move much faster than he could. What if he startled the snake and it struck him? The snake glared at him, flicking its tongue.
“Jump in the stream,” a voice spoke to his mind. Still watching the snake, he thought about the cold, muddy water and the jagged rocks below. “Jump in the stream!” the voice said again. So Ethan took a flying leap off the boulder and landed with a splash. Dad jumped in right after him, scooped him up, and helped him to shore. Ethan hugged Dad tight, his heart pounding.
“I wanted to tell you to jump, but I didn’t dare because I thought you might get hurt,” Dad said. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
“The Holy Ghost told me to jump,” Ethan said. “At first I didn’t listen, but then He told me again.”
“Obeying those promptings saved your life, son.” Dad looked at Ethan thoughtfully. “If I had listened to the Holy Ghost in the first place, we wouldn’t have been in danger.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“As we walked away from the trail, I saw something move in the grass,” Dad said. “I thought it was a mouse or a chipmunk. Suddenly, I remembered a story I read in the newspaper a few days ago about a man who recently died from a rattlesnake bite. The thought didn’t make sense to me, so I ignored it. If I had been listening, I would have recognized that the Spirit was trying to warn me.”
Ethan hugged Dad tighter, shivering to think what could have happened. “We should have stayed on the trail,” he murmured. “It’s safer.”
Dad nodded. “That’s true in life too. Even when we can’t see danger, Heavenly Father knows where the devil is lying in wait to corner us. The only safe way is to stay on the marked path.”
Ethan silently vowed to always obey. As he followed his parents, the prophets, and the Holy Ghost, he’d be safe from the worst serpent of all.

When I was young, I always wanted everyone to feel included. If children on the playground were being picked on, I wanted to be their friend. I remember befriending one girl other children were mean to. Years later, after I was married, she was my neighbor. When I saw her, we happily greeted one another. I thought, “Look at her now. She’s a wonderful mother who serves well and works hard to teach her children.” I am so glad that when I was little I was nice to her. Then when I saw her again, I didn’t have any regrets. We were still friends.

Among many very good deeds, Hilda was largely responsible for gathering the whole of Joe’s offspring as a family. In late 1952, Joe, Hilda, John, and I went to Southern Rhodesia, and siblings Gwen, Peter and Sue were taken out of the Fairbridge home, located near Bulawayo in the south, to join the rest of us now located in what was Salisbury, the capital. We were all together in the one home for a precious two years. Then, due to concerns about space in our three-bedroomed Rhodesia-Railways-provided house, Gwen left to live in a special establishment set up to house young single women.
Those years in colonial Rhodesia were wonderful, especially for John and me. As youngsters we lived a largely outdoor life, often running around barefoot and getting up to mischief, but mostly creatively (building platforms in trees; forming rowing boats from corrugated metal sheets — usually used for roofing purposes; fabricating catapults from carefully chosen branches of trees and rubber strips from old car-tyre inner tubes, and bows that we used to shoot arrows made from dried elephant grass with pins in their heads and chicken feathers as fletching). Hilda was always around to attend to our injuries, and provide as best she could for us, including repairing clothing.

One such couple was called to serve in Canada. During their meetings on their first Sunday, they introduced themselves. While doing so, the elder referred to his wife as his “sweetheart of forty-one years.”

In that congregation were some couples who were having marital difficulties. Because they had the chance to see in the ensuing months what a happy marriage could really be like, they were influenced to change their lives. One of them later said to this missionary couple, “Do you know why you were sent to this mission? It was to save our marriage.”

Just by being there and showing love for each other, they were able to exert a wonderful influence.

After a lot of effort and a lot of reading the scriptures, praying, and choosing the right, we wanted to get sealed as an eternal family. We talked to our bishop, and even though it took some time, the day finally arrived. We were so anxious to go inside the temple.
I got to do baptisms for the dead while I waited for my parents to complete temple work for themselves. I felt like I was getting baptized again. I was really happy I could help people beyond the veil. Now, my family and I go to the temple every week. I regularly do baptisms for the dead, because I love helping there. I am so glad I got to be sealed in the temple with my parents for eternity and have the opportunity to live forever with them.

My heart feels warm tonight. Broken, bruised, torn, certainly. But beautifully warm. I feel intense gratitude—gratitude so deep and encompassing that it seems a new hole has opened in my soul to make room, gratitude so filling and so personal that it won’t stop coursing down my cheeks in silent tears. My husband is breathing. I can hear it, deep and soft.
Just a couple of hours ago, I climbed into his hospital bed, ignoring the gentle kicks from our soon-to-arrive baby, and found a spot among all the wires hooked to his chest where I could rest my head. Listening to his heartbeat in my ear was an experience that will be burned into my memory forever.
His heart beats still. Not as well as it did before the heart attack. But it beats still.
But mostly I feel gratitude to the Lord for my husband’s life—his deep breathing, his heart pumping blood, his living body and soul. His life is my Christmas miracle.

