Gospel Story Finder

Two Scouts from the Virginia Beach Second Ward, Norfolk Virginia Stake, received commendations for saving the life of Harvette Kaneakua during a Sunday School class party.
The medals and certificates for heroism were presented after Brad Alexander and Brian Casson endangered their own lives to save their friend’s. At a beach party, the undertow pulled several of the group out into deep water. Brian helped Harvette stay afloat while Brad towed them both to shore.

Always remembering the Savior helps me have courage in the face of difficult trials. Halfway through my senior year of high school, my family moved back to the United States, but I stayed in Australia by myself to finish the school year. After I visited them during a school holiday, I was flying back to Australia, and I felt incredibly lonely. However, I suddenly realized that I wasn’t alone; I never was and I never will be because the Savior’s Spirit will always be with me as I strive to follow Him. That was the greatest comfort I could have received in that moment.
Shannon S., 19, Sydney, Australia

I recognized the beauty of music and the total satisfaction that comes from sharing it with others. When I played in church, I felt an inner fulfillment come to me as a performer and to my friends as an audience. I experienced satisfaction each time people would thank me for touching their hearts with my music.
Just as I was realizing my musical potential, I was asked to teach the three-year-olds in church. I discovered how much happiness comes when a small hand takes mine and two big blue eyes look up to me and say, “Thanks, Michelle, for being my special friend.” Serving the Lord through working with his little children helped me understand the real meaning of the scripture, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Luke 18:16).

For some members, financial difficulties turn tithing into a test of faith. Yet members who have overcome that test share their experiences with others, offering encouragement and hope. “When I joined the Church,” says a Santo Domingo leader, “I lived all the commandments except for tithing, but one day realized that I obey commandments because I want to obey and because I know the Lord will help us.” Since that realization, he has paid a full tithe. “I’ve received so many blessings I hadn’t planned on. Now I’m the one telling tithing stories!”

