Gospel Story Finder

There is a woman who suffers with a debilitating, chronic illness that persists despite medical attention, priesthood blessings, and fasting and prayers. Nevertheless, her faith in the power of prayer and the reality of God’s love for her is undiminished. She presses ahead day by day (and sometimes hour by hour) serving as called in the Church and, together with her husband, looking after her young family, smiling as much as she can. Her compassion for others runs deep, refined by her own suffering, and she often loses herself in ministering to others. She continues steadfast, and people feel happy being around her.

In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. Winter came early that year and froze much of his beet crop in the ground. For George and his young son Francis, the harvest was slow and difficult. Meanwhile, an influenza epidemic was raging. The dreaded disease claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
“[On the way] they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: ‘Hi ya, Uncle George,’ ‘Sure sorry, George,’ ‘Tough break, George,’ ‘You’ve got a lot of friends, George.’
“On the last wagon was … freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: ‘That’s all of ‘em, Uncle George.’
“[Brother Goates] turned to Francis and said: ‘I wish it was all of ours.’
“When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. [George] pulled up, stopped the team, … and scanned the field. … There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: ‘That’s all of ‘em, Uncle George!’
“[George] got down off the wagon, picked up a handful of the rich, brown soil he loved so much, and then … a beet top, and he looked for a moment at these symbols of his labor, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Then [he] sat down on a pile of beet tops—this man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
“Then he arose, wiped his eyes, … looked up at the sky, and said: ‘Thanks, Father, for the elders of our ward.’”

Another time, Joseph was again playing ball with some men and young men from town. When the game was finished, Joseph called the men together.
Brethren, hitch up your teams.
The men did just as Joseph asked and drove into the forest to gather wood.
This is the 39th and last wagon.
We did good work today, brother. Would anyone like to pull sticks?
Joseph was strong and good at a game called pulling sticks. He pulled up each opponent, one after another.
When they finished pulling sticks, Joseph called the men and young men around again.
Take these wagons out, and cut the wood for anyone who needs it.
The Saints loved to do what the Prophet asked, even if they were weary from a long day of hard work and play.
Haul ’em out, boys! Let’s do what the Prophet asks.

Dear Mom, Jane wrote.
She paused and tapped her pen against the table. She looked at the fridge, where the newest picture of her and Mom hung. They both had the same chin, the same dark hair, and the same wide smile.
What could she say? Jane wanted to sound happy and strong for Mom, but nothing came to mind. Her heart hurt so much that it was hard to write anything at all.
Jane, Dad, and her siblings had come back from visiting Mom two weeks ago. Mom was in prison, and they had to drive for almost a whole day to see her. Because of the long drive, they didn’t get to see her very often. Mom had been in prison for over a year, and they had only seen her twice.
This time, when Jane had visited, Mom had suggested that they become pen pals. But Jane didn’t want to be pen pals. She just wanted Mom to come home.
Mom’s first letter to Jane had arrived yesterday, written in neat pencil. At the bottom, she had drawn a picture of the two of them having a party together when she got home.
Jane wrote a few lines, then scrunched up the paper. She put her head on the table and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears.
Dad came in with the groceries. “Jane, are you OK?”
Jane shrugged.
Dad sat down and put his arms around her. Jane leaned into his chest.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Until what?”
“How much longer until Mom can come home?”
Dad was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “It’ll probably be at least three more years, Jane.”
Jane thought her heart would explode. Three years! The last year had been so long and hard. How could she live for three more years without Mom?
“Every single day, I wish your mom was here,” Dad said. “It’s really hard with her gone, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded.
“It’s OK to feel sad,” Dad said. “Sometimes it helps me to remind myself of what I’m grateful for.”
Jane sniffed a little. “Like what?”
Dad smiled. “Like how we get to call Mom every week. And we’re able to send her supplies she needs—and letters.” Dad patted the paper pad on the table. “And … ?”
“And …” Jane thought about it. “I have lots of teachers and friends I can talk to. And Ashley’s mom took me to a Mother’s Day activity. And I’ve been learning to be a better friend and help others.”
“Yes, you have,” Dad said. “How about if we say a prayer, and then you can keep thinking about what you want to write?”
Jane folded her arms. She thanked Heavenly Father that she had been able to see Mom and that they had driven home safely. Then she asked Him to help her know what to write.
She sat at the table, thinking and thinking. Then she started writing something she didn’t expect: a list of things she was grateful for. She listed all the things she had talked about with Dad, plus a few more, like her siblings and her neighborhood.
When she finished, Jane drew a picture of herself and Mom playing board games together. Her heart still hurt a little, but she had one thing to look forward to—for the next three years, she would be the best pen pal ever!