“Not Ivy! She’s a girl,” Braden whispered behind Adam.
But Adam was team captain for dodgeball for the day, and he had made his choice. “I pick Ivy,” he repeated a little louder. Tyler, the other team captain, smirked. Even Coach Garcia looked surprised at Adam’s second pick.
Ivy looked surprised too and then shyly stepped forward. Braden groaned.
Ivy wasn’t just any girl. She was the smallest girl in the class. She didn’t look very fast, and the ball seemed bigger than she was. “She probably can’t even lift the ball,” Braden said as Ivy walked over.
“Maybe she’ll be our secret weapon,” Adam said, trying to sound sure. But that’s not why he had picked her. Ivy had once told Adam she didn’t like it when they played sports because she was always picked last. The other boys teased Ivy, but Mom and Dad had told Adam that boys should show respect for girls. So he picked Ivy. As he watched Tyler pick the biggest boy in class, Adam hoped he had made the right decision.
After everyone was on a team, Coach Garcia blew the whistle, and the teams ran to opposite ends of the court. Coach Garcia handed Tyler the ball, and Tyler scanned Adam’s team before he focused on Ivy. He pulled back his arm and let the ball fly.
Bam! The ball smacked the ground and bounced without hitting anyone. Adam blinked. Ivy had moved just in time. Everyone around him seemed surprised, but Adam just smiled. Maybe picking Ivy had been a good idea after all.
The game continued. Tyler kept trying to hit Ivy with the ball, but she kept dodging and diving out of the way. No one could hit her with a ball. Tyler and some of his teammates were so busy trying to get Ivy out that they didn’t spend much time aiming for anyone else. Adam grinned—Ivy’s size actually made her better at dodgeball because being small and fast made her harder to hit.
At last Adam’s team won the game. “Secret weapon was right,” Braden said. “Ivy’s pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Next time, she’s on my team. We’ll win for sure!” Ivy smiled as she walked back to class, surrounded by teammates.
Adam couldn’t stop smiling as he followed the group. He had been nice to Ivy, and he had helped the other boys respect girls a little more. The greatest secret weapon wasn’t a secret at all—it was just being kind.