In July my husband and I went to Philmont, the Scout training center in New Mexico. Gathered there were 150 priesthood leaders and their families in that beautiful camp where the plain meets the soaring, pine-covered mountains.
Jeremy Judd was there with his family, and he celebrated his eighth birthday during that week. Because Jeremy wanted to be baptized on his eighth birthday, his father, Alma, made the arrangements. That Saturday afternoon I participated in one of the most spiritual baptismal experiences of my life.
Baptismal clothes were borrowed from a nearby ward. We drove to a stream located about fifteen minutes from camp where the water was deep enough to perform the ordinance. It was a secluded spot in the wilderness. A bank overlooked the stream as it flowed through a clearing of stately cottonwoods. We stood in the high grass and listened carefully as first the mother and then the father spoke to their son about the ordinance that was about to be performed. They reminded Jeremy of the importance of the covenant he was about to make. They indicated that the covenant he was making was a promise, or an agreement, to obey all the laws of the gospel. They told him he should consider baptism as the entrance into a new life—with the Savior as his example.
Then the father took his son by the hand and walked down the bank, over the pebbles, and into the water. There he immersed his young son in the water of the clear-flowing stream after the pattern given by the Lord. The boy’s sixteen-year-old sister stood by my side, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered, “I am so happy for Jeremy.” I too was happy for Jeremy, and at that moment I remembered the joy I felt at my own baptism.
After Jeremy had changed his clothes, he stood in the clearing while his father and the other brethren laid their hands upon his head and confirmed him a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
With the sunlight on his wet hair and a radiance on his face, Jeremy felt a reverent calm, and he confided in me with wonder and excitement, “I was baptized in a river just like Jesus!”
The spot in the River Jordan where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist must have looked something like this beautiful place where we stood. I could almost hear John protesting, “I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me?” Then the quiet, calm reply of the Savior, “Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness.” (Matt. 3:14–15.)
And Jesus was baptized to fulfill the law and to give us the pattern to follow.
When Jeremy’s father said amen to the words of his son’s confirmation prayer, I looked at that young boy and wondered if he was ready for the responsibility of the covenant he had just made. Would he follow the teachings of Jesus by living a new and renewed life? Did he understand his commitment to bear witness to the world of Jesus Christ?
I think a great deal about these things because children are my special concern. I tell you that they can and do honor their commitments made in the waters of baptism.
You will find examples of them around the world—like Lisa. Lisa, age eleven, lives in England. She came home from school one day feeling very excited. She had been asked to read a part in the school devotional assembly the following morning. She said to her mother, “But some of the words are wrong.” Her mother discovered that one paragraph referred to God and the Holy Ghost as being one and the same person. Lisa and her mother decided to write a letter to Lisa’s teacher explaining that this paragraph was contrary to Lisa’s belief, and that she would feel much happier leaving it out.
The next afternoon her mother waited anxiously for Lisa to return home from school. She came home with a big, bright smile on her face. Not only had the teacher let her leave the paragraph out, but she had asked for more information about the Church. In addition, the teacher asked Lisa to present an assembly about the Church. All this came about because Lisa lived up to the covenant she had made and was willing to witness to the world her own beliefs.
Thinking about Alma Judd and his son Jeremy reminds me of another Alma who stepped into a fountain of pure water in the land of Mormon to perform the ordinance of baptism for other believers.
The Book of Mormon records that Alma was one who heard the teachings of Abinadi and believed. He urged King Noah not to put Abinadi to death, and this made the wicked king angry. Alma was driven out of the city and hid in a thicket by a spring of pure water.
From this place of refuge in the wilderness, Alma began to teach the words of Abinadi. Those who believed came out of the city to the pure waters of Mormon, and there Alma preached unto them repentance, redemption, and faith on the Lord.
Then Alma said to them: “As ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, … what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a covenant with him, That ye will serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon you?” (Mosiah 18:8–10.) Then one by one Alma took them into the waters and baptized them.
Baptism is the beginning of a new life for each one of us, a life of purpose. The Lord is very clear as to what it means to keep his commandments, come into his fold, and be called his people. His people are “willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light;
“Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.” (Mosiah 18:8–9.)
And, like Lisa, the eleven-year-old girl from England, his people are willing “to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.” (Mosiah 18:9.) It is the Lord’s will that children at the age of eight begin to be responsible for the kind of lives they lead. You girls who are ten and eleven, and all of us, must assume this same responsibility. In so doing we are becoming a Zion people, which the Doctrine and Covenants says are people who are “pure in heart.” (D&C 97:21.) After baptism we can live a new, more thoughtful life as described by the Christ.
Into our office come countless stories of the faithfulness of children who are keeping the promises they have made at baptism.
Christina was such a girl. When her Primary teacher’s husband died, Christina showed great concern. As soon as she heard the sad news, she went to her teacher and told her not to worry, that she would check in on her every day to make sure that she was all right. And she did. She would often take fresh vegetables from the garden to cheer her up. She wanted her teacher to know she cared. Christina truly comforted one who needed comfort.
From Idaho comes a story of Jonathan, who went to school in the cold weather wearing his warm hat. When he got to school, he noticed another boy’s ears were frostbitten because he had had to wait so long in the cold for the school bus to pick him up. On his own, Jonathan went to the telephone, called his mother, and asked if it would be all right to give the younger boy his hat because he needed it more. As we bear on another’s burdens, as Jonathan did, we are fulfilling the covenant we made at baptism.
Ellen was a young girl who really gained an understanding of repentance. While at the store, she took an item without paying for it. But when she got home, she felt miserable. She confided in her mother: “I’m so sorry I took it; will you take it back for me?”
Her mother said, “I can’t repent for you, Ellen. You must repent yourself. You will have to take it back and say you are sorry.”
It was hard, but she did it. “This is my first repentance,” Ellen said. “I’m glad I know how to make things right.”
Repentance makes it possible to return to the straight and narrow path and become as pure as we were at baptism.
We can all do what Christ asks us to do. He has a plan that will bring us happiness. As he whispers through the Spirit, he tells us how to follow his plan.
I Can Follow God’s Plan for Me
My life is a gift; my life has a plan.
My life has a purpose; in heav’n it began.
My choice was to come to this lovely home on earth,
And seek for God’s light to direct me from birth.
I can follow God’s plan for me,
Holding fast to his word and his love.
I will work and I will pray;
I will always walk in his way.
Then I will be happy on earth,
And in my home above.
(Supplement to More Songs for Children, pp. 10–11.)
In this song the ten- and eleven-year-old girls have told us we can be happy now and forever if we follow God’s plan, which begins with baptism. It is the gate to the celestial kingdom. (See 2 Ne. 31:18.)
As followers of Christ, we should “look forward with one eye, having one faith and one baptism, having … hearts knit together in unity and in love one towards another.” (Mosiah 18:21.)
Each of us who has been baptized has covenanted with the Lord to serve him and keep his commandments. Like Lisa, we must stand as a witness of God. Like Christina, we must comfort those in need. Like Jonathan, we must bear one another’s burdens. Like Ellen, we must repent.
I pray that we will have unity and love as we strive together to keep the covenant we have made at baptism, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The last time I saw President Heber J. Grant was in the Church Administration Building when he was quite aged. President Grant had been driven to the Church Administration Building where the driver called for another brother to help him assist President Grant, one on each arm, to his office.
I was just entering the building as President Grant was coming toward the door. He said to the two brethren assisting him, “Isn’t that Brother Benson coming?”
They replied, “Yes.”
He said, “Come here. Come here, Brother Benson.”
I walked over to him, and President Grant said, “Did I ever tell you about the mean trick Brigham Young played on your great-grandfather?”
I said, “No, President. I didn’t know Brigham Young ever played a mean trick on anyone.”
He responded, “Oh, yes, he did. I’ll tell you about it.”
I could see that the two brethren were practically supporting all of President Grant’s weight, so I said, “I’ll come and visit you some time. I’d like to hear the story.”
He replied, “No, I’ll tell you right here. These brethren can hold me steady while I tell you.”
He said, “You know where Zion’s Bank is, on the corner of Main Street and South Temple Street?”
I said, “Yes.”
He continued, “Your great-grandfather built the finest home in Salt Lake City on that corner, with the exception of Brigham Young’s home (which, of course, was the Lion House which still stands). He had it all finished. It was a beautiful home—two stories with a porch at both levels on both sides of the house. It had a white picket fence around it with fruit trees and ornamental trees and with a little stream running through the yard. He was all ready to move his families in from their log cabins when President Young called him into the office one day. ‘Brother Benson,’ he said, ‘we would like you to go to Cache Valley in northern Utah and pioneer that area and preside over the Saints. We suggest you sell your home to Daniel H. Wells.’
“Now,” President Grant said, “Daniel H. Wells was Brigham Young’s counselor. Wasn’t that a mean trick? Come on, brethren, let’s go.”
In all the years that I had attended the Benson Family reunions I had never heard that story. So I had it verified by the Church Historical Department, and they assured me that the facts were as President Grant related them. They told me they had an old photograph of the old home.
Since that time, I have been most grateful for the so-called “mean trick” of President Young, because were it not for that, the Bensons would not have their roots in Cache Valley.