Several years ago, Philip Xaxagbe (the Xs are pronounced like Hs) was working in Nigeria, so deeply involved in his job that his family life was withering. He was troubled by drinking. He and his wife had drifted apart, and each was secretly contemplating divorce when she met the missionaries. Philip agreed to listen to them. “It seemed that everything they were teaching me I had heard somewhere before, but I didn’t know where.” He was baptized after a dream convinced him that if he did not accept the gospel, he would eventually be separated permanently from his wife and daughter.
Since returning to Ghana in 1992, he has shared his faith with loved ones and friends and has seen three members of his extended family come into the Church. He currently serves as president of the Christiansborg Branch of the Accra stake. President Xaxagbe credits the gospel with saving his marriage and his spiritual life. “All I am now, I am because of the Church.”

I have always loved the story of the son of King Louis XVI of France because he had an unshakable knowledge of his identity. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men who had dethroned his father, the king. These men knew that if they could destroy him morally, he would not be heir to the throne. For six months they subjected him to every vile thing life had to offer, and yet he never yielded under pressure. This puzzled his captors, and after doing everything they could think of, they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple. He said, “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”12

Ellie D., 13, stands in the ashes of her former home. “I was surprised at how little I missed the things that were gone,” she says. “They’re just things, and you get over missing them.”
Ellie also learned that it’s important to have a quiet place to think. She found one in a small attic loft of the rental house where her family lived after the fire. She hung photos of Church leaders, friends, and family on the wall, and played a guitar donated to her school after the fire. “I learned that quiet places help you think about what’s really important, especially after a tragedy,” she says. “The scripture says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God’ (Psalm 46:10).”
In the ashes, her family found a figurine that belonged to Ellie’s grandmother. “It reminds me that angels are watching over us,” Ellie says.

My father had a unique experience when he was the age of a priest. There were no high schools where he lived, and he wanted an education. He received permission from his father to leave the farm and seek his education elsewhere, but he had to make it on his own. Arriving in Salt Lake City, he heard of an employment position being offered in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He was hired to care for the prophet’s two cows. In our family home evenings we would want Dad to relate experiences about his early life of living in the home of the prophet. We would hear him make reports like this:
Sister Smith instructed my father in his duties, explaining that the cows “were aristocrats, and you must treat them well. You are to keep them so clean and train them so well that if I should ever at any time conclude to move them into the parlor, they would be clean enough to enter.” Dad said he understood milking but not laundering cows.
Before milking each morning and night, they were thoroughly washed and dried with hot water, soap, and towels prepared for that purpose. They were fed the best of hay and milked at exactly the same hour twice a day.
In addition to his duties with the Smith family and their “aristocratic” cows, my father was asked on occasion to do some housework. He would tell us stories like this: “One frosty morning I washed the steps leading to the official residence of the President of the Church. It nearly led to his downfall, for I let the water freeze before drying. Then I had to take boiling water and thaw the ice and take towels to dry the stones. The steps were nearly clean, but my classmates were passing on their way to school before the job was completed. It was a humbling experience.”
By telling these stories, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that my father was a male twin to Cinderella. The Smith family took this poor farm boy from Idaho into their home while he finished high school and attended the University of Utah. They included him in their family activities, around the dinner table, and at family prayer. My father shared with us his witness that the prophet Joseph F. Smith was truly a man of God: “When I kneeled with the prophet, in family prayer, and listened to his earnest supplications for the blessings of the Lord upon his family and their flocks and their herds, I realized that those same humiliating cows were the subject of his blessings, my feet were brought solidly to earth. … Most great men I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Every common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
The lessons learned taught us a great appreciation and love for a prophet of God.

