Gospel Story Finder

After my mission to Taiwan, I thought international law would be a good career choice. As Christy and I considered that possible future, we understood that five more years of expensive education lay ahead.

The U.S. economy was in a deep recession and our funds were limited, so we reasoned that joining the Air Force ROTC would be a wise choice to pay for my schooling. But as I took the required tests and filled out the paperwork, we just could not get comfortable making that commitment. No stupor of thought or dark feelings came—only an absence of peace.

That seemingly illogical financial decision was inspired, in part, because I would have been a horrible lawyer!

On the evening of 4 April, TV Successo in Mozambique aired a show that they had never run before. Instead of the usual lineup of evening television programs, the station aired uplifting musical items and inspiring messages from Church leaders around the globe. For the first time ever, this local TV station aired the Sunday morning session of general conference.
It was close to midnight on the same evening when President Russell M. Nelson addressed members of the Church to end the conference. It was then that he announced that several more temples would be built.
“We want to bring the house of the Lord even closer to our members, that they may have the sacred privilege of attending the temple as often as their circumstances allow,” said the prophet.1
“And then,” says Freeman Dickie, who is currently serving as the Beira Mozambique Stake president, “They announced that we were getting a temple in Beira!”
Despite the late hour, “messages were being sent around on the WhatsApp groups. People were awake and celebrating! First, we were able to watch general conference live on TV for the first time, and then the same night came the temple announcement! You can imagine how exciting it was.”
Sister Emilia Cristina Chaimane Paulino, a member of the Macuti Branch in the Beira Stake, says she felt “overwhelmed with happiness,” when she heard the news. “The moment I heard, I started crying with gratitude for this blessing. I don’t even know how to express what I felt.”
Her husband, Ernesto Paulino, was out of town for work and feeling ill the night the announcement was made. Sister Paulino woke him from a deep slumber by phoning him with the exciting news.
“Truly speaking, I suddenly recovered from my illness!” says Brother Paulino. “When I heard the news, I thought, ‘I’m feeling better now!’
“I felt that amazing grace of the Lord,” he says. “This is a day of celebration for us. It is something very special.”

Another way we partner with God is by letting our light shine. Eighteen years ago, while I was serving as a bishop, a woman visited our ward for a Sunday worship. After the service, I invited her to meet in my office. During our discussion, a Primary child walked into my office, greeted the visitor, and gave me her tithing envelope, after which I proceeded to shake her hand and thank her. These few seconds with this faithful Primary child touched the visitor, and she began to ask questions about tithing and other doctrines of the Church. She later joined the Church and today serves as a stake Relief Society president—all because a Primary child was living the gospel.

When Brian Breshears and his friends started discussing religion and the purpose of life, they always seemed to come up short on answers. In fact, they often felt that things were way over their heads. But they knew somebody, somewhere, had to know the truth. That’s when the name Mickelle Thompson popped into Brian’s head. Of course, he thought, Mickelle has an answer for everything.
Several hours later, Brian and his friends met Mickelle and her friend Lindsey Miller at a local restaurant. At the time, this scene in Chesapeake, Virginia, made for an interesting picture: two clean-cut, LDS teenage girls with open scriptures on one side of the table. Three scruffy-looking boys, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, on the other side.
That picture, however, has changed. Today Brian is sitting on Lindsey and Mickelle’s side of the table.
Brian’s transition actually began several months earlier in drama class. As usual, Brian started his day with a glance at the call board, a bulletin board drama students at Great Bridge High School must check three times a day to note auditions and rehearsals. Usually it contains pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, but something different caught Brian’s eye that morning—a colorful flyer announcing that Mickelle Thompson was willing to answer questions about a recent 60 Minutes episode featuring her church’s prophet. Brian hadn’t seen the interview, but he knew Mickelle was LDS. All the kids in drama called her “the Mormon.” “I saw her at lunch that day and asked her about the interview,” says Brian. Mickelle gave him a videotape of the interview, and he watched it that night.
“I was a little bit curious and wanted to know more,” Brian says. His curiosity led to more questions—questions which Mickelle and Lindsey always seemed to know the answers to, no matter how or when Brian asked them.
Before the meeting at the restaurant, Mickelle had been the center of attention at a drama cast party. “Mickelle was sitting off to the side, and I started talking to her, and everyone started joking around about her being Mormon,” Brian says. “We asked her about anything. I remember she was so calm and collected with it; she answered our questions seriously.”
Then there were the conversations over lunch at school with other friends who had seen Mickelle’s note. “We’d sit by the wall, and I’d bring my scriptures every day and just talk about all sorts of things,” says Mickelle. “I would go home, and with my dad I’d stay up late at night and look up things in the scriptures to answer their questions.”
When Brian met up with Mickelle and Lindsey at the restaurant a couple of weeks later, he was once again impressed. “I had gone to a lot of churches before that and asked questions and they couldn’t really answer them. But Lindsey and Mickelle were quick to answer my questions.”
Brian revelled in their responses. “He just soaked everything in,” Lindsey says. And he did so for good reason. “At the time, mentally, I didn’t know who I was. I was totally lost,” Brian says. “I felt like I had hit bottom. I guess that’s when they came along. I didn’t know what I believed. I didn’t have anything to hang on to. They were there when I needed answers.”
School ended for the year, and slowly Brian started coming to church. He asked more questions and continued his friendship with Lindsey and Mickelle. For months he went to Sunday meetings and Wednesday night activities. “Things started to change in my life the more I went to church,” Brian says.
By the end of the summer, Lindsey knew that Brian was up to a bigger challenge—the early-morning seminary type of challenge. But getting Brian to wake up at five every morning wouldn’t be easy. So Lindsey made a deal with him.
She had six books to finish for a summer reading assignment, and she told Brian that she’d finish her homework in the last three days of their summer break if he’d go to seminary and be present 80 percent of the time.
Brian didn’t expect Lindsey to come through. “I said, ‘That’s an easy deal. I’ll take that one,’” Brian says. “But come the first day of seminary, I was sitting there.”
Eventually, Brian had asked almost every question possible, and Lindsey knew it was time for her to ask a question. Brian said yes, and soon the local missionaries, Elders Vasas and Chugg, taught him the first discussion.
They began at a normal pace. Then one night, the missionaries showed Brian a video about the early Saints and their struggles to build a temple. Brian had never asked much about the early history of the Church and was amazed at what he learned. “I was totally taken back by this video and the dedication shown by the Church through all these trials,” Brian says. “When the video was over, I said, ‘I want to speed the discussions up. I’d like to get baptized.’”
On November 6, 1996, the day before his birthday, Brian entered the waters of baptism. Thirty nonmember friends came to his baptism. New friends from seminary and church filled the chapel. Of course, Lindsey and Mickelle were there too. Just about everyone who had answered Brian’s questions in the past six months was there to see him make this covenant.
“My baptism day was the most awesome experience of my life because I had so much to be wiped clean,” says Brian. “It was the most releasing feeling I’d ever had to know that I could be forgiven.”
Brian’s future is looking up. So are Lindsey Miller’s and Mickelle Thompson’s. While Brian found the gospel, Lindsey and Mickelle found the joy that comes from sharing it.
“I’ve learned how to use the scriptures a whole lot more and share them with other people. It’s really not a hard thing to do,” Mickelle says.
Lindsey says, “When I got to know Brian, I didn’t really think he would be likely to join the Church. I don’t know how a person could have been in more trouble. He went from the very bottom to the very top. I’ve now learned that you can try to share the gospel with anybody.”
Right now Brian is waiting for his mission call to share the gospel with “just about anybody.” Already, he’s started serving the Lord through missionary work. He’s given a Book of Mormon to his parents. Lindsey and Mickelle marvel at the example he’s been to other youth in the area as they’ve faced struggles and temptations. “He’s the one setting the example now,” they both echo.
And nothing could be more true for the young man who once sat, full of questions, at a table with two bright girls who seemed to have an answer for everything. Now Brian sits with them and shares the joy that comes from knowing.
Editor’s Note: Brian Breshears is now serving in the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo West Mission.

