Gospel Story Finder

In the heart of England, a town with cobblestone streets, streetlamps, and centuries-old churches, was ready for the 2019 Christmas season. Warwick resembled the perfect Christmas card with wreaths, lights, and a larger-than-life Christmas tree in the centre of town. While it is best known for its castle, where in years past it was frequented by queens, princes, dukes, duchesses and other notables, most locals are not aware of a quiet miracle that took place at Christmastime not so long ago.
In an unassuming chapel near Town Square, a faithful group of Christians from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gather each Sunday to worship together and partake of the holy sacrament. These followers of Christ pattern their lives after His teachings and strive to give of themselves and serve others.
At Christmastime, tradition requires a choir to sing, and all members of the small congregation were welcome to join and prepare to sing at this special time of year. Singing experience wasn’t required—just a willing heart and voice. Even the full-time missionaries were recruited to increase numbers and achieve a proper balance between men and women. The choir director chose a simple two-part melody with a piano accompaniment, which shared a thoughtful message of the first Christmas night.
Many members of the choir had not performed before and each was placed next to a more experienced member, to better hear how their part was sung. The choir members rehearsed together for weeks before Christmas.
On the Sunday that the choir was to sing, a young man named Tom Brannan was visiting the sacrament service with his father and happened to arrive early, when choir members were holding a final run through before singing in Church that day. Tom was invited to sing with them, and he willingly joined in. He had a nice voice, picked up the men’s part quickly and added a measure of support to the men’s section.
While waiting for the pianist to arrive, the men and women of the choir sang through their parts, together and separately. With just a few minutes to go before the service was to begin, word came that the choir accompanist was unexpectedly delayed; she was not likely to make it in time for the performance. It would be impossible for this humble group to sing without a piano. Disappointment filled the room as the choir members soon realised that they may not be singing in church that day; something they had looked forward to for some time.
As thoughts were aired, Tom came forward and said, “I don’t read music, but I play by ear, and I could try to play a few chords.” He then sat down at the piano, composed an accompaniment and a miracle was born. Tom played beautifully, the piano framing the melody. The choir director brought in the women first, and next the men—all while the piano carried the song forward.
Tears flowed freely as the words of the song filled the hearts and souls of those present. Tom’s unexpected offering brought a spirit of unity and strength. Imperfection was made perfect in that moment as the story of the first Christmas unfolded through music.
The experience sunk deep. It was a reminder that when we give of ourselves, miracles can happen. That is the true gift from God, offering our best, and being made whole through His Son, Jesus Christ.

Allie was so happy that she felt bouncy!
She got in the car to ride home.
“Today was great!” she told Mom. “We drew pictures. And I met a new teacher. Her name is Miss Gregg. Now I have two teachers!”
Allie had been in kindergarten for three weeks. She loved everything. Activities. Projects. Lunchtime with friends. Her teacher, Mrs. Coleman. And now she had another teacher, Miss Gregg. It was perfect!
“Wait,” Mom said. “You aren’t going to have two teachers. Just one. Miss Gregg is your new teacher. That’s why you went to her class today.”
Allie frowned. “What?” Her bouncy feeling popped like a balloon.
“Mrs. Coleman’s class was too big,” Mom said. “The school chose you for a new class.”
Allie thought about her friends in Mrs. Coleman’s class. “I don’t think the class was too big.”
“You’ll have fun in your new class,” Mom said.
But Allie didn’t want a new class. She would miss Mrs. Coleman and her new friend Caitlin. This morning school was perfect. Now it was ruined.
At bedtime Allie kneeled to pray.
“Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father to help you in your new class?” Mom said.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Allie said, “please help me have fun at school.” She started to feel a little better. But she was still nervous.
The next morning more worries filled her head. Will I like my new class? Will I see my friends? But new thoughts came too. I can be brave. Heavenly Father will help me.
After school, Allie was happy.
“How was your day?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Allie said. She climbed into the car. “Miss Gregg is really nice. I saw Caitlin on the playground. And I got to make a goody bag!”
“That does sound like a good day,” Mom said.
Allie smiled. “Heavenly Father answered my prayer!”