Please ask the Lord if we can be the special witnesses mentioned in the Book of Mormon.
The Lord has told me that if you will rely on the Lord, humble yourselves, and testify of the truth, you may see the plates.
Later that day.
Each man took a turn praying to be shown the plates.
Nothing happened.
I’m the reason the heavens are closed.
Soon the angel Moroni appeared.
Then they heard the voice of God.
These plates are from God. The translation is correct, and I command you to share what you now see and hear.
Later, Joseph finds Martin praying.
I haven’t received a witness from the Lord, but I still want to see the plates. Will you pray with me?
A few days later and with direction from God, Joseph invited eight others, including his father and two of his brothers, to see the plates. They did not see an angel, but they got to hold the plates in their hands.
All eleven witnesses attached their names to statements in the Book of Mormon, known as Testimony of Three Witnesses and Testimony of Eight Witnesses. Though some left the Church for a time, they all bore testimony throughout their lives that they had seen the gold plates. None of the witnesses ever denied what they saw.

• Moscow, Russia, Monday, June 24: The third “Music and the Spoken Word” performance is videotaped during this evening’s Bolshoi Theatre concert before 2,400, seated three-deep in the five circular balcony tiers of this renowned hall. For many, another rich, emotional evening occurs, the same as at all concerts in the former Eastern Bloc lands. Hope and the Spirit of the Lord seem to press everywhere!
The first encore, “Hospodi Pomilui” (meaning “Lord, have mercy on us”), a hymn during which that phrase is repeated seventy-seven times, seems this night to be as a great prayer of national penance in this land that has been seen by many as a symbol of oppression. The choir’s great, emotional pleading of the words powerfully moves the entire audience.
At the dinner of state held after the concert, the vice president of the Russian Republic announces that on May 28, less than a month ago, this largest of the fifteen republics in the Soviet Union has given official recognition to the Church throughout the entire breadth and depth of the republic, which covers three-quarters of the land mass of the Soviet Union and holds approximately 150 million people.
Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve joins the choir entourage, enlarged this day by the hundred or more Utahns joining Brother Jon M. Huntsman in the dedication of a factory in Armenia that will produce high-tech concrete to house homeless Armenians suffering from a 1988 earthquake. In appreciation for the service the Church rendered to quake victims, a plot of land in the city of Yerevan is given to the Church by officials of the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic. Elder Russell M. Nelson and Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve and Elder Hans B. Ringger of the Seventy express gratitude for the gift. The site will be used to construct a multipurpose building containing offices, a Church meetinghouse, and residences for Church volunteer workers helping to train Armenians in home construction.
• St. Petersburg, Russia, Thursday, June 27: How is it possible for the emotional, spiritual, and musical highs to keep on going! Tonight six encores are performed to a cheering, crying audience! For the second time, an audience will not stop clapping until the last choir member has walked offstage, audience and choir members poignantly waving good-bye to each other.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Spiritual! Spiritual! Leningrad is happy again! This is a holiday,” calls out a man in strongly Russian-accented English. The concerts are now over. But a day remains for visiting new Russian friends and tomorrow’s closing fireside of choir music and the testimonies of Russian converts. Elder Nelson tells the choir: “You have been totally successful in all we expected you to do.”