Jeff Coffey couldn’t believe his good luck. Crab Island was “his” until next summer! He’d always lived on the mainland during the winter, but this year his mom was going to teach him at home on the island. He swung his ax over his head, determined to have the wood chopped and piled before his dad returned with the last load of supplies. Once the channel iced over, it would be almost impossible to get any more supplies before spring. He looked anxiously at the leaden skies. Already the wind was picking up.
As soon as his dad’s boat landed, Jeff wouldn’t care what the weather did. He was glad to be having school and Primary at home. The wind pushed his straight brown hair across his blue eyes. He lowered the ax to brush his hair back with a muscular hand.
Thinking about his Primary teacher, Sister Bartlett, made his lips tighten as he remembered how she had made a big deal out of reminding the class to pray every day to Heavenly Father. She must have seen the smirk on his face, because she had looked him directly in the eye and said, “There’ll come a time, Jeff, when praying is all that you’re going to have to pull you through a tough spot.”
While Jeff looked again at the sky, the strong wind picked up gravel and slapped it against his legs. He’d better get the sheep. As for Sister Bartlett’s advice, Jeff knew that he could handle anything that came up—and handle it all by himself, just as he always had.
He ran to the park in the middle of the little island town, where he saw Mr. Gordon herding the sheep with his white cane. The reclusive, cranky old man had been dubbed the Off-Islander because he always stayed behind when the summer vacationers left. “Mr. Gordon! It’s me—Jeff Coffey.”
Mr. Gordon turned his head toward the sound of Jeff’s voice. “Your sheep are scared in this wind,” he rasped. “Take them home and pen them up.”
Jeff nodded, forgetting for a moment that the old man was blind. The wind pried a board off a shuttered cabin window and sailed it over the backs of the sheep. It thudded against a tree.
“You’d better follow me home,” Jeff yelled above the now-howling wind. “It’s cranking up to be a bad storm.”
Mr. Gordon swatted the air with his hand. “It makes no difference to me if the weather’s fair or stormy,” he growled. “I can’t see it.”
“It isn’t safe for you to be out alone in this storm,” Jeff persisted. “It’s bad enough that my dad’s not home yet.”
“What’s that? Your father went to the mainland?”
“He went for the last of our supplies, and he isn’t back yet. He should be here anytime, though,” Jeff said.
Mr. Gordon was silent; then he spoke sharply. “Get on home, boy! Take care of your animals!”
“Yes, sir.” Jeff turned to the milling sheep, and the old man tapped his way down the street.
By the time that Jeff gathered the sheep safely in the barn, the sky was dark with thick snow. When he got to the house, he found his mother knotting one end of a rope to the iron ring bolted to the back door. Jeff knew the story of how his grandmother had once saved his grandfather by tying a rope to her waist and then fighting her way through a storm to the bell tower to ring his boat safely home.
“You’ll have to ring the bell for your dad, Jeff,” was all that his mother said now.
Jeff knotted the rope’s loose end around his waist, took the flaring black pot that his mother handed him to light his way to the tower, and started out. Then he looked back at his mother. She was holding her lantern high to given him his bearings. The snow was already piling up, making walking slow and arduous. Jeff had looped the coil of rope loosely over one arm so that he could pay it out as he walked. He could hear the sea thundering against the rocks below.
Ocean spray told Jeff that he was near the bell. After he had located it, he set the kettle of light in the bell cradle’s saucerlike top. When he grabbed the frayed and weathered rope, the coat of ice on it made it slide right through his hands. Twisting the rope around his fist to keep it from slipping, Jeff pulled hard on the rope again and again. The bell’s clang hurt his ears, cold seeped into his bones, and his arms ached. He switched arms, then switched again—first one, then the other. His father had to hear the bell! Jeff couldn’t give up.
Despite his efforts, the rope slipped out of Jeff’s cold hands frequently. And each time it did, the bell went unrung and unheard! Jeff’s shoulders ached; his fingers cramped with cold. He pulled again.
The rope spun away, caught by the wind. Jeff scrambled to catch hold of the rope and lost his footing. He slammed down, face first, against the icy rock. As he struggled to his feet, he felt something warm and wet on his face. His nose was bleeding. He wiped away the blood with a stiff hand.
Grabbing the rope in both hands, Jeff pulled hard. The sound of the bell just had to carry across the thrashing waves to his dad! Jeff’s fingers were numb, and his arms felt as though they had been yanked out of their sockets. He wasn’t sure that he could endure much longer.
The rope snapped out of his hands once more, its icy surface tearing at his already raw palms. Jeff caught a glimpse of his mom’s lantern through the swirling snow. With the baby coming, she depended on Jeff’s endurance.
Suddenly Jeff knew that he’d done all that he could do. He needed help! For once he wasn’t the tough, do-it-himself guy that he’d always been. He’d never been in such a tough spot in his life. Tough spot! That’s what Sister Bartlett said that I’d find myself in one day, Jeff thought. And she said that praying is all that I’d have to pull me through. Well, I’m in the toughest spot that I’ve ever been in, and I sure do need His help!
Humbly Jeff asked Heavenly Father to help him toll the bell for his dad. He asked it in Jesus’ name, then said amen. Knowing that he still had to do his part, too, Jeff kept on struggling to pull the rope.
Almost at once he felt a tug at his waist as if someone were advancing along on the rope still tied there. But his mom’s light still shone from the doorway. …
“Who’s there?” Jeff called.
“Gordon!” came the unexpected answer.
As the Off-Islander loomed into view, Jeff asked, “How did you get here?”
Mr. Gordon gave a short laugh. “I don’t need a light to find my way, boy.”
“B-but why did you come?” Jeff continued pulling the bell rope.
Mr. Gordon shook his head. “I don’t know why. I was warm and dry at home when I got this feeling that you needed help, and I just had to come.”
Jeff smiled as wide as his cracked lips and frozen face allowed. “I know why, Mr. Gordon. Heavenly Father sent you to help me.”
“It’s been a long time since I let myself think about anyone but myself,” said Mr. Gordon, a sense of wonder in his voice. He reached up. “If we pull together, the bell will ring louder.”
Together the old man and Jeff pulled on the rope. The bell clanged above the breaking waves again and again and again. And finally they heard the answering bells on Jeff’s dad’s boat!
Jeff forgot his cracked and blistered hands, his bloody nose, his sore arms. Sister Bartlett was right: Sometimes the only way out of a tough spot is by praying to Heavenly Father for help.