Have you ever been to a restaurant where some of the food items on the menu are unfamiliar? In 2018, my wife and I went to a restaurant in Osaka, Japan. The menu had many options, most of which were unfamiliar and strange to us. One person in our group chose calamari (squid). But I did not like calamari, so I chose something else. Everyone selected something different from the menu. We all enjoyed our meals because we each chose a dish that appealed to us.

You do not need to eat calamari unless you like it. (By the way, after sampling excellent Japanese calamari, I have come to like it.) You can choose to invite others to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ in ways that are comfortable and natural for you, using your own talents and abilities. Over time you may find that the range of things that are comfortable expands.

After my baptism and confirmation, my mother drew me aside and asked, “What do you feel?” I described as best I could the warm feeling of peace, comfort, and happiness I had. Mother explained that what I was feeling was the gift I had just received, the gift of the Holy Ghost. She told me that if I lived worthy of it, I would have that gift with me continually. That was a teaching moment that has lived with me all my life.

All my life, missionary work has been stressed. But I thought, “I’m just a teenager. What can I do?”
I learned what I could do while on a visit to Temple Square with my sister. I wanted to leave and watch my favorite television show, but my sister wanted to stay a little longer. Then a feeling came over me that told me we should stay. While we were sitting on a bench, a young man came over and sat down beside us. The feeling came to me again urging me to talk to him.
What was I supposed to talk about? I looked over and saw that he had a pamphlet on genealogy. I asked him, “Do you understand what you’re reading?”
At first he said yes, then changed his mind. I explained a little about genealogy and started talking about eternal families. He talked about his family in England and started asking questions. He seemed genuinely interested in the answers I gave.
We walked into one of the visitors’ centers. I shared many of my own experiences, and he told me some of his. As we talked, the principles that I had been taught all my life in church suddenly began to have new meaning.
Toward the end of our visit, he asked me if I felt what he felt there on Temple Square. I asked him what he meant, and he said it was the same kind of feeling he had when he went to Jerusalem. He said it was the feeling he had felt that encouraged him to come to Salt Lake City. I told him that I did know what he was feeling.
This experience reminded me of a verse from the Doctrine and Covenants I had learned in seminary. “And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:16).
I felt ready to burst with love and happiness that I could share the message of the gospel. I know that it doesn’t matter how old you are if you want to share the gospel. Opportunities for missionary work are all around, even if you are “just a teenager.”

My Grandmother passed away in 1972 while I was a student at BYU. The night of her funeral I remember lying in bed, reminiscing about Grandma with my cousin who was the same age. We had spent many hours together at Grandma's house and felt so blessed by the precious memories we had of her.

The last day I saw my Grandma's house was the day of her funeral. The house was sold after her death, and I didn't return to see her home until 25 years later. I had shared with our sons many memories about my Grandmother and her house--some of the things I have shared with you. You can imagine my disappointment when I drove past her home to show our boys this cute old house, only to find that the home wasn't anything like I had described to them. Time and lack of care and attention had taken their toll. Drab, brown paint was peeling from the exterior of the house; and it seemed to beg for repairs. Instead of a white picket fence, there was netted wire. Huge, tall weeds had replaced the beautiful rose bushes and flower gardens. The lush, green, well-manicured lawn had died; and the parched earth surrounding her home was strewn with trash, junk, and litter. What I had imagined would be there had vanished. All I had were the memories. With a pit in my stomach I remember wanting to pound on the door and say, "Don't you know that this is my Grandma's house?"

The Relief Society general presidency met with some young women to learn how they feel about making the transition from the Young Women organization into Relief Society. Their comments reflect a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation.
“I’m a little bit scared to go into Relief Society,” said one young woman. “In Young Women, the lessons pertain to what I’m going through. But when I think of Relief Society, I think of older women talking about what concerns older women and maybe not what concerns me.”
One young woman commented: “I think I’ll be entering into a formal situation in which the ladies are quiet and always well behaved. I just hope I’ll be able to belong and have fun with them.”