Now there has been added another element. It began some years ago when drought in Africa brought hunger and death to uncounted numbers. Members of the Church were invited to contribute to a great humanitarian effort to meet the needs of those terribly impoverished people. Your contributions were numerous and generous. The work has continued because there are other serious needs in many places. The outreach of this aid has become a miracle. Millions of pounds of food, medical supplies, blankets, tents, clothing, and other materials have staved off famine and desolation in various parts of the world. Wells have been dug, crops have been planted, lives have been saved. Let me give you an example.
Neil Darlington is a chemical engineer who worked for a large industrial company in Ghana. Eventually, he retired.
He and his wife were then called as a missionary couple. They were sent to Ghana. Brother Darlington says, “In areas of famine, disease, and social unrest, we were there as representatives of the Church, extending a helping hand to the destitute, the hungry, the distressed.”
In small villages they drilled new wells and repaired old ones. Those of us who have fresh, clean water in abundance can scarcely appreciate the circumstances of those who are without.
Can you picture this couple, devoted Latter-day Saint missionaries? They drill into the dry earth. Their drill reaches the water table below, and the miracle liquid comes to the surface and spills over the dry and thirsty soil. There is rejoicing. There are tears. There is now water to drink, water with which to wash, water to grow crops. There is nothing more treasured in a dry land than water. How absolutely beautiful is water pouring from a new well.
On one occasion, when the tribal chiefs and the elders of the village gathered to thank them, Brother Darlington asked the chief if he and Sister Darlington could sing a song for them. They looked into the eyes of the dark-skinned men and women before them and sang “I Am a Child of God” as an expression of their common brotherhood.
This one couple, through their efforts, have provided water for an estimated 190,000 people in remote villages and refugee camps. Contemplate, if you will, the miracle of this accomplishment.