The Irish wind moaned outside the cottage and whipped the cold rain against the windowpanes. Inside, Patrick McEntree was warm. The branch members were gathered for sacrament meeting around the flickering peat fire on the hearth. Yet Patrick was warmed not only by the fire but also by the words of the tall, young missionary with the American accent. “I know the gospel is true,” he said, “and I’m grateful to serve the Lord here in western Ireland.”
Patrick knew the gospel was true too. Suddenly he couldn’t wait until he was nineteen to be a missionary. He had to tell his friend now about the wonderful Book of Mormon he was reading. He clutched his copy tightly. The beautiful, leather-bound book had been sent to him personally from Salt Lake City by the missionary who had taught his family the gospel.
Patrick’s donkey, Flopps, stood waiting outside the cottage as she did every Sunday. Even the typically blustery Irish weather did not keep her away.
The meeting over, Patrick’s father donned his cap and hurried out with the rest of the family.
Patrick strolled home more slowly beside Flopps. “You know, Flopps, I want to be a missionary,” he said. “How am I going to tell Tom and my other friends about the gospel?”
Flopps only flopped her ears and blinked at Patrick.
“No answers for me, Flopps? Well, you’re a good friend anyways, even if you don’t understand.”
A few days later, Patrick weaved his way through the mooing cattle, bleating sheep, and squawking chickens on the village street. Flopps trotted close at his heels. It was a fair day in the village, and everyone had come from miles around to barter their goods. Patrick wanted to find his friend Tom and tell him about the branch activity that evening. Everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandfather would gather to dance the traditional Irish jigs and reels. It might be a first step in telling Tom about the gospel, he thought.
Patrick saw Tom at the open fruit market, but his way was suddenly blocked by Michael O’Brien with a huge creel of seaweed strapped to his back. Patrick ducked around Michael and his seaweed only to find that Tom had disappeared. Patrick grimaced and looked back at Michael. Even in school Michael smelled vaguely of seaweed. Most villagers gathered seaweed in the early springtime to fertilize their rocky potato ridges; Michael gathered it year round to dry and to sell to the factories.
A strange feeling came over Patrick, but he pushed it aside. No! He definitely did not want to invite Michael to the branch activity. They weren’t friends. In fact, he didn’t even like Michael. Michael often played pranks on the teachers at school and laughed when they asked him questions.
Stubbornly, Patrick looked straight ahead. “Come on, Flopps, there are other people who deserve to hear the gospel more than Michael.”
But Patrick couldn’t get Michael off his mind. The next morning he hardly remembered hitching Flopps to the cart and going to the bog with his father to cut peat to dry for fuel.
“Ah, my boy, you have been quiet today. Where are your thoughts?” questioned Patrick’s father as they unloaded the last of the peat beside their cottage.
“Father,” Patrick asked slowly, “do you think Heavenly Father sometimes asks us to do things we don’t want to do?”
His father raised his eyebrows. “Why, yes, I think He sometimes does.”
“I think He’s been telling me to be a missionary to Michael O’Brien. But I don’t like Michael. Sometimes he’s mean.”
“Mmm, well now,” mused Patrick’s father, “I suppose if God waited until His children were always good to love them, He would love very few of us on this earth. In fact,” he said winking at Patrick, “He might not love you all the time—I’ve known you to be naughty on occasion. But since we know God loves all His children, I’m sure he wants Michael to have the gospel too.”
“Do you think praying would help me to like Michael?”
“Yes.” His father nodded toward the lane. “But you’d better do it fast.”
Patrick turned around. Trudging up the lane was Michael, on his way to gather seaweed while the tide was down.
Patrick looked at his father for courage.
“You can do it, my boy.”
Patrick swallowed hard and, with a prayer in his heart, called out, “Michael, would you like some help gathering seaweed? I could help you cut it, and Flopps is all hitched up to the Carr, so you wouldn’t have to carry it yourself.”
Patrick and Michael sliced their knives through the strands of wet seaweed draped around the slippery rocks, while Flopps waited patiently for them to carry the dripping bundles to her cart. Hour after hour they crouched over the rocks, unaware that the raindrops splashed ever harder and that the wind drowned out the sound of the sea. Only when Flopps began braying did Patrick notice the wind and chilling rain. The night and the tide were creeping in.
Patrick shouted above the gale, “Michael! I think we’d better stop.” He saw Michael suddenly teeter on a slippery rock and fall. Patrick scrambled to help him.
Michael gasped, “My foot’s caught between these rocks!”
Patrick took hold of a slimy rock and heaved. It didn’t budge. “Can you move your leg at all?”
Michael tried, and his face twisted with pain.
The tide was now lapping around the boy’s legs. What can I do? Patrick agonized. Abruptly, he blurted out, “I think we should pray!”
“Pray?” repeated Michael incredulously through his chattering teeth. The jeering laugh that Patrick disliked so much started out of Michael’s throat, then stopped short. “OK,” he agreed quietly.
Patrick prayed until his fears were gone and he knew exactly what to do. He unhitched Flopps from the cart and coaxed the reluctant donkey out onto the slippery rocks. He tied a rope around the rock and attached it to her harness. At first Flopps didn’t want to pull. She pawed at the water rising around her legs and switched her tail in annoyance.
“Come on, Flopps, you’ve always been my friend,” Patrick urged her.
Flopps pricked up her ears and moved forward. The rock moved too.
All the way back to Patrick’s cottage, Michael kept saying, “I can’t believe it. When you said that prayer, I had such a calm feeling. I just knew everything was going to be all right.”
Patrick’s mother served the two shivering boys steaming bowls of oxtail soup.
“Flopps and I will make sure you get home safely, Michael,” said Patrick’s father.
Michael was hobbling out the door when Patrick noticed his Book of Mormon lying on the table. Impulsively he grabbed it and called after Michael, “Here. Take this. You might want to read it.”
It had been two weeks since Patrick had gathered seaweed with Michael. Patrick fiddled with Flopps’s harness and wondered why he had given his precious Book of Mormon away.
“Hurry up, Patrick,” called his father. “We’ve lots of hay to rake and pike today.”
As Patrick led Flopps along the rock fence toward the hayfield, he saw a woman with a baby coming up the road. Stopping on the other side of the fence, she shyly said, “I’m looking for Patrick McEntree.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“Oh. I wanted to thank you for giving my son that book—the Book of Mormon. Ever since my husband died last year, I have been looking for it. Someone gave me a copy many years ago, and I just laid it aside then. But when my husband died right before the baby came, I had to put most of the work on Michael. My whole world seemed to fall apart. For some reason, I just knew I had to find that book again and read it. Now that I have, I feel much better. Thank you so much.”
Patrick could only stand with his mouth open.
The woman paused and hoisted the baby farther up in her arms. “Could I ask for one more favor? Would you teach me more about your church?”
The next Sunday Patrick went with the two missionaries to Michael O’Brien’s home. When he walked into the cottage, Patrick gulped in astonishment. The room was packed with people! He sat down beside Michael and whispered, “Where did all these people come from?”
“They’re my cousins from Dublin. They come every year at haying time. They want to hear about your church too.”
Patrick watched Michael smile as the missionaries talked about the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was beginning to understand why God loved Michael so much.
Patrick noticed his leather-bound Book of Mormon on a table near the glowing fireplace. I’ll get another leather-bound Book of Mormon. He was glad now that he had given his first one away.

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.