Eliza felt like she had butterflies in her stomach as she stood outside the school gym. She had spent the last month getting ready to try out for the school volleyball team. And today was finally the tryout!
She took a deep breath as she pushed open the gym door. Don’t be nervous, she told herself. Don’t be nervous!
Eliza might not be the best player, but she’d been practicing every day with her sister. She’d improved a lot!
“Eliza!” her friend Jada called from the other side of the gym. “Want to practice with me?”
They found a volleyball and passed it back and forth to each other. It helped Eliza feel a bit better. I can do this! she thought.
When the coach finally arrived, Eliza and Jada joined the other girls in the center of the gym. The coach welcomed them, and then tryouts began!
First they did some warm-ups. Then they split into teams and practiced hitting the ball to each other. They ended with a game of volleyball. Eliza felt good when she earned her team a point.
Two hours later, Eliza was back home and exhausted. She fell on the couch, ready to rest.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“I think it went OK,” Eliza said. She still felt a little nervous. “There was one girl who was really good. She’ll be on the team for sure!”
“When do you find out if you made it?” Mom asked.
“Tomorrow after school. They’ll have a list in the gym.”
Eliza could hardly wait for tomorrow! After dinner, she went straight to bed. In 19 hours I’ll know if I made the team! She knew it was going to be a long night.
As soon as school was over the next day, Eliza hurried to the gym. There it was! The list of girls who made the team was hanging on the wall. Lots of girls were crowded around it.
Eliza rushed over to the list and read it quickly. Then she read it again and felt her stomach drop. Her name wasn’t there! The girl who was really good made the team. Jada also made the team. A lot of her other friends made it too.
But I wasn’t good enough, she thought.
After going home and telling Mom her news, Eliza hid in her bedroom for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to see anyone.
She had just decided to stay in her room forever when she smelled something. It smelled so good! Eliza tried to focus on the book she was reading, but it was too hard. What was that smell? It was something familiar …
Eliza couldn’t ignore it any longer. She sneaked into the kitchen to investigate.
Key lime pie! That was her favorite dessert!
“Why are we having pie?” Eliza asked her dad.
“It’s not just a pie,” Dad said. “It’s a try pie.”
“What?”
“It’s for you. We’re going to celebrate your tryout.”
Eliza’s stomach dropped. “Didn’t Mom tell you? I didn’t make the team. I failed.”
“Part of learning new things means not always succeeding. That can be scary. But the important thing is you still tried. We think that’s worth celebrating!”
“Really?” Eliza asked.
“Really!” Dad said.
That night, Eliza and her family ate the pie. Eliza piled lots of whipped cream on her slice. It was delicious!
“Thanks for the pie,” Eliza said, with her mouth full.
“You’re welcome,” Mom said. “We’re proud of you for trying something hard!”

Just last week I got a very personal reminder of this truth. Besides my wife and children, my father was my very best friend on this earth. You can see that from childhood to adulthood, he has been my greatest hero—and, apparently, my most important stance and wardrobe advisor. [Two pictures of Matthew Holland with his father, Jeffrey Holland, were shown—one when Matthew was young, the two standing in the same pose, and the other when Matthew was grown, both wearing similar suits.] Losing him leaves an enormous hole for me. For as long as I can remember, he has brought laughter, confidence, and wisdom into my life like no other.

So I wasn’t really prepared the other day when I turned on my phone and realized that I needed to remove his contact from my favorites list. After two weeks of stoic resolve, it all hit me, and I broke. Never again would I get a call and hear that cheery, upbeat voice. Never again would I get a little text-based love note or inside joke or gentle correction about how to be a better man. Never again could I pick up the phone and get that nugget of needed counsel. Raw emotions tumbled out. I was grief-stricken and more than a little unsure of myself and of the world that I would now live in for the rest of my life.

That evening, as I sat brooding in a chair, I felt a repeated impulse: Go and read your Book of Mormon. Finally I retrieved the book and picked up where I had last left off: Alma 58.