But now, years later, I received a tape recording in the mail and learned the story of the Desmurs’ conversion to the Church.
About a month after my last visit to their home in 1964 Mrs. Desmurs was polishing shoes for the family one Sunday morning and talking with her husband about the gospel. He was totally opposed to the Book of Mormon, as he had been from the beginning. She mused, “I don’t know, but we might just find out some day that the book is true.” At that moment, she suddenly heard my voice speaking to her, bearing testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. At first she felt fear, but that was suddenly replaced by a feeling of great peace and joy. During the next weeks she thought often of her experience and felt the witness of the Spirit.
Years passed; the family moved from their home to an apartment in another part of Versailles. In 1970—six years after my contact with them—two elders knocked on their door. The first thing Mrs. Desmurs told them about was the visits of the sister missionaries years before, and about the spiritual experiences she had had since then. The elders explained to her that it had been the witness of the Holy Ghost. She said she knew that was true, and she wanted to join the Church. But her baptism had to wait for a change of heart in her husband.
One day when their daughter was ill with appendicitis, Mr. Desmurs had gone straight to the hospital from work. Surprised that his wife was not there with the girl, he went home to find her talking with the two elders. In anger he told her she had better concern herself with her daughter before she worried about religion. He tore up the Bible of one of the elders and put them out of the house. Then he took his wife back to the hospital to see their daughter.
The next day Mrs. Desmurs chastised him, saying, “Those missionaries aren’t rich, you know. They come over here at their own expense. You ought at least to pay for that Bible.” So Mr. Desmurs went to the missionary’s address, paid them for the book, and told them he never wanted to see them again.
Yet over the next few months his heart softened, and he allowed his wife to resume her studies; she and the three oldest children were baptized in 1971. He began to attend church, stopped some bad habits, and finally in 1972 followed his family into the waters of baptism. He later contacted the missionary whose Bible he had torn, an elder who had gone home from his mission with few baptisms and one ripped Bible among his souvenirs, and who received this unexpected news with tears of joy.

Mom has been gone for quite a while now. We still miss her, and we think of her a lot. When we feel lonely, we get out the special book and read the little testimonies she left for us. I can just “hear” her saying something about an answer to prayers, or what wonderful blessings we receive. I’m glad we have those special memories.
Dad got each of us a journal so that we can write down all our own little testimonies. I have written a lot about the times I remember with Mom, but I am writing new little testimonies too.

My great-grandfather, Heinrich Friedrich Christian Pieper, was baptized as a single man in his early 20s in Germany in 1895. As a new convert, he learned about the temple and began preparations to receive his ordinances in the house of the Lord. Because there was no temple near him, it was seven years before he could realize his dream. By that time, he was married and was able to be endowed and sealed in 1902. He now lived within one hour of a temple and worked hard to prepare names of ancestors. He and his wife visited the house of the Lord as often as possible to perform vicarious ordinances for loved ones. By 1952 he and his wife had performed more than 20,000 ordinances for others.

As Jeremiah had prophesied, the restored covenant was written deeply in my great-grandfather’s and great-grandmother’s hearts and, as a result, in the lives of me and other descendants. Their temple service provided them strength to endure life’s many challenges and remain faithful to their God.