“Here I am, Grandfather!” shouted Barbie as she jumped out of the parked car in front of her Grandfather’s farm. “What’s the big job you want me to do?”
When Grandfather had called last night, he said the sap was flowing, it was sugar time, and he needed Father’s help. But he told Barbie he had a special and very important job for her too.
“You’re just in time,” Grandfather said as he picked Barbie up and whirled her around.
“What do you want me to do?” Barbie asked eagerly.
“You’ll see,” answered Grandfather.
He hurried toward the barn. Soon he came out leading two large powerful horses. The horses pulled a sleigh with a big tank on it that Grandfather called a gathering rig.
“You’re going to ride on the rig,” Grandfather said as he gave Barbie a boost up behind the horses.
This is my job, thought Barbie. Grandfather needs me to drive the gathering rig.
Swinging tin pails, Grandfather and Father started walking down the narrow snow-covered road.
Before Barbie could say giddap, the horses tugged at their harnesses and the creaky sleigh slowly slid along the road. Down one hill and up another went the horses, their warm breath turning misty in the chilled air.
Soon they came to a grove of maple trees. Sunlight flickered through the bare branches down to shiny buckets hanging on the trees.
“Whoa!” commanded Barbie, but the horses kept moving.
Grandfather and Father stopped at a tree where two buckets were hanging. They emptied the buckets into their big pails and then went on to other trees to empty more buckets. When their gathering pails were full, they stood by the road and waited for the sleigh so they could pour the sap into the tank.
Barbie jumped down into the snow. “I thought my job was to steer the horses,” she said. “But they don’t pay any attention to me. They already know what to do.”
“Smart horses,” commented Grandfather with a smile.
“Then what is my special job?” asked Barbie.
“You’ll see,” Grandfather promised.
Barbie tagged along to the maple trees. She spotted a small tree with a small bucket. This must be what Grandfather meant, she thought. This bucket is just my size.
Barbie tried to lift the bucket, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried again, but it was too full and too heavy. So she sat down on a tree stump and listened to the sap drip-drop into the buckets while Grandfather and Father poured more sap into the gathering rig. I’mnot big enough to help them, Barbie thought.
“It’s full!” announced Grandfather. “Come, Barbie. We’re going to the sugar house.”
They all climbed on the sleigh. Without being told, the horses began to move down the slope to the sugar house.
“Hello, Ben,” Grandfather said to the man who was waiting for them there. “This is Barbie. She’s going to do that special job for us.”
Barbie was tingling with excitement as she watched Ben attach a hose to the tank to drain the sap into a huge wooden vat.
Holding her hand, Grandfather took Barbie into the sugar house. They entered a room filled with a cloud of steam and the odor of burning pine logs mingled with the smell of something sweet. Barbie could see long trays of sap bubbling and popping over the stoves.
“Here is Barbie, Henry,” said Grandfather to a thin man who was stirring the boiling sap. “Are you ready for her to do her job?”
“Almost,” answered Henry. He scooped a dipper full of hot liquid and lifted it. Tilting the dipper, he watched the ribbon of syrup return to the pan.
“Now!” he said.
“Now?” asked Barbie in surprise. “But where is Grandfather?”
“Out here, Barbie,” Grandfather called.
Barbie ran through the door and stopped. Grandfather was standing beside a tub heaped with snow. Father and Ben were there too. Henry brought a newly filled dipper to Grandfather, who poured it on the snow. The cooled syrup changed to thick candy.
Grandfather handed a tiny wooden paddle to Barbie.
“Your job,” said Grandfather, “is to be the official taster.”
Barbie carefully scooped up the maple sugar candy and slowly tasted it. Then in her most expert voice she announced, “It’s delicious!”
Grandfather nodded his head in approval.
“M-m-m-m,” Barbie said as she took another taste of the sweet surprise. Then she looked at Grandfather. “I’ll be glad to do this job for you every year,” she promised.