As I began to read, I quickly realized that certain passages were speaking directly to me. Though the page was new and unmarked, the following words seemed highlighted to me, as if in bold relief:

We were grieved and also filled with fear. . . .
Therefore we did pour out our souls in prayer to God, that he would strengthen us and deliver us. . . .
Yea, and it came to pass that the Lord our God did visit us with assurances that he would deliver us; yea, insomuch that he did speak peace to our souls, and did grant unto us great faith, and did cause us that we should hope for our deliverance in him.41

Every word was seared into my soul. I dropped to my knees and called upon the Lord. And in Him I found—and continue to find—the strength, peace, and deliverance I was missing that bewildering afternoon. The Book of Mormon was the conduit, but the power was in Christ. We cling to His book to cling to Him!

I cannot promise you that every time you turn to the Book of Mormon you will have an experience exactly like that. Nor can I say that experience has wiped away every tear or sense of loss I may have. But I know this: Whatever you are facing, Jesus Christ is the way. And the Book of Mormon reveals this better than any book on earth.

One day while Elder LeGrand Richards was Presiding Bishop of the Church, he met a young boy carrying a large odd-shaped pumpkin. Bishop Richards asked the boy what he planned to do with his pumpkin.
“I’m going to give it to my bishop as tithing on the crop I have raised all by myself,” the boy replied.
Bishop Richards asked the boy’s name and then visited with him a moment about the importance of tithing. He explained that blessings come to us as we pay our tithing because we are sharing with others.
A few days later as Bishop Richards was leaving the regional storehouse in Salt Lake City to return to his office, he saw an old couple loading their small wagon. They were getting ready to take home the supplies they had just received from the storehouse. Looking closer, Bishop Richards saw the boy’s pumpkin in their wagon. Its huge size and odd shape made it impossible to mistake.
Imagine the boy’s surprise when a short time later he received a letter from Bishop Richards telling him of the joy his pumpkin had brought to this grateful old couple. They now could have something special for their holiday dinner because a young boy had shared his blessings by paying his tithing.

Second: Feasting in the Scriptures
One of the greatest sources of spiritual nourishment for all of us is the scriptures. Here again the Lord counsels us to feast rather than hurriedly rush through some verses to satisfy the requirements of a religion class or merely to complete a goal, like finishing a marathon.
There is strength and renewal in the Lord’s words. President Spencer W. Kimball said:
I find that when I get casual in my relationships with divinity and when it seems that no divine ear is listening and no divine voice is speaking, that I am far, far away. If I immerse myself in the scriptures the distance narrows and the spirituality returns. [TSWK, p. 135]
President Kimball was talking about feasting and nourishment, as was President Ezra Taft Benson when he promised:
There is a power in the book [of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. You will find greater power to resist temptation. You will find the power to avoid deception. You will find the power to stay on the strait and narrow path. . . . When you begin to hunger and thirst after those words, you will find life in greater and greater abundance. ["The Book of Mormon—Keystone of Our Religion," Ensign,November 1986, p. 7]
I hope you have experienced the fulfillment of that promise, as one student who, after spending time on a reading assignment in the Book of Mormon, reported:
This week I have four tests and two papers, and I have been neglecting my spirituality. This section [of reading] uplifted me a lot at a time I really needed it. I still have the same amount of work to do, but I feel relaxed and at peace.
That principle was reinforced in our family when, over a number of years, my wife suffered serious health problems that left her completely exhausted. The only way she could find the strength to continue on each day was to drink from the scriptures for 30 minutes to an hour every morning. Because she was so exhausted, she doubted that she would remember very many details of what she had read, but regardless of what she could remember mentally, she felt strength come to her to sustain her physically and emotionally throughout the day.
But the nourishment of the scriptures also feeds our minds, because the Lord has promised that the Holy Ghost would bring all things to our remembrance that he has said unto us (see John 14:26). Continuing with the story about my wife, after a number of years her strength began to return, and she was called to teach Sunday School, a position in which she still serves. To her delight, she experienced a fulfillment of the Lord’s promise, as the Holy Ghost does indeed bring to her remembrance scriptures that she read during that very difficult time when she didn’t think that she would remember anything at all. But the promise is a two-edged sword, for if we never read his words in the first place, there is nothing for us to remember.