Some time ago, I received a faith-filled letter from Laurence M. Hilton. May I share with you that letter’s account of surviving personal tragedy with faith, nothing wavering.
In 1892 Thomas and Sarah Hilton, Laurence’s grandparents, went to Samoa, where Thomas was set apart as mission president after their arrival. They brought with them a baby daughter; two sons were born to them while they served there. Tragically, all three died in Samoa, and in 1895 the Hiltons returned from their mission childless.
David O. McKay was a friend of the family and was deeply touched by their loss. In 1921, as part of a world tour of visits to the members of the Church in many nations, Elder McKay, then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, stopped in Samoa. Before leaving on his tour, he had promised the now-widowed Sister Hilton that he would personally visit the graves of her three children. I share with you the letter Elder McKay wrote to her from Samoa:
“Dear Sister Hilton:
“Just as the descending rays of the late afternoon sun touched the tops of the tall coconut trees, Wednesday, May 18th, 1921, a party of five stood with bowed heads in front of the little Fagali‘i Cemetery. … We were there, as you will remember, in response to a promise I made you before I left home.
“The graves and headstones are in a good state of preservation. … I reproduce here a copy I made as I stood … outside the stone wall surrounding the spot.
“Janette Hilton
Bn: Sept. 10, 1891
Died: June 4, 1892
‘Rest, darling Jennie’
“George Emmett Hilton
Bn: Oct. 12, 1894
Died: Oct. 19, 1894
‘Peaceful be thy slumber’
“Thomas Harold Hilton
Bn: Sept. 21, 1892
Died: March 17, 1894
‘Rest on the hillside, rest’
“As I looked at those three little graves, I tried to imagine the scenes through which you passed during your young motherhood here in old Samoa. As I did so, the little headstones became monuments not only to the little babes sleeping beneath them, but also to a mother’s faith and devotion to the eternal principles of truth and life. Your three little ones, Sister Hilton, in silence most eloquent and effective, have continued to carry on your noble missionary work begun nearly 30 years ago, and they will continue as long as there are gentle hands to care for their last earthly resting place.
“By loving hands their dying eyes were closed;
By loving hands their little limbs composed;
By foreign hands their humble graves adorned;
By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.
“Tofa Soifua,
“David O. McKay”
This touching account conveys to the grieving heart “the peace … which passeth all understanding.”

“I had a friend who began to encourage me to disregard my standards, and for a while I listened. I finally decided that enough was enough and I wasn’t going to let her influence me anymore. I prayed for strength and guidance, and because I was again living the way I know I should, I received the guidance I asked for. I eventually stopped hanging out with her, and in the months that have passed, my testimony has grown so much. Who you are friends with definitely makes a difference in your ability to live the way the gospel teaches.”