Kelly smiled at the fields whizzing by outside her window. Hay bales stood in neat rows, soon to be stored in the barn. Dad whistled to the radio as he drove. Mom and the baby were sleeping. Soon they would all be at Aunt Lizzie’s farm, surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles.
All year, Kelly looked forward to the first weekend in September—the weekend of the family reunion. It was finally here! She couldn’t wait to see her favorite cousin, Angie. Every year they built hay forts, rode horses, and waded in the river.
Kelly jumped out of the car almost before the tires stopped rolling. “We’re here!” she bellowed. She found Angie jumping on the trampoline with a girl she didn’t recognize.
“Kelly!” Angie called.
“Angie!” Kelly called back. She leaped onto the trampoline and hugged her cousin.
“Kelly, this is my best friend, Tricia. My mom said I could bring a friend this year!” Angie bubbled.
Kelly eyed Tricia suspiciously, jealous that Angie had a best friend. Kelly knew it was silly to feel that way—she had friends at home, too. She made an effort to smile.
“Let’s go build a hay fort,” she said to both girls. “Want to?”
Tricia pulled a face. “I’m allergic to hay.”
“What about horseback riding?” Kelly suggested next. “I bet Uncle Jeff would saddle up horses for us.”
“Nah,” Angie said. She looked quickly in Tricia’s direction. “I think we’ll stay here for now.”
Kelly’s heart sank. She could already tell that this reunion would be much different than all the others.
That afternoon, after the hot dog roast, Kelly couldn’t find Angie and Tricia anywhere. “They probably went horseback riding without me!”
“What are you doing, Kelly?” Mom asked. She sat down next to Kelly on the grass, balancing baby Michael in one arm and a juicy slice of watermelon in her other hand.
“Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m going to walk down to the river and go wading.” The river had always been Kelly’s favorite place.
Mom’s smile disappeared. “That’s not such a good idea. Aunt Lizzie says that it’s been raining the past few weeks and that the water is so high you can touch it just by dipping your toes off the bridge.”
“Then I’ll sit on the bridge. I won’t get in the water.” Kelly wanted to be alone.
“I don’t think you should go near the river, not even to the bridge,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go get some watermelon and come back here? Michael and I will keep you company.”
“Oh, Mom.” Kelly pulled herself to her feet and headed for the backyard, even though she didn’t really want any watermelon.
“I’ll sneak off to the river, anyway,” she thought. “Mom will get talking with some aunt or uncle. She won’t notice if I don’t come back.”
Kelly decided to just keep going through the backyard and down to the river.
Don’t go to the river.
Kelly stopped in her tracks. Was the voice real or imagined? “But I want to!” she silently argued. “I’ll be careful.” She started walking again toward the dirt path that led to the bridge.
Mom said not to go.
Kelly frowned. She had been baptized a few months before, and she knew that the Holy Ghost could protect her from danger—if she listened to Him.
“I’m just feeling guilty because Mom would be worried,” Kelly reasoned to herself. “But she’ll never know. And I’ll be OK.”
Kelly passed a deserted picnic table with half-eaten watermelons and butcher knives on it. “Maybe I will have some watermelon. It’ll be nice to have a snack while I’m there.” Kelly swerved toward the table and grabbed a sticky knife. She jabbed the blade into the thick green rind.
“Ouch!”
The knife clattered onto the cutting board as blood seeped out of a cut on Kelly’s thumb. She felt dizzy. She knew the cut was deep.
“Are you OK?” Uncle Jeff ran to her side. Crying, Kelly showed him her bleeding thumb. “You might need stitches,” he said. He pulled a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around Kelly’s wound, and went to find her parents.
In Aunt Lizzie’s bathroom, Mom cleaned Kelly’s cut and bandaged it.
“Will I need stitches?” Kelly whimpered.
“I don’t think so.” Mom smoothed Kelly’s hair. “But you’d better stay inside and sit still for a while, so your thumb doesn’t start bleeding again.”
Angie and Tricia peeked through the bathroom doorway. “Kelly, we heard you got hurt,” Angie said.
Kelly nodded, holding up her thumb.
“Do you want to come play a board game with us?” Tricia asked.
Kelly smiled. “I’d like that.”
As the three girls made their way to Aunt Lizzie’s den, Angie and Tricia explained that Aunt Susan had made them take a nap after lunch. They hadn’t been hiding from Kelly after all!
The girls pulled a game off the bookshelf and settled onto the floor.
“I’m sorry about your thumb,” Angie said. “I heard your mom say that you can’t play outside—that means no wading or horseback riding or anything!”
“It’s OK,” Kelly said. She remembered the promptings she had received before picking up the knife. She imagined the roaring river, deep enough to cover her head. Perhaps some good had come from cutting her thumb after all.
She would never know what could have happened at the bridge. But she knew that the Holy Ghost would protect her if she listened to His promptings. A warm feeling of gratitude filled her heart. Even though she had wanted to disobey, Heavenly Father had protected her this time so that she could learn to listen. She remembered her Primary teacher saying that when you ignore the Holy Ghost, He leaves. Kelly never wanted that to happen.
“Heavenly Father,” she prayed silently, “I will listen to the Holy Ghost—the first time—from now on.”