The spicy scent of spaghetti sauce wafted through the air as Joseph and his family sat down for Sunday dinner. Dad said the prayer, and the food started its way around the table.
“Let’s play Movie Quotes!” Joseph declared.
Movie Quotes was his favorite game to play around the dinner table. His mom, dad, and two sisters, Jill and Julia, enjoyed the game too. One person would quote from a movie the family had seen. Then everyone else would try to be the first one to guess which movie the quote was from.
“Perhaps we should play a different game,” Mom said. “Since it’s Sunday, maybe we should play Scripture Quotes.”
“What’s that?” Joseph asked.
“I’ll think of a quote from the scriptures, and all of you try to guess who said it,” Mom said.
“That sounds boring,” Joseph said. “Besides, I don’t know any quotes from the scriptures.”
“I’ll go first!” Jill said. “‘I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded.’”
Julia’s hand shot up. “Nephi said that!”
“You guessed it, Julia. Now it’s your turn to think of one,” Jill said.
“Let me see. … All right, guess this one if you can: ‘This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!’”
This time Dad raised his hand. “That’s what Heavenly Father said to Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove.”
“That’s right,” Julia said. “Way to go, Dad!”
Joseph slowly began to sit up a little straighter in his chair.
“I want to come up with a really hard one,” Dad said. “How about this: ‘Let my people go.’”
Joseph’s hand popped up. “Hey, Moses said that. That was easy.”
“That’s right. Now you think of one,” Dad said.
Joseph rested his chin on his hand. Then a smile swept across his face as he remembered his Primary lesson from earlier that day. Sister Morris had talked about the time Jesus’s disciples had tried to keep some children from approaching Him. “‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’” Joseph said.
Once again Julia raised her hand. “Jesus said that.”
“You guessed it!”
They played until everyone had finished dinner.
Later that night, as Mom tucked Joseph into bed, he said, “I guess that game wasn’t so bad after all.”
“You came up with a really good quote today,” Mom said.
“Thanks. Can we play it again next Sunday?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said. She gave him a hug and a kiss and left his room.
Joseph snuggled into his covers, smiling. A new Sunday tradition had just begun.

Katy skipped along the sidewalk toward the big oak tree at the corner of her street. The old tree made Nana’s house easy to find.
As usual, Nana was sitting in her living room, quietly braiding and sewing strips of bright cloth. The polished wooden floors of Nana’s house were decorated with beautiful rugs that Nana made herself.
“Hello, honey,” Nana said as Katy came in. Soon they were talking about what Nana called the “old days.” They looked at black-and-white photos together. Katy especially liked seeing the clothes and hairstyles her relatives wore when they were younger.
“Things were very different then,” Nana said with a sigh. “You know, we didn’t have cars or TV or cell phones.”
Katy couldn’t even imagine having to walk everywhere. “What did you do for fun, Nana?” Katy asked.
“We loved to sing together. We would gather around the piano in the evening and sing our favorite songs. Sometimes we’d sing ourselves hoarse! It was such a fun time.”
Nana looked off into the yard like she could rewind the years and watch them over again.
Katy sat next to the coiled rug that spilled off of Nana’s lap. She traced the careful stitches with her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nana said slowly, “how would you like to make your very own braided rug?”
Katy jumped up and clapped her hands.
“I would love to, Nana! Can we start today?”
Nana chuckled. “Well, there’s something you need to do first. Go home and gather up old clothes that we can cut into strips.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward Katy, her voice quiet as if she were sharing a secret.
“That’s what makes the rug special. Because it’s made of clothes, the rug can tell the story of your life. Each braid is like a chapter in a book about you. Looking at the fabric of an old dress can help you remember the places you wore it and what you did when you had it on.”
Katy’s eyes widened. She pointed to the rug Nana was braiding.
“Do you remember all about the cloth in this rug?”
Nana smiled. “You bet I do! This red piece is from the dress I wore when you were born. I remember pressing my nose to the glass window in the nursery to get a closer look at you. You were still all pink and wrinkly.”
Katy and Nana laughed together as Nana continued to tell Katy stories from the rug. As soon as Katy got home that night, she and Mama set aside old clothes that Katy could use.
The next day, Katy took the cloth to Nana’s house. Nana showed Katy how to cut the fabric into long strips, braid them, and sew the braids together.
Every day after school, Katy went to work on the rug at Nana’s house.
Little by little, the rug grew. As the days went by, Katy learned many of Nana’s stories by heart. Some days she was the one who told lots of stories to Nana.
One day, after adding a blue section to the rug that used to be a favorite pair of jeans, Katy rubbed the palm of her hand against the colorful braids.
“Don’t you think that rug is about done?” Nana asked, looking up from her work.
“Not yet,” Katy said with a smile. She never wanted this time with Nana to end.