Ever since Carlos could remember, he had wished that he could fly in an airplane. And ever since he could remember, everyone had laughed that he, a barefoot boy of the Colombian campo (countryside), would even have such a wish.
He knew it was impossible. His family didn’t have money for shoes, let alone airplane rides. But he still liked to dream. And every day he ran home from the little schoolhouse, hurried through his chores, then ran to the sugarcane mill to watch the afternoon plane fly overhead.
Carlos’s brothers always teased him:
“Mira (look)! Carlitos (little Carlos) is flying again.”
“Look at him zoom to the woodpile. Careful you don’t crash, Alitas (Little Wings). Now swoop down to the stream for a pail of water.”
Mother seemed to understand, though. She just smiled at her young son as she shaped the arepas (round white corn cakes) for their supper. “You can go now, Carlitos, as long as you feed the cow and the mule when you get back.” She swung her long black braid over her shoulder and went on shaping the arepas.
Carlos scampered up the hill. The well-worn path felt smooth under his bare feet, and a warm, moist breeze ruffled his hair. Soon he came to the sugarcane mill. During the harvest season he and his brothers and father ground up the cane there to make hard brown sugar cakes called panelas. Now, though, the old round millstones looked lonely nestled among the cane.
Carlos sat down on the hilltop and listened for the sound of the plane. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. Looking below him, he saw the rows of sugarcane, the banana plants waving gently beside his little house, the stretch of thick jungle underbrush, and the meandering river far below. I am truly lucky to live in such a beautiful place, he thought. But it would be wonderful to see it from the sky!
Carlos’s teacher, Señor Vargas, had explained that the small airplane came from the seacoast town of Turbo. It delivered mail to the small towns and plantations along the flat, hot coast before flying over the mountains to Medellín. There it refueled, picked up mail, and flew back.
“But, Carlos,” his teacher had tried to point out kindly, “in this village we are all poor, and poor people don’t ride in planes.”
Carlos had nodded solemnly, but he never stopped wishing that he would someday fly in a plane.
Now, as he sat on the hilltop near the mill, he heard the familiar thrumming of the mail plane, and soon it appeared overhead. Sometimes when it flew close enough to the ground, Carlos waved and the pilot waved back.
Suddenly Carlos realized that the familiar sound of the airplane engine had been replaced by a putt-putt-putt sound. Something was wrong! He watched with horror as the plane plummeted toward the ground and disappeared behind the hill.
Carlos scrambled toward the stricken airplane. It was rough going through the cane, but the soles of his feet were as tough as leather. When at last he saw the plane on the ground, one wheel strut was crumpled and the left wing looked like an accordion. He could see the pilot’s helmeted head resting against the side window. Is he alive? Carlos wondered. Carlos was scared and curious and anxious to help, all at the same time.
He called out to the pilot. His voice sounded lonely in the stillness. No answer. The helmet didn’t move. Then he saw that the engine had caught fire!
Carlos sprinted to the airplane, grasped the door handle with both hands, and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing happened.
Glancing at the underside of the plane, Carlos saw that the flames were licking toward the cockpit. Desperate, he pounded on the door. Suddenly the door opened, and the pilot toppled out—right on top of Carlos!
The boy staggered to his feet and tried to drag the man away from the plane. Although he was small, Carlos’s fear gave him enough strength to drag the man some distance from the plane. When the boy stopped at last to catch his breath, the pilot groaned, and Carlos noticed a nasty cut on the man’s head. Also, his leg appeared to be broken. The man opened his eyes just as flames completely engulfed the plane.
“Oh!” they both gasped. Carlos felt sick. The beautiful plane that he loved so much was burning up right in front of him. Tears filled his eyes.
The man gripped Carlos’s hand. “Don’t cry, boy. You saved my life!”
But Carlos saw that tears were streaming down the pilot’s face too. They hugged each other and tried to smile to cheer each other up. Soon Carlos was scrambling down the mountain again to bring help to his new friend, José.
Carlos’s father brought a neighbor who had had some medical training to set José’s broken leg and bandage his head. Since their valley could only be reached by horseback, José could not leave until his leg was healed.
Carlos was a hero! No one remembered that they had teased him about always running up to the mill to see the airplane. “How lucky that Carlos was in the cane field!” they said, and “How good that Carlos loves airplanes.”
Carlos just smiled.
José shook his head. “It was God’s will, Carlos. He knew I would need you to be there. You were there, and you saved my life. When I get better, I am going to take you for an airplane ride, if your father says it’s all right.”
Carlos couldn’t believe his ears! He turned to his father, who smiled and said, “OK, Alitas.”
Some weeks later José and Carlos set off for MedellÍn. And the next day Carlos was in the cockpit of a small mail plane, flying over his beautiful valley!
As José dipped the airplane’s wings, Carlos’s family and friends and Señor Vargas were all waving from the hilltop. And as Carlos waved, he was sure he was the happiest boy in the world.