“Mais oui, Maman (Of course, Mama)!” Louis said. “First I will take the socks you knitted to Monsieur Dubois, then I will meet Pierre and Henri.” Louis glanced at the clock. He still had plenty of time. The puppet show did not start for another hour.
“Voici (Here)!” His mother handed Louis a small, brightly wrapped package. “And remember to wish Monsieur Dubois Joyeux Noël (Merry Christmas) and invite him again to have Christmas dinner with us.”
“He will not come, Maman. He will just smile and say that Christmas is a time for families as he does every year.”
“Dommage (Too bad)! Nothing is as sad as being old and alone at Christmastime. I do wish we could make him understand that our Christmas would be happier if we could share it with him.”
Louis nodded politely, though he did not think that he would be any happier if Monsieur Dubois came for Christmas. Christmas was perfect for Louis, just as it was.
“Hurry home as soon as the show is over, Louis. Grandpère (Grandfather) will be arriving soon.”
Louis grinned excitedly. “Do you think that Grandpère has finished my music box?”
“Perhaps,” his mother answered, “but do not ask him. He is always busy, and making a music box takes a long time.”
Louis was very proud of his grandfather, a fine craftsman who owned a shop in the city, where he repaired watches and clocks. In his spare time he had been making a music box for Louis, one that would play the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise.”
Louis was still thinking of the music box as he walked down the village street. He paused for a moment before the patisserie (pastry shop) and admired the special cakes in the window. They were shaped like yule logs and covered with mouth-watering chocolate frosting.
“Allons (C’mon), Louis!” Henri called from down the street. “You’re late. It’s almost time for the show to start. Pierre has gone ahead to hold seats for us.”
Louis ran to join Henri. “First I must take this gift to Monsieur Dubois. Come with me, Henri. It’s not far.”
Henri frowned. “Pierre will not be able to hold our seats much longer. Can’t you take the gift after the show?”
Louis hesitated a moment. “Oui, en effet (Yes, of course),” he agreed, hastily stuffing the package into his pocket.
The boys hurried down the street to the hall that had been rented by a traveling puppet show. They were glad that they had come when they did, because the room was already crowded. Pierre motioned to them, and Henri and Louis hurried to the seats that he had saved. In a few moments the small building rocked with merriment as the children followed the antics of Punch, or Guignol, as they called the puppet.
When the show was over, the children did not linger as was their custom. Christmas Eve was a special time, and they were all eager to get home.
Outside, Louis talked for just a moment with Henri and Pierre. Then he remembered Monsieur Dubois and felt in his pocket. His eyes widened in distress. “The gift for Monsieur Dubois is gone!” he cried. Louis ran back inside the hall, followed by his friends. They searched the hall, looking up and down the aisles and beneath the seats. The package was not there.
“Maman will be angry and disappointed in me!” Louis said.
“If you do not tell her, perhaps she will never find out,” said Henri hopefully.
“I’m sure that she will ask me,” Louis said sadly.
When Louis got home, Grandpère had just arrived from the city, and Maman was smiling and bustling about. Louis’s heart rose. He was lucky; he had only to remain silent. Maman was much too busy now to ask him about Monsieur Dubois.
His grandfather placed a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Ah, how you have grown, mon petit (my little one)!” His dark eyes twinkled. “I have a surprise for you.”
“The music box!” Louis cried.
“Close your eyes,” Grandpère said.
Louis obeyed, smiling.
“Now!” Grandpère cried.
“La Marseillaise” tinkled and chimed from a small, beautifully carved music box, and—wonder of wonders—two tiny soldiers moved in a slow circle on top of the box.
Louis clapped his hands. “It’s wonderful, Grandpère! I have never had so fine a gift.”
Grandpère’s eyes were bright. “And without you, my grandson, and your mother and father, I would be a lonely old man.”
Louis swallowed uncomfortably, for suddenly he saw the face of Monsieur Dubois, who had no one, no one at all. All that evening he could not get the thought of the lonely old man out of his mind—not even when he placed his shoes before the fireplace so that Père Noël (Father Christmas) could find them. And when Louis awakened before daylight on Christmas morning, his first thoughts were of Monsieur Dubois. His heart was heavy. Even the music box on the table beside his bed did not help.
Suddenly Louis knew what he must do. He must take Monsieur Dubois a gift, a very fine gift, so that the old man would know that he was not forgotten at Christmas. He must go at once and be back before his parents and grandfather awakened.
As he dressed, Louis forced back a twinge of sadness. The music box was the only gift that he had that was fine enough for Monsieur Dubois.
It was still dark outside, and Louis had to ring several times before Monsieur Dubois opened the door.
“Joyeux Noël, Louis!” Monsieur Dubois greeted him. “Entre! Entre (Come in! Come in)! You are early this morning.”
“Joyeux Noël, Monsieur.” Louis smiled. “I—I was supposed to bring your gift yesterday, but I have brought it for you today, instead.”
Louis wound the music box and placed it on the table. He stood back, listening to the tinkling music and watching the proud little soldiers. “Is it not beautiful?”
“Oui, Louis, very beautiful.” Monsieur Dubois’s eyes were thoughtful. “Now tell me, Louis, why did you bring me one of your gifts?”
Louis hung his head.
“Come, Louis,” Monsieur Dubois insisted, smiling kindly.
Before he realized it, Louis poured out the whole story. “I—I’m sorry, Monsieur,” he finished. “I hoped that the music box was a fine enough gift to make up for my carelessness.”
“It is the finest gift that I have ever received, Louis,” Monsieur Dubois said softly. “But I want you to keep it for me. Each Christmas bring it here, and we will play it together.”
Louis’s face cleared. “You are not angry, Monsieur?”
“Non, Louis. I am not angry.”
“And you will have Christmas dinner with us? Please, Monsieur!” Louis pleaded. “Our Christmas will be happier if we can share it with you,” Louis said, repeating his mother’s words. And, strangely, they were no longer just words. Now he understood them. Monsieur Dubois seemed to understand, too, for his face brightened like a Christmas candle.
“Wait for me, Louis,” he cried. “I will put on my finest suit.” Then Monsieur Dubois laughed. “Today, Louis, you and I have both learned something important. We have learned the real meaning of Christmas, n’est-ce pas (isn’t that so)?”