I came upon this campus in the early '70s with much persuasion by loving parents who felt their son was going wayward and heading towards the wrong direction. I wasn't overly excited about coming, but I told my parents I would to please them. There wasn't much time to apply since school was starting in a few weeks. In retrospect, I was very blessed to even get into CCH. I already had three siblings attending this university and I would be the fourth child to enter. However, I did have a slight problem, my hair was too long. It was by today's standards very unacceptable. My brother, Jay, took the buzzer gave me a decent haircut.

On the first day of registration, all students have to go through a standards line where our hair and clothes were checked by a university representative. I don't think today we have a standards check during registration, but in our days the dress and grooming standards were enforced on the first day of registration. When this school staff rep took a look at my hair which had already been cut, he told me it was too long that I'd have to cut it to pass registration. I gave him a long sad story of what it took for me to get here and how I just cut my hair and it was this long. Basically I asked him to give me a break. He shook his head and told me, "I'm so sorry, brother, cut it or no school." My brother took the buzzer again and eventually I made it through registration. I knew then, that someone was about to make some major changes.

Not many children serve in a Church calling before they graduate from Primary. But George N.[space]from Uganda was only five years old when he was called to be the chorister in his branch.
The chorister is the person who stands up in front of everybody during sacrament meeting to lead the singing. It’s an important job!
“I used to be very nervous when I was younger,” George says. But even then he always did his best. He improved every week. Before long he was leading the music confidently.
George enjoys serving in his calling. “I feel good,” he says. “I feel like the Spirit is inside the room.”