I knew the Prophet. While I was nine, I attended a school kept by a Miss Mitchell in his brother Hyrum’s brick office.
I was passing the Prophet’s house one morning when he called me to him and asked what book I read at school. I replied, “The Book of Mormon.” He seemed pleased. Taking me into the house, he then gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon to use at school. It was a gift I greatly prized.
—Jesse N. Smith

Sam Stewart builds temples. Their spires do not rise majestically above busy freeways or green hilltops, but above the floor of the Stewart family room in Henderson, Nevada. Their walls are not hewn from fine granite but cut from plain brown cardboard boxes. Yet these knee-high models somehow capture the majesty of real temples.
Sam (11) hopes to design real temples someday. Architects (people who design buildings) must have an artistic flair, and Sam does. His mom first discovered his talent when he was just three years old. She walked into his room and was astonished to see pictures of dinosaurs all over the walls. On the one hand, she didn’t feel that bedroom walls were quite the right place for drawing dinosaurs. On the other hand, they were drawn so well! She suggested that Sam use paper next time, but the already-hatched reptiles were left to roam the walls.
Cardboard replaced paper as the young artist’s favorite surface when he was nine years old. The family was reading about putting on the whole armor of God (see Eph. 6:13–17). There were cardboard boxes lying around because the Stewarts were sending packages to Sam’s brothers who were on missions. The boxes and the armor collided in Sam’s mind, and he began constructing a cardboard “shield of faith.” After he finished it, he shaped a “sword of the Spirit” out of wood.
About this time, Sam began to feel a strong attachment to the nearby Las Vegas Nevada Temple. At first he appreciated it simply because it was beautiful. But as he learned more about the purpose of temples, he came to love it for the blessings it brings to people’s lives. This interest soon grew to include all the temples of the Church. Sam began filling a binder with pictures of the world’s temples and a file with diagrams and information about their design, history, and construction. By the time he had filled the binder, he knew that he wanted to build temples of stone someday. In the meantime, he would build temples of cardboard.
With boxes, a pair of scissors, a hot-glue gun, and a ruler, he created a faithful scale model of the Las Vegas Temple. It was astonishingly good. No one taught him how to build cardboard temples. He invented the craft as he went along.
Next came his version of the historic Nauvoo Illinois Temple, which was then being rebuilt. The family read all they could find about the project as Sam raised his cardboard walls. He drew the sunstones and other carvings onto the surface with a pen. The Manti Temple and the Preston England Temple followed. Then Sam started working on his masterpiece—the Salt Lake Temple, crafted in far greater detail than the others. This project has taken a year so far and is not yet finished. Once it’s completed, he plans to build models of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the Portland Oregon Temple.
Sam doesn’t just build temples; he studies them, too. He learned so much about the stone carvings on the Nauvoo Temple that his dad invited him to explain their meaning to the temple preparation class he teaches. Sam has also given family home evening lessons on temple architecture to several families in the ward.
He is not shy about sharing his love of temples with his friends from other religions. They like to watch him build, and as he works he quizzes them about temple facts. By now they know all the answers.
Working on temples doesn’t fill all of Sam’s time. He is an excellent student who studies hard because he knows that to be an architect he must be good at math and get good grades. He enjoys sports, including skiing, baseball, and soccer. He especially loves the outdoors and the beauties of nature. He is always eager to visit his family’s cabin in the mountains of Utah.
Families and temples just seem to go together, and Sam loves his family even more than he loves temples. His brothers, Willie and John, who are twins serving missions in Uruguay and England respectively, are role models for him. He is especially close to his sister, Lea, a student at BYU. Five years ago Lea suffered a spinal cord injury in a car accident, and she now uses a wheelchair. Sam often paints with her and plays wheelchair basketball with her when she is home on vacation. “Sam’s very sensitive to the feelings of others,” Lea says. “Since I’ve been in the wheelchair, he’s always there to help.”
“Sam wants to understand things spiritually,” his dad comments. “He prays. He reads the scriptures. He asks a lot of difficult questions—the kind that parents don’t always know how to answer. He’s made me a better person just being around him.”
His mom adds, “He has a clear vision of what’s right and wrong, and he’s strong in doing what’s right. He wants to make people happy. If I’m down, he knows it, and he’ll cheer me up.”
This builder of temples is also helping to build a happy family.

Several years ago I had as a special acquaintance and good friend an Aaronic Priesthood-age boy from whom I learned some of life’s special lessons. He came from what we commonly refer to as a good family, but his parents seemed to take the heart of the gospel for granted. They were willing to attend most of their meetings on Sunday, if it was convenient. They were warm people and friendly—always receptive to the brethren and sisters who came to their home. But I doubt if they had family prayer very often, and I’m sure family home evening was something occasionally discussed but seldom experienced. With no real personal attention, the children were allowed to come and go as they pleased.
On one occasion my young friend told me he was sure that his parents loved him, but, oh, how he wished they cared about him! You know, to a young person there can be a difference. He said he wished just once as he went out the door they would ask him where he was going and when he would be home. He wanted them to give him some guidelines. He confessed that he wasn’t always sure of the judgments that were left to him. If only they had cared enough.
Now, years later, the offspring of this family have experienced the birth of illegitimate children, divorce in their own marriages, runaways, drug addiction, and most everything else that can be tragic in our lives.