She wasn’t really her grandmother, but that didn’t matter to Sue Baker. The woman finally felt close enough to ask her for a favor.
“I have a parcel that needs to be wrapped,” the older lady said with a smile, propping herself up on her rest home bed. Sue, eager to help, asked if the package was going to be mailed somewhere.
“No, it’s not going to be sent off. But I need you to get some tissue paper, ribbon, and a card …”
Sue asked a few more questions. She needed to know the size of the package in order to purchase the correct amount of paper, and she wanted to be sure to select an appropriate color.
“Can you tell me what it is?” she said. “It might help me to know what I need to get for you, what kind of card, that sort of thing.”
The elderly woman decided she couldn’t keep her secret any longer. She pulled the package out from behind her pillow, handed it to Sue, and said, “Here. It’s for you. Pick out a card you like.”
It’s hard for Sue to tell the story without crying. When she opened the box later, she found inside some embroidery she had admired. A few weeks before, her grandmotherly friend had said it was “the most precious thing” she owned.

Soon after I graduated from Primary, the bishop called on me to bear my testimony during ward conference. In my talk, I mentioned that I liked the Book of Mormon stories that I knew. I also said that I wanted to read the Book of Mormon all the way through someday.
Someday came sooner than I expected. The day after ward conference, I didn’t feel well and was diagnosed with German measles. I had to lie in bed, so I decided to read the Book of Mormon. I read it from beginning to end in four days. That was a wonderful way to read the Book of Mormon because I gained a feeling for the entire book.

When I was 17 years old I was struggling in life. I was not happy and I did not know which way to go. Going to church was not a big priority in my life; therefore it was not often that I attended—despite pleadings from my parents.
One day I was waiting for my friend to come pick me up so we could go to the mall. While waiting, I saw the New Era sitting on our desk in the living room. The New Era had been in our home as long as I could remember, but never before had I actually picked it up and read it. Because I had nothing else to do besides wait for my friend, which is not very fun, I picked it up and started to read.
It was the March 1991 issue. I found the shortest article I could, an article titled “Tell Him,” by Ken Barker. It was about a time when he was riding on a ski lift and noticed how beautiful the world is and how much Heavenly Father has given to us. He also wrote about how thankful he was for everything and how we need to thank God always for everything we have been given.
At that time in my life I was not even sure that God existed. This article really got me thinking: “Is there really a God? Where did everything come from? If there really is a God, why has he put us here on this earth?” This led to a deep personal study to find answers to these questions. I am happy to say that I was able to find the answers by studying the scriptures and attending church. I have now served a mission and was recently married and sealed in the temple to the most wonderful young lady, Rebecca.

Last summer a group of young women from Alpine, Utah, decided that they would become “more fit for the kingdom.” They determined to focus on the temple by walking from the Draper Utah Temple to the Salt Lake Temple, a total distance of 22 miles (35 km), just as one of the pioneers, John Rowe Moyle, had done. Brother Moyle was a stonemason who was called by the prophet, Brigham Young, to work on the Salt Lake Temple. Each week he walked the distance of 22 miles from his home to the temple. One of his jobs was to carve the words “Holiness to the Lord” on the east side of the Salt Lake Temple. It was not easy and he had many obstacles to overcome. At one point, he was kicked in the leg by one of his cows. Because it would not heal, he had to have this leg amputated. But that did not stop him from his commitment to the prophet and to work on the temple. He carved a wooden leg, and after many weeks he again walked the 22-mile distance to the temple to do the work he had committed to do.6

While preaching at a public meeting in Philadelphia, Orson mentioned that he was going on a mission to Jerusalem to dedicate the Holy Land for the return of the Jews. He also mentioned that Mormon missionaries travel without purse or scrip, and that he was looking for financial assistance for his mission. At the end of his sermon, a stranger gave him a purse of gold and asked but one favor in return—that when Orson delivered his dedicatory prayer in the Holy Land, he would mention the anonymous donor in that prayer. Over a year later, as Orson knelt on Jerusalem’s Mount of Olives, he prayed:
“Do Thou also look with favor upon all those through whose liberality I have been enabled to come to this land. Particularly do Thou bless the stranger in Philadelphia, whom I never saw, but who sent me gold, with a request that I should pray for him in Jerusalem. Now, O Lord, let blessings come upon him from an unexpected quarter, and let his basket be filled, and his storehouse abound with plenty.”7
Later John F. Beck, the son of the anonymous donor, revealed that his late father had been the generous stranger, and that the whole Beck family had indeed been blessed. He said:
“We settled in Spanish Fork [Utah] where we continued to live until father died at the age of ninety-three, having enjoyed good health until within three days of his death. I do not know of an apostate among any of father’s posterity. He always had plenty for his family and loaned breadstuffs to scores who were in want. He did not become rich, but always had money laid aside for a time of need.”8