“No school today!” came the magic words from the radio.
Remembering last night’s house-shaking blizzard, Dave thought that a holiday from school was a beautiful bonus.
“I wish Dad weren’t out of town,” said Mother, briskly beating pancake batter. “Something always happens when he’s gone.”
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. Dave peered out. He could hardly tell where the road was. It looked like a white river with waves whipped up by the wind.
“Being snowed in isn’t so bad,” he said happily. “Nothing can get through, not even a school bus.”
During breakfast, the radio broadcast several weather-related stories: A forty-mile-an-hour wind had roared all night, blowing three feet of snow into massive drifts. Semitrailers had jackknifed, and cars and buses had slid into ditches. Some snow-plows were still stuck on major highways. “The worst of the storm is over,” the announcer concluded, “but some areas might not be plowed out until tomorrow.”
The phone rang. It was Dave’s best friend, Tim. “Tough about school, huh? Think we can handle it?”
“Maybe if we get together for moral support,” Dave replied.
“Glad to help a buddy out,” Tim said cheerfully. “Be right over.”
Tim lived only two blocks away, but by the time he got to Dave’s house, he was covered with snow. “The Abominable Snowman himself!” he laughed.
“I know a perfect place to build a snow cave-fort,” Dave suggested, pulling on his ski jacket, snow bib, boots, hat, and mittens. He felt as if he was outfitting for a polar expedition.
“Snow’s sticky enough,” agreed Tim.
“Build it where I can see you from the house,” Mother warned. “And be careful.”
“Sure,” the boys said in unison.
Outside, the wind punched them in the face, and snowflakes as thick as feathers swirled around them. Sinking deep into the drifts, they plodded toward the garage, where Dave pointed to a high snowbank.
“It is perfect!” Tim said. The giant snowbank blocked the wind and had plenty of raw material for their cave-fort. They set to work tunneling into the base of the big drift, shoveling out the snow and packing the sides as they dug.
Two houses away their friends Jeff and Brian were piling up snowballs.
“We just have to get our fort done before they start a snowball fight!” Tim exclaimed. They worked all morning, then stopped only for lunch and to change their wet mittens.
“How’s your fort coming along?” Mother asked, dishing up tomato soup and handing them grilled cheese sandwiches.
“It’s the best ever,” bragged Tim. “It’s the biggest and highest—”
“And strongest, I hope,” Mother put in, looking worried.
“We’ll find out in the snowball showdown!” replied Tim, gulping down his soup.
When they went out again, they saw that Jeff and Brian had started to build a fort too. Dave wondered how much ammunition they had stockpiled.
Dave and Tim’s fort was shaping up. They widened the entrance, enlarged the inside, and sloshed water onto the sides to ice them firm. Finally, pushing out a big snow chunk, Dave grunted, “We’re just about done.”
“If you clear the doorway,” said Tim, “I can finish up inside.”
Dave crawled out and started shoveling out the entrance. He looked at the fort looming high above him. It seemed strangely quiet. The wind had died to a whisper. The snow had stopped. Nothing moved. It was like a movie that had stopped, frozen in one frame. He shivered.
Then, without a sound, the snow roof slowly slid inward, collapsing the fort and burying Tim. This can’t be happening! Dave agonized, and he flew at the crumpled white mound with his shovel, flailing away furiously. “Tim! Tim!” he yelled. But there was no sound. “Cave-in!” he shouted to Jeff and Brian, and they came running with shovels. “Tim’s under there!”
Dave’s mother came running out of the house. “I called an ambulance, but nothing can get through. The roads are still blocked!” She frantically started scooping at the snow pile with her bare hands.
Dave’s heart sank. “Please, God,” he murmured desperately, “help Tim.” Shoveling furiously again, he shouted, “Hang on, Tim! We’ll get you out!” Finally, his breath coming in great gasps, Dave stopped shoveling. Looking at the huge pile of snow and at the very little that they had uncovered, a wave of despair swept over him.
Suddenly a story flashed through his mind, one that he’d read long ago. It was about an avalanche, a boy who was buried, and his friend who kept poking a broom handle deep into the drifts until he found him.
Dave tore off his mittens. He wanted to feel with his fingertips. Plunging his arm deep into the snow, he jabbed down in different places, calling, “Tim! We’re coming, Tim!” over and over. Tim had to know that help was on the way, so that he could hold out longer.
I must hurry, Dave told himself. There’s so much snow to cover. Am I reaching deep enough? Again and again he thrust his arms into the snow—reaching, reaching.
Suddenly he thought that he felt something way down deep. Was he imagining it? His arm pushed through the snow again. There was something there! “Dig here!” he yelled.
The diggers scooped out snow with their shovels and then with their hands until they had uncovered Tim’s arm, hanging limp. Quickly they uncovered Tim’s head. His face was ashen, but he opened his eyes and mumbled something. In just minutes he was freed, carried into the house, stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in blankets.
It wasn’t until then that Dave was conscious of his own red, throbbing hands. He soaked them in tepid water, but they hurt for a long time afterward. A small price to pay, he thought.
Meanwhile, everything around him was a blur … people coming, Tim’s mother talking to the doctor on the phone: “He just wants to sleep,” she was saying, her voice shaky. Dave’s thoughts focused again when she told him, “The doctor wants us to question Tim. If he makes sense, he’s probably all right.”
Dave went with her into Tim’s bedroom. Tim’s face was still pale, but he was breathing steadily. His eyes were closed. “Tim?” Dave asked softly.
Tim opened his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, trying to smile. “You saved my life.” His eyes closed again.
Dave swallowed hard. “Tim, did you hear me calling your name?”
Tim shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Not even the yelling?” asked Dave.
Tim’s voice was low. “I just kept thinking, ‘Don’t panic. It uses up more oxygen.’” Then he fell asleep.
He makes sense, all right, Dave thought, relieved.
Tim’s mother turned to Dave. “You’re a hero,” she said, her voice soft with tears.
But Dave knew that he couldn’t take all the credit. It was a miracle. It had to be. Why else would he have remembered that long-ago story? Why else was he able to find Tim in time? God was looking out for us, Dave thought. Miracles are never a one-man show.