Ben Carson said of himself, “I was the worst student in my whole fifth-grade class.” One day Ben took a math test with 30 problems. The student behind him corrected it and handed it back. The teacher, Mrs. Williamson, started calling each student’s name for the score. Finally, she got to Ben. Out of embarrassment, he mumbled the answer. Mrs. Williamson, thinking he had said “9,” replied that for Ben to score 9 out of 30 was a wonderful improvement. The student behind Ben then yelled out, “Not nine! … He got none … right.” Ben said he wanted to drop through the floor.
At the same time, Ben’s mother, Sonya, faced obstacles of her own. She was one of 24 children, had only a third-grade education, and could not read. She was married at age 13, was divorced, had two sons, and was raising them in the ghettos of Detroit. Nonetheless, she was fiercely self-reliant and had a firm belief that God would help her and her sons if they did their part.
One day a turning point came in her life and that of her sons. It dawned on her that successful people for whom she cleaned homes had libraries—they read. After work she went home and turned off the television that Ben and his brother were watching. She said in essence: You boys are watching too much television. From now on you can watch three programs a week. In your free time you will go to the library—read two books a week and give me a report.
The boys were shocked. Ben said he had never read a book in his entire life except when required to do so at school. They protested, they complained, they argued, but it was to no avail. Then Ben reflected, “She laid down the law. I didn’t like the rule, but her determination to see us improve changed the course of my life.”
And what a change it made. By the seventh grade he was at the top of his class. He went on to attend Yale University on a scholarship, then Johns Hopkins medical school, where at age 33 he became its chief of pediatric neurosurgery and a world-renowned surgeon. How was that possible? Largely because of a mother who, without many of the advantages of life, magnified her calling as a parent.1

Chieko smoothed her soft, white dress. She was the angel in the Christmas Nativity play, and the show was about to start.
Chieko didn’t know much about Christmas or Jesus. Her family had come to Hawaii from Japan, and they were Buddhist. But her father’s boss had asked her to be in the play, and she was excited to be a part of it. She worked hard to learn the words.
“Fear not,” Chieko said as she stood on the stage. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” She loved being in this play.
A few years later, Chieko met some missionaries. They were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Would you like to come to church to learn more about Jesus Christ?” they asked.
Chieko remembered her part in the Christmas play. Who is Jesus? she thought. She wanted to learn more.
When she got home, Chieko asked her parents if she could go to church with the missionaries. “I don’t see why not,” Mama said. “As long as you still come to the Buddhist temple with us.”
At church, Chieko learned new songs and made new friends. In Sunday School, she learned that Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Because of Him, she could repent and live with God again someday. Chieko felt something special inside. She knew Jesus was real.
Years passed. Each week, Chieko went to the Buddhist temple with her family. And each Sunday, she went to church.
When she was 15, Chieko wanted to be baptized. She was a little scared to ask her parents. But they supported her. “We know you can be a good daughter and a good Christian too,” Papa said. Chieko was so happy!
As she grew up, Chieko kept following Jesus. Sometimes people were unkind to her because she was Japanese. But Chieko didn’t let that stop her. She treated everyone with kindness.
When she was 63, Chieko was called to serve as part of the Relief Society General Presidency. She visited Church members around the world. She shared the Savior’s love.
Chieko also spoke in general conference. “Let us come unto Christ,” she said. “Let us rejoice in Him, the giver of all good things.”*

The two eagles gulped altitude with their broad, golden wings until the cliff line was far below them. Then they closed their wings and dropped out of the sky, spinning downward at a wind-warping speed of almost 200 miles per hour. Just as the juniper and sagebrush rushed up to crush them, they spun the world on end with a flick of their seven-foot wings and shot upward again. Spiraling up on a thermal, they banked away from each other and were soon a valley apart. Then, pivoting in midair, they rushed together like two warring biplanes, their wingbeats cracking echoes off the cliff face. Just inches short of disaster they casually palmed the air aside and brushed feathers as they blasted past each other. They flashed together again, flipping on their backs and displaying their talons in mock combat. They soared and dived, playing the wind like a violin, spinning gravity like a yo-yo. One moment they were sailing ships, running with the breeze or tacking against it. The next they were jet fighters, dive-bombing their shadows. They were more free in their ocean of air than any fish in water or any man on land.
But one man on the land watched them—with his eyes hardly comprehending, with his camera clicking like a telegraph, and long afterward with a notebook and pencil, remembering. Kent Keller, of Orem, Utah, had seen golden eagle courtship flights before, but like any reasonable person, he could only fully believe it when he was seeing it.

Sandy was a Primary child who showed that she could be a missionary too. When she was five years old, she invited her best friend, Craig, to go to church with her on Sunday. Craig wanted to go with Sandy and was excited to ask his mother. But Craig’s mother had other plans, and she said no. When Craig asked his mother the next week if he could go to church, she said no again. Because Sandy was a good missionary, she asked Craig a third time to go to church with her family. Craig got up early on Sunday morning and put on his best clothes. Then he woke up his mother and asked if he could go to church with Sandy. When she said no for the third time, Craig started to cry. Craig’s mother decided that if he wanted to go so badly, maybe she should go too. Craig and his mother went to church that day with Sandy and her family. That evening they began learning about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from the full-time missionaries, and soon they were baptized.
More than 20 years later, when Craig tells this story, he likes to count all the people who are members of the Church because of five-year-old Sandy, who invited a friend to church. He can count more than 100 people. Craig says, “I don’t know how many others Sandy invited to church. … I do know that I owe her more than I can say” (Friend, Oct. 1998, 36–37).

The words from Jacob 5:62, “Wherefore let us go to and labor with our might” described Bishop Musaka’s efforts as well. He drove to the Church on the weekends, rolled up his sleeves and labored diligently. He knew his members, understood their needs, and worked alongside them. As the bishop is also president of the priests quorum, he made sure that the priests were not left behind, and he invited them to work.

Brother Bonabol was among those who took heed of the bishop’s call. He took the responsibility to ensure there was food enough to provide for the members. He saw it as his priesthood duty, and he fulfilled it with honor.