Margaret K., 17, Utah, USA

Megan C., Ethan M., and Romy C. have something in common: They love reverent music. They love the way it lifts and inspires them, the way it makes them feel. And they love to see how it lifts and inspires others.
Megan, 18; Ethan, 19; and Romy, 17, also have something else in common: They all sing in their ward choir in Florida, USA. And recently the choir gave them an even greater opportunity to share their love for music by participating in an Interfaith Music Festival.
“Our community has an interfaith coalition that does a lot to bring people of different faiths together,” Ethan explains. For example, the group hosted a discussion around an Iftar dinner (the evening meal when Muslims end their daily fast during their holy month of Ramadan), organized a number of service projects such as preparing school backpacks for children in need, and held several potluck dinners, where people who didn’t know each other sat side by side at the same table and talked about foods, customs, and beliefs enjoyed in their cultures.
Members of the choir enjoy eating dinner and serving together with those of other faiths.
The coalition’s goal is, of course, to help people from different backgrounds to become friends.
“There’s a Turkish family that I always see at the interfaith dinners, and they run up to me and say, ‘We’re so happy to see you again!’” Romy says. “In a world where there’s so much persecution of religion and faith, it’s nice that we can all come together and just talk to each other.” During one of the service projects, “the ladies at another church were so sweet,” she says. “They didn’t care about anyone’s religion. They were just there to offer their help. It was refreshing.”
“We may believe different things,” Megan says, “but I’ve always respected other people’s beliefs and it’s been nice to connect with them in this setting where we all want to learn about each other.”
“Our church is one of the newer members of the coalition,” Ethan says. “So I was very appreciative of just how kind they were to us and how accepting they were. I know that in some places, people misunderstand the Church. So I’m always appreciative when people are able to accept each other’s differences and look for what we have in common.”
And one of the things all the faith groups have in common is music. The Interfaith Music Festival would be a great opportunity for believers to unite in praising God. The ward choir would be one of about half a dozen groups representing congregations throughout the city.
“There was a bell choir, a vocal duet, a large choir, a small choir, a flute-and-piano duet, and so forth,” Megan explains. “Every group was asked to do two numbers.”
Megan continues, “We wanted to make sure that what we sang would let people know that we believe in Jesus Christ and also that we believe in Heavenly Father. We wanted to create a feeling of worship.”
The choir decided on two numbers they had previously performed, “Great Things and Small Things,” by Steven Kapp Perry, and “Sacraments and Symbols,” by Janice Kapp Perry, Steven Kapp Perry, and Lynne Perry Christofferson.
“The first song is upbeat. It offers the assurance that through God, you can do anything, whether it’s relatively minor or very significant,” Ethan says. “The second song has a deep reverence. It’s almost like a chant, and it creates a real feeling of worship.”
As they prepared to sing, Ethan used a method he has used before. “I try to prioritize becoming immersed in the song,” he says. “I find that when I’m able to pay attention to the meaning of the song, I’m able to enjoy it better. Of course I make sure I can sing it properly, but I find that it’s easier for me to do that when I’m in tune with the message that it’s trying to convey. I like to put an emphasis on spiritual preparation.”
“We still had to sing in sacrament meeting and practice for other things, too,” Megan says. “But we knew the importance of the interfaith event, so we made sure the pieces were ready. We worked hard on them.”
For the second number, the 14-member choir shrunk down to a double quartet. “We would rehearse on Tuesdays, before Young Men and Young Women,” Megan says. “It made me think of the song for a whole week, for a whole month, really. I don’t usually do this, but I found the song on YouTube and kept playing it over and over. I wanted to improve. I wanted us to sing so well that we would touch other people.”
Ethan, Megan, and Romy agree that all the rehearsing had an added benefit. “When you repeat songs over and over,” Romy says, “the messages of the songs stay in your mind and in your heart.”
The choir performs at the Interfaith Music Festival.
That presence in their minds and hearts was clearly evident as the choir members sang. “Both songs were just beautiful,” Romy says. “The audience got real quiet and everyone felt the Spirit as those songs were being sung. We all felt united.”
“The first song has always been a happy song for me,” Megan says. “I feel like it had that impact on people at the festival. I had a fun time singing it and I hope they all enjoyed it as well. And the second song, the voices blended so well. I think everyone who listened to it felt a spirit of respect and awe for God.”
At the end of the evening, Megan continues, “We were able to talk with participants and audience members. I know people were asking our choir director about the songs we sang—’What kind of music was that?’ or ‘Where did you find that arrangement?’ We were able to interact with each other and talk about the music we all shared. I felt like I was able to understand them more through their songs, and that they understood us better because of ours. Music is like a window to your soul.”
What Music Means to Me
Megan: “There’s a reason we have hymns, and there’s a reason we have music in general. I think it’s because the Lord wants us to feel peace with Him. One of the main times I’m able to feel the Spirit is when I think about the sacrament hymn. It helps us to remember the Savior and all He has done for us.”
Ethan: “Music is about carrying the emotion behind a message. There’s a difference between saying, ‘God can help me through trials,’ which is good and true, and singing a hymn with that same message. It asks a little bit more of you, as the singer. It helps you to really understand that message and connect with it on a deeper level. Music serves to amplify whatever you want to say to whoever’s listening.”
Romy: “When I’m listening to sacred music, I feel closer to Jesus Christ. I know that Jesus Christ has put music on this earth so that we can rejoice and bring others unto Him. When I need to feel the Holy Ghost, I sing a hymn in my heart and mind. It’s one of my favorite ways to rejoice.”