My mom and I were at the store one day. I asked if I could use the “self-checkout” line by myself. After I paid my money to the machine, the money dispenser gave me back 40 extra dollars! I heard a comforting voice telling me to be honest, so I turned in the money that didn’t belong to me to a store employee. I got a warm feeling inside telling me I had done the right thing!
Jessica R., age 11, North Carolina, USA

Pam’s work at hospitals and children’s schools has given her a special interest in the handicapped. She is learning sign language and now regularly assists the visitors to Disney World who are hearing impaired.

“I’ve been able to sign for our arts festival and recently at the Ohio and Pennsylvania schools for the deaf. You can’t imagine how excited these kids are when they learn that I am from Disney World and that I can communicate with them in sign language,” Pam said.

In the fall of 2007, I received a call on my phone. The voice was familiar yet I was mistaken as to who it was. "Hello Dad I'm in the emergency room; I've been in an accident." I asked what had happened. He said "I crashed by bike." I found myself getting angry at Andrew for riding his bike when he was supposed to be attending an event at the high school that evening. He said Dad this is Alex, my son on a mission. I spoke with the doctor who explained to us his face was scraped up and he had a severe concussion. The mission President was there in the hospital with him and said he would be taking my son to the mission home for a few days to recover. A few days later I got a call again, this time I recognized the voice, it was Alex again calling at the request of the mission president's wife to let us know he was doing better. He told me he was depressed. Using my social work skills I said, "Why are you depressed?" and he replied dad because there's a lot of work to do here and the president won't let me go tracting because of the way I look. We received photos of Alex. He was skinned up across his forehead, down the side of his face across one ear and had his left eye swollen shut and black and blue. It was wisdom in the mission president not to allow my son to go out and represent the church in his condition. He became a very successful missionary. Two of the students he was privileged to baptize while serving on Iowa State University's campus will join us here next month. I don't tell you this story to boast of my son's cycling abilities, but rather to talk about a young missionary dedicated serving the Lord, similar to the 2,000 young warriors who had all been taught by their mothers to work hard and trust in the Lord.

Service requires unselfishness, sharing, and giving. My wife and I learned a valuable lesson during our time of service in Africa. We were assigned to a district conference in Jinja, Uganda. Early Saturday morning before our meetings began, we took the opportunity to tour a new chapel in the area. As we arrived at the building, we were greeted by a young boy of three to four years of age. He had come to the Church grounds to see what was going on. Struck by his broad smile, Sister Snow reached in her purse and handed him a wrapped piece of hard butterscotch candy. He was delighted.
We spent a few minutes touring the chapel before returning outside. We were met by more than a dozen smiling children who each wanted to meet the new neighborhood candy lady.
Phyllis was heartbroken, as she had given the boy her last piece of candy. She disappointedly gestured to the children there was no more. The small boy who initially greeted us then handed the candy back to Sister Snow, gesturing for her to unwrap it. With a heavy heart, Phyllis did so, fully expecting the boy to pop the butterscotch candy into his mouth in full view of his envious friends.
Instead, to our great surprise, he went to each of his friends, who stuck out their tongues and received one delicious lick of the butterscotch candy. The young boy continued around the circle, occasionally taking his own lick, until the candy was gone.
Now, one can argue the lack of sanitation with this gesture of sharing, but no one can dispute the example set by this young boy. Unselfishness, sharing, and giving are essential to service. This child learned that lesson well.