Sister Omondi used to exercise every morning, running from her home to Uthiru. Then she thought there was something more she could do. She contacted Brother Vidonyi, who informed her there was work to be done in the shamba. That is how her morning run was alternated with work at the shamba.

Ward members who previously worked there had little training in planting, so Sister Omondi taught them how to dig and plough. She explained her experience this way: “I doubted if the groundnuts (peanuts) would grow, but they did and despite growing the potatoes in the wrong format, they caught root.” Sister Omondi’s main responsibility was to water the plants and she learned her duty and acted in her appointed office with strict obedience.

As much as it was a learning opportunity for Brother Omondi, he also taught others. The soil at the church was not foreign to him and he understood what would flourish best in the shamba.

Sister Mahindi was concerned about her daughter’s illness but she trusted that she could take her mind off of that. She felt that by busily working at the shamba, things would get better—and they did. She gained comfort and peace as her daughter recovered.

Bishop Mukasa made it possible for the members to irrigate the plants. He made sure there were enough pipes to use as they still waited for the water sprinklers. He described, “As the plants need water to be nourished, the members also need nourishment from the holy scriptures.” The plants couldn’t go a day without water, just as members shouldn’t go a day without studying their scriptures.

Missionaries also managed to bring investigators to come work in the shamba. What a privilege those investigators were given to receive the restored gospel at the same time they received food from the garden in which they had worked.

Finally, the day came when the rewards were quite visible and abundant. The Mountain View Ward members’ hard work proved itself. There was an abundance of food, ranging from bananas to mboga to beans and they are about to harvest the maize. It was clear that the members’ aim wasn’t for instant gratification. They understood that in all harvests, some blessings don’t come until later, so they chose to be patient with the sweet potatoes and cassava.

As I worked in the shamba and saw it progress, I noted the change in myself. If the plant tamed by the Master came out as He desired, can I also involve the Lord and allow Him to guide me to reach my potential and live within my privileges? My lesson from the shamba is a resounding, “Yes!”

President Kimball qualifies as a friend of the Savior. When he was in the hospital ready to undergo open-heart surgery a few years ago, he was being wheeled down the hall and into the operating room by a young orderly. The young man accidentally smashed his finger between the metal door frame and the metal frame of the bed on which lay the already sedated prophet. When this mishap occurred, the young man, in pain, used an unfortunate expression in which he took in vain the name of the Savior. The prophet stirred, opened his eyes, and gently rebuked the orderly, saying, “Young man, don’t say that; He’s my best friend!”

Beads of sweat trickled down Tad’s face as he dragged the lawn mower’s grass catcher through the gate into the alley. All Tad could think of was a drink of cold water on this hot Saturday. As he opened the metal garbage can to dump the grass clippings, he saw a magazine lying at the bottom.
Tad reached down to pick it up, and as he pulled it out, his arm brushed against the hot metal edge of the can. Ouch! He straightened up and looked at the magazine in his hand. On the cover was a smiling woman who was immodestly dressed.
Tad remembered Dad warning him about magazines with this kind of picture. Someone must have dropped the magazine in the trash can as he or she walked through the alley.
“Tad, would you like something to drink?” Mom called from the back porch.
Tad’s heart suddenly sped up. He knew he should leave the magazine in the trash, but he wasn’t ready to let it go.
“I’ll be right there, Mom,” Tad yelled back. He quickly rolled up the magazine and stuffed one end into the top of his jeans and pulled his shirt over it. He dumped the grass clippings and walked back through the gate. Mom handed him a glass of lemonade.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
“Thank you for mowing the lawn,” Mom replied. “You need to come inside now. Your face looks flushed from the heat.” She turned and walked back to the house.
Tad knew that his face was probably red from the fear of being caught. As he was putting his empty glass in the kitchen, Dad suddenly walked in. Tad jumped.
“Hey, Tad! Got the yard done?” Dad asked.
“Yep.”
“I could use your help fixing the car right now,” Dad said. “How about it?”
“Sure,” Tad said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thanks,” Dad said and walked out the door.
“Whew! That was close,” Tad thought. He hurried to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He pulled out the magazine. His hands trembled as he looked for a place to hide it. Tad shared the bedroom with his younger brother Alex, and he didn’t want him to find the magazine. Tad pulled a chair over to the closet. Climbing up and looking at the highest shelf, he spied an empty cardboard tube that used to hold his telescope. He slid the magazine into the tube, then pushed it toward the back of the shelf. A feeling started gnawing at him that if he needed to be sneaky he was doing something he shouldn’t. Tad pushed the feeling away and went outside to help Dad.
The rest of the day was so busy that Tad had to ignore the magazine. He was frustrated, and he felt confused too. On Sunday, as he got ready for church, he grew more and more uncomfortable. He had a dark feeling that he couldn’t shake.
“Why did I keep it?” he thought. “Why didn’t I just leave it where it was?”
In Primary, Tad’s class talked about choosing the right and, for the boys, preparing for the priesthood. Tad was deep in thought on the way home. He decided that on Monday after school he would burn the magazine. He felt better already.
When Tad got home from school on Monday, he hurried to his room. “The sooner I get this done, the better!” he thought. But as he turned the corner he almost tripped over a stack of books on the floor. A strong, fresh smell of paint caught his attention.
Tad peeked into his room and saw Mom sitting on his bed. Painting supplies were scattered across a big cloth on the floor. When Mom looked at Tad, he knew she had found the filthy magazine.
Tad’s heart started pumping faster. “What are you doing to my room?” he asked.
“I wanted to start painting it, and I had a strong feeling that I should start in the closet first,” Mom said. She motioned for Tad to sit by her. She put her arm around him and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The Holy Ghost wanted me to find what you had hidden in your closet.”
Tad hung his head. He was afraid of what his mother must think of him. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Where did you get it?” Mom asked sternly.
“It was in the garbage can in the alley,” he said. “Saturday afternoon.”
“Did you look at it?”
“No, Mom, I didn’t. On Sunday, well, it just didn’t feel right. I decided to burn it after school today.”
“Oh, Tad, I’m so glad to hear that!” Mom pulled him to her in a close hug. “I’ve been so worried about you all day. Heavenly Father was worried about you too. He didn’t want you to look at that pornography because it would have put bad images in your mind.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Tad said. He felt so ashamed.
“I can see you are, Tad. I’ve been thinking all day about the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost and the voice of warning He can be.”
Tad was glad his mother had listened. He resolved that next time he would listen too.
That night as Tad knelt by his bed, the smell of paint still hung in the air. He saw how good his closet looked without the scuff marks, smudges, and fingerprints. Even though the filthy magazine was in his closet for only a weekend, those two days had felt like the longest, yuckiest days of his life. As Tad began his prayer, he knew the first thing he would thank Heavenly Father for was his mom.