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder to her sister as they ran along the road.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned into the parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smell of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins smiled as he looked up. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow too, if you need us. We want to earn money to buy a present for Mum.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now, and I need all the help I can get.”
In the greenhouse, long tables were covered with young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed long enough to make sure the girls knew what to do and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the plants. Cathy worked beside her, filling each of the small containers with soil and planting the seedlings. For a while no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted. Then Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.” Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid if she asked the boys to stop, they would just get worse. Now they were using words Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Cathy’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she was about to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Me too,” Anne said. “Besides, Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She hid her eyes so Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do!
Suddenly she had an idea. Softly she started humming her favorite hymn. When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. Then she smiled. By the end of the hymn, they were humming softly together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry anymore. She and Cathy hummed “I Am a Child of God” a little louder, and by the end of that song, Lance was quieter. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing a Primary song. Cathy joined in, and their voices echoed sweetly through the greenhouse, while the boys gradually became silent.
Anne and Cathy were still singing Primary songs when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good, too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouse and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Babies,” Lance hissed as he ran past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, but the girls didn’t feel cold.
“I feel warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

A ward mutual was having a swimming party. The bishopric attended, dressed in suits. Many of the youth had already been in swimming. Everything stopped while a great old high priest gave an opening prayer. During the prayer there was a splashing in the pool. The counselor in the bishopric said: “I think I have always been practical enough, so I opened one eye to see who it was that was so irreverent as to swim during the prayer. A twelve-year-old Spanish boy, who could not swim, had somehow gotten into the deep end of the pool and was drowning. His eyes reflected fear and terror. I took two steps, dove into the pool, suit, shoes and all, pulled the young man to the side and helped him out. He sat on the edge of the pool and I waited in the pool. The good old high priest prayed on and on.”
The counselor continued, “I think the young man would have drowned if we had waited for the prayer to end to save him.” Then he concluded by saying, “I think we have to keep an eye open and be ready to do whatever is necessary to save our youth. And by the way, the bishop never did open his eyes, even when I dove in.”