This is Kaylee and Kyle. They’re twins. They’re getting baptized tomorrow. Grandma has come to visit.
Will you sit on the porch with me?
You seem worried. What’s the matter?
I’m nervous about getting baptized. What if I can’t breathe, or Dad drops me?
I was afraid to tell anyone because they’d laugh.
It’s OK to be nervous. I—
Are you telling stories without me?
Come sit with us! We’re talking about your baptisms tomorrow.
I had baptism jitters too. So my dad gave me a blessing.
After that, I felt calm. I knew being baptized was a good choice.
Do you think Dad would give me a blessing?
And me? I’m nervous too, but I thought everyone would laugh if I told.
You two are alike! Why don’t you ask right now?
Feeling better now?
Yes! I know everything will be OK.
Me too. But now I can’t sleep ’cause I’m too excited!

Kim could feel her face turning red and the tears pushing. Biting her lip hard, she forbade the tears to come.
“Practices,” Sister Tibler was saying to Corrie, “will begin next Saturday at nine o’clock. See you there!”
“Wow!” Corrie exclaimed as the Laurel adviser left. “This sounds so fun. Imagine me the lead in the stake play.”
“That’s neat!” Kim managed to say, but felt as if she would choke on the words.
“I’ve never been in a …” Corrie chattered on and on as they walked home, completely oblivious to Kim’s feelings. Kim nodded, agreed, smiled, but inside the hurt surged and grew until she could barely hold it in. It was the best performance she’d ever given—and the most painful. Finally they reached Corrie’s house.
“Want to come in?” Corrie asked.
“No, I’d better get home and help Mom with dinner.”
“Hurry home to help? You’re nuts. Stay here till it’s ready and then go. I’ve got a great new record we can listen to.”
“No. I’d better go,” Kim answered.
“See you tomorrow then,” Corrie called as she disappeared inside. “But don’t forget, I offered you a way out of work!”
Kim hurried up the street. The rest of the family would already be home, but maybe she could slip in with no one noticing. Quietly she opened the door, tiptoed into the family room, and headed for the stairs.
“Hey, Kim,” her sister, Janice, called. “Did Sister Tibler give you that part you wanted in the stake play?”
“No,” Kim answered, the word swelling in her throat. “She gave it to Corrie.”
“Figures.” Janice said. “Maybe if you went inactive for a while they’d let you do something fun.” Janice laughed, but the words broke Kim’s hold on the tears. Running down the stairs, she felt her way to her room, threw herself on the bed, and let the tears fall.
“I needed that part!” Kim whispered. “And I could do a better job.” Her sobs exploded in her throat. “Corrie doesn’t need it! It couldn’t mean as much to her. Why? Why? Why? It isn’t fair.”
“Kim?” her mother called softly through the door. “Can I come in?”
Kim sat up, grabbed a tissue, and tried to wipe away the evidence, but she knew even without looking that her eyes were too red to fool anyone.
“I guess so,” Kim answered.
The door opened and Mrs. Harper, a small lively woman, entered. “Janice said something was wrong.”
Kim kept her head turned away from her mother. “Just thinking.”
“Janice also told me what happened.”
“Janice talks too much.”
“Can I help?”
Suddenly the pain and bafflement came, pouring out in words. “Oh, Mom. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but sometimes I just don’t understand. I’ve gone to church all my life. I try to be good. I do everything I’m asked to do, which is always the yuck and the work; call all the Laurels, wash a thousand stacks of slimy dishes at the high priests banquet, tend Mrs. Smith’s bratty, messy kids because she’s sick. But no one ever notices me. Every week I’m in my meetings. No one says a word. Corrie comes once a year and there’re trumpets and red carpet and hugs and kisses and,” Kim raised her voice in mock imitation, “Oh, we’re so very, very, very, very, very glad and happy and overjoyed and delighted to have you here, Corrie!”
Kim wiped once more at her eyes. The pressure had eased and the tears had slowed. “I know I shouldn’t feel like this. I know they’re just trying to help Corrie become active, but Mom, no one ever tells me they’re glad to see me. There’s never red carpet or trumpets for me. And now …” The tears started again despite all her efforts to hold them in. “Now they’ve given her the lead in the stake play. I needed that part. You know how Mr. Thornley told us that if I could just be in a couple more plays he thought I’d be able to get that drama scholarship.”
Mrs. Harper sat next to Kim and hugged her close. “I don’t know what to say. I know how you feel.”
“Oh, Mom, I even feel bad that I feel bad!” Kim tried to laugh. “I feel guilty. I should be happy that Corrie is beginning to come out to church.”
“And maybe that’s your answer,” Mrs. Harper said.
“Answer?”
“Not every girl your age would even feel guilty. That shows a great deal of maturity. Maybe the blessings of doing what’s right—washing dishes and tending kids and being active—aren’t material blessings, aren’t parts in plays. Think about it awhile.” She hugged her daughter again. “I don’t mean to diminish your pain. It’s there. I know it, but you’ve kept it private and you didn’t hurt Corrie. I’m proud of you.”
Kim smiled—barely.
“Come on now, let’s get dinner and then if you want, we can talk about it more later.”
Kim wiped at her eyes one more time and put on a smile. It was one of the best stage faces she’d ever created.
“That’s better,” Mrs. Harper said. “Now let’s get dinner.”
The pressurized feeling was gone, but all afternoon the thoughts and emotions jostled inside her. It really wasn’t fair. No amount of reasoning or logic could bring her to any other conclusion. But what had her mother meant? What other blessings were there?
Dinner was eaten, cleaned away, the home evening lesson was over, and Kim was writing in her journal when the telephone rang.
“Kim,” Mrs. Harper called, “Sister Tibler’s on the phone for you.”
Kim wished she could ask her Mom to say she wasn’t there, but it would be easier to get her to sprout wings and fly.
“I’m coming,” she called back.
Kim took the phone but her mother didn’t leave.
“What is it?” she asked as Kim hung up. “She sounded upset.”
“She was. Lara’s father had a heart attack this afternoon. He died about an hour ago.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Harper whispered.
“They don’t have any relatives around, and Lara’s mom is taking it pretty hard.”
“And Lara’s an only child, isn’t she?”
“Yes. That’s why Sister Tibler thought we ought to go over and keep her company. See if we can help.”