Greg hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. We all hushed up as if we were waiting for an important news bulletin. “We’re going down the block to do some painting.”
“Huh?” I stared at him. “You mean work?”
“Mark, don’t be so dumb.” He held up a can of black spray paint. “I ‘found’ it in the hardware store.”
We laughed. That meant that Greg had stolen the paint. I felt kind of funny in the stomach. I really didn’t like the idea. But I was new in the neighborhood. If I said anything, the other guys wouldn’t be my friends.
Greg led us to a house with a wooden fence around the backyard. He handed the paint to Sam.
“Wait a minute,” I blurted out.
Greg cuffed me on the side of the head. “Are you chicken?”
I snorted. “Me? Of course not.”
When Greg wasn’t looking, I rubbed my head where he had hit me. It hurt. He’s a year older than I am, and a lot bigger.
After Sam finished painting words on the fence, Greg and a couple of other kids took their turns. Then someone handed the can to me. I took a deep breath and pushed the button on the can. Black paint sprayed out.
“Hey!” The shout came from an unseen person.
We took off running. Then I tripped. I jumped up, but someone grabbed my arm. My heart rate speeded up so much that I thought I would either faint or get sick all over my new sneakers.
I peeked up at a gray-haired man wearing glasses. “What were you doing?” he asked, not loosening his grip any.
“I don’t know,” I said, though it sounded silly.
“Who gave you the right to vandalize my property?”
“Uh, I’m sorry. Are you going to call the police?” I asked. My voice shook like I was going to cry.
“I believe I’d rather keep this between me and your parents.”
I took a shaky breath, then told him my name and phone number. But I would rather have gone to jail than have my parents know what I had done.
Dad came over right away. He looked as though he couldn’t decide whether he was more hurt or more angry at what I had done. I kind of shrunk down inside my shirt.
“Mark will pay for all damages, Mr. Parker,” Dad said.
I gulped hard. My allowance doesn’t cover half the stuff I want to buy. I figured that it would take a big part of my childhood years to pay for repainting that fence.
“I believe I have a better idea,” Mr. Parker said. “I had planned to repaint it, anyway. How about if I buy the paint and Mark does the painting?”
I sagged with relief. I wasn’t looking forward to the work, but painting the fence was a lot better than paying for damages.
I wouldn’t have been so happy if I’d known what else was in store for me at home—Mom and Dad said I couldn’t go anywhere with my friends for six weeks!
“Hurting others is against the word of God,” Mr. Parker said when I went over to his place. He handed me a brush.
I shrugged. “I know.”
“You sure didn’t act like it when you worked my fence over.”
I turned away and carefully drew the brush out of the paint can. I took my time making my first brush stroke nice and neat. I figured that if Mr. Parker saw that I could do a good job all by myself, he would leave me alone.
Mr. Parker didn’t take the hint. In fact, he got a brush of his own and started painting too.
My hand shook. I dribbled paint onto my pants leg.
“Careful,” Mr. Parker said.
“I can’t help it—you make me nervous!” I blurted. I dug the toe of my sneaker into the ground.
“I do? Now, why is that?”
“You keep watching me as if I’m bad or something.”
“Is that so? Well, I know you’re not bad, or you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I never did anything like that before. But Greg said …” I stopped and looked away quickly. I hadn’t meant to mention anyone else.
Mr. Parker chuckled softly. “Greg must be one of the other young fellows I saw running away that day.”
“You saw them?”
“I sure did.”
“You didn’t even ask me to tell you who they were.”
“I was a boy once myself.” Mr. Parker winked at me.
I felt a knot ease out of my shoulders. Mr. Parker was turning out to be a lot nicer than I’d figured.
We started painting again. After a while he said, “Do you ever go to church?”
“We used to.”
“I’m going to ask your folks to come with me on Sunday.”
“They’re pretty busy.”
“We’ll let them decide. I think your parents will welcome the chance for you to meet the right kind of friends.”
My face turned warm. I leaned over and concentrated on my painting. “I have friends,” I mumbled.
“Sure you do, son.”
Mr. Parker didn’t say anything else. I expected him to start preaching and tell me how bad my friends were—how they were not only a bad influence, but how they ran off and left me. I was all set to get mad and tell him my friends were great.
But all he did was start whistling. I recognized the tune—it was a hymn.
My parents were eager to take Mr. Parker up on his church offer. I told myself that it didn’t matter—at least I had somewhere else to go for the next six weeks. I couldn’t wait until my grounding was over and I could see Greg and the other boys again.
The only thing was, I got busy with the kids from Primary. By the time the six weeks were up, I was involved in a ward project to get books for a shelter for the homeless. After that, we Blazers all got parts in a play that we were going to put on at the care center.
The next time I saw Greg, he was leading his gang past the park. He stopped suddenly, and everyone piled into the back of him. They reminded me of robots playing follow the leader.
“Mark, I haven’t seen you around.”
“I … uh … I’ve been busy.” I felt a familiar shrinking in my stomach. Funny, I’d never realized it before, but I always felt that way around Greg.
“Yeah, I heard you were busy painting old man Parker’s fence.”
Greg and the robots cracked up. I clenched my fists.
“Come on—we’re doing something fun.” Greg held up a cloth sack.
I knew that they planned to steal oranges from Mr. McKellar’s grove. Six weeks ago I would have stumbled over my own feet rushing to join them. Now all I felt was sorry for them.
“No, thanks.” I turned and walked away. I had new friends now. My kind of friends. The shrinking in my stomach disappeared. It didn’t come back.

Later, after I went through the endowment session, I saw a man who was receiving his endowment for the first time. I watched as he finally entered the celestial room and embraced his family members. The joy they felt was palpable and brought tears to my eyes.
This reminded me of when I entered the celestial room on the day of my own endowment and was greeted by my family, including my dad. It gave me hope for the joy I will feel when we are reunited again—joy that I will get to experience because of Jesus Christ and His Atonement. The temple and family history work we do truly can remind us what matters most.