“I’ve got some chocolate chip cookies in the freezer. Take those over and see if there’s anything I can do to …”
Kim smiled, then chuckled.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Harper asked.
Kim hugged her mom. “Nothing. It’s just you.”
“I only wanted to …”
“I know,” Kim interrupted. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. As a matter of fact you’re pretty special. Will you get the cookies while I put on my shoes? Sister Tibler said she’d be right over.”
Kim barely had her shoes on when Sister Tibler honked. She opened the door to find it was dusk and raining. “Give Lara these,” Mrs. Harper said, handing Kim the cookies. “But most of all give her yourself.”
Kim pulled her coat up over her head and ran to the car. As she settled into the seat she became acutely aware of the ping ping of rain on the roof and the apprehension rolling and swelling in her stomach. Everything had happened so fast she hadn’t had time to think before now. What should she say? What should she do? Self-consciousness and helplessness settled heavily on her thoughts.
“Before we go,” Sister Tibler suggested, “I think maybe we ought to say a word of prayer. If you don’t mind, I’ll say it.”
They bowed their heads and Kim tried hard to listen, but the dripping rain and the barrage of feelings kept distracting her.
“Help us know how to convey our love and how to comfort … ,” Sister Tibler was saying.
Ping. Splash. Ping. The rhythm accelerated and with it Kim’s heartbeat.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” Kim whispered.
Exchanging only a few comments, they drove, parked, got out of the car, and ran through the rain to the house. Lara answered the door.
“Hi, Lara,” Sister Tibler said, her voice such a contrast to the cold rainy night. “We heard what happened.”
Quietly, without words, Lara stepped back to let them in, her eyes red and swollen. Self-consciously Kim handed her the cookies and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. If I only had a script, she thought, as her own eyes began to swim. Then she did the only thing she could do. She hugged Lara tight. After that the words came.
Lara’s mom was still at the hospital and the bishop was with her, but Lara was alone. She needed them. She talked about her feelings and fears and reminisced while Kim and Sister Tibler listened. They talked about the gospel and the comfort it was. They even laughed a little and talked some more until Lara’s mother finally came home.
“We’ll be going now,” Sister Tibler said.
“Thanks for coming.” Lara squeezed Kim’s hand. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”
Outside the dusk had turned to darkness and the rain had stopped falling, leaving the earth soggy and the air misty. Kim felt a strange sensation of cold trying to penetrate her skin while warmth pushed and pulsed from her heart. Silently Kim and Sister Tibler drove through the wet streets, neither one wishing to interrupt the special feeling with words.
“Thanks for going with me,” Sister Tibler finally said, as they drove in Kim’s driveway. “I called all of the other girls to see if any of them wanted to go, but they all had some excuse. Maybe it was for the best. They wouldn’t have been able to comfort Lara like you did.”
“It was a good experience. Thanks.” Kim jumped from the car before Sister Tibler could say more. Dodging the puddles she ran to the house. Mrs. Harper was waiting in the family room.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Really good. I was surprised. At first—riding over—I was so scared. But when we got there, we just started to talk about what Lara was feeling and about the promises of the gospel. It was so special. I didn’t do anything. Lara just needed a listening ear.”
Mrs. Harper hugged her daughter. “You gave her yourself.”
“I just listened.”
“That’s what I mean. You gave her your love.” Mrs. Harper hesitated.
“Come on, Mom,” Kim laughed. “After 17 years I know when a sermon is coming. Lay it on me!”
“I don’t mean to sermonize. I wanted to give it time so you could discover it on your own. It’s what I was talking about this afternoon.”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Kim responded, putting her hand to her head melodramatically and swooning. “The suspense will kill me.”
“All right, Ophelia, you asked for it.” Mrs. Harper suddenly grew serious. “Remember this afternoon when I told you that plays and such aren’t the blessings of doing what’s right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the blessings are things we often don’t even recognize—things like faith, maturity, love, compassion, wisdom, and understanding. They may not get you a scholarship, but they last a lot longer.”
A warm feeling of affirmation and assurance spread through Kim. Then the glimmer returned to her eyes. “Hey, Mom, you ought to write to the Prodigal Son’s brother. He needs tonight’s sermon.”
“You nut!” Mrs. Harper pinched playfully at Kim’s cheek. “If you’re going to make fun of me you’d better get to bed.”
“Oh, I’m not making fun. In heaven I asked for a mother who was also a preacher,” Kim laughed. Inside she felt the joy of a new understanding. There would be other plays and other parts, maybe a drama scholarship and maybe not. But there was only one life and a person had to gain from it as much as possible, even if that meant tending Sister Smith’s kids.

Fast forward a decade. I was married and had three children when I got ahold of the family candle time binder. I could hardly contain my excitement to recreate the sacred and sweet memories of my childhood. However, the first night of candle time was a disaster. Pillow fights, scuffles over personal space, and bickering among my children resulted in the candle falling over and spilling melted wax on our carpet. This wasn’t how I remembered candle time!
My husband and I reflected on our family situation and talked about ways to help my childhood tradition become our family’s tradition. We learned that a family tradition must be realistic, unique, flexible, and viewed as an opportunity rather than an obligation. Identifying the purpose behind the practice increased our potential for peace and joy. Reframing my view of candle time and letting go of a set ideal helped me claim joy rather than guilt. I now look forward to our candle time, and my children love it as well.

Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Illustrations by Dilleen Marsh
Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they shone.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”