One day at school, a few of my classmates were making fun of another student by calling him names. It looked like fun, so I joined them. For a few weeks, I made fun of him with my friends.
Several weeks later, the boy told me how he was feeling. He was hurt by our words, even though he pretended like he didn’t care that we were making fun of him. He said he cried every night. I almost cried when he told me. I wanted to help him and decided to apologize for what I had said to him.
So the next day, I went up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. I said, “I’m really sorry that I made fun of you.” He nodded at my words, and his eyes filled up with tears. But the other kids were still making fun of him. Then I remembered what I learned in my Primary class: choose the right.
So I told my classmates, “Stop making fun of him! Do you guys know how hard this has been for him? Please say you’re sorry for what you have done and be his friend.”
But they wouldn’t change that easily. Instead, they were mad at me and said, “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? You made fun of him too!”
I still felt bad for what I had done before. So I said, “I already said sorry to him. I want you to understand how he feels and stop making fun of him too.”
One of them said sorry, and the three of us became good friends. A few people still make fun of him, but he feels better because he has us. I will choose the right by helping a friend in need.

Alyce lives in Launceston, Australia, and has always loved to draw, but it was only in her last two years of high school that she began to take art seriously as a potential career. At the age of 19, she was offered representation with a local gallery, and after eight very successful years of showing her work commercially with them, she decided to step back to complete her bachelor of fine arts at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.
“Art has always been an important part of my life and it has helped me to better understand important gospel truths and to experience God’s love in ways that I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise.”
“When I create artwork, I always try to do so in a way that not only invites the Spirit into my studio but also into the lives of those who view the finished works.”
Working primarily in pen and acrylic (with the occasional shotgun blast), Alyce’s works are steeped in metaphor, nostalgia and her personal and family history. She uses animal forms to explore and expose the subtle emotions of the human experience.
Her entry, “The Others,” was selected for a merit award. In this work, three breeds of sheep confront the viewer, inviting close and careful study.
“During His mortal and post-mortal ministry, the Saviour often referred to Himself as the Good Shepherd. As the Good Shepherd, He knew each of His sheep intimately and loved them unconditionally . . . He invited all to hear His voice and to come unto Him that He might lead them home safely.”
“Regardless of breed, gender, or pedigree, in the eyes of the Good Shepherd, we as His sheep are all alike and are known, loved, and wanted.”

One such Elder was James Leaing McMurrin, who arrived on UK shores in the spring of 1884 and was assigned to Glasgow. He was delighted by this, as Scotland was the home of his ancestors. He eagerly endeavoured to find them, but sadly had no success.
Six months into his mission he was reassigned to Ireland. On learning of this, his aunt gave him the address of one Hugh McMurrin, who lived in Ireland. The Elder determined to visit him if possible. However, the address was not within his assigned area.
Sometime later, he and his companion went out to visit a family of Church members but got lost. It was getting late, and upon enquiring at a house the direction to the town they were seeking, the occupants offered the elders a meal and a bed for the night. After learning Elder McMurrin’s name, the couple told him of a neighbour they had by the name of Hugh McMurrin.
Astonished, but delighted, Elder McMurrin visited him and found he was the Hugh McMurrin his aunt had told him about. He had moved from the address his aunt had given him. From this gentleman he received the addresses of other McMurrins, whom he visited and who gave him nearly one hundred and fifty names of his ancestors.

I thought of this as I sat once with a choice person who had been wronged, and in her anguish and anger had herself subsequently acted in error. Her sins were serious, innocent people had suffered, and the road back was difficult. But that was past. In contrition and humiliation she had followed the course to full forgiveness and had received it. There was a serenity of spirit and a sweet radiation of peace about her that made me think of parables of lost sheep and coin and son, and the language in them concerning the joy and rejoicing in heaven over “one sinner that repenteth.” (Luke 15:7.)
I said, “You really do understand the joy and rejoicing in heaven, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said with a warm smile. Then, not accusing and not condemning, “Brother Hanks, why isn’t there more rejoicing in the ward where I live?”
I have pondered that question in my mind and heart.

The summer sun was hot on my back, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead. I wedged a pole among the roots of the tree stump and was going to push on the end, when my mother called.
“Todd? Your father’s home!”
I dropped the pole and ran across the soft brown field toward the house. Ducking beneath a line of flapping sheets, I ran around the house and stopped short of crashing into our wagon.
“Here, son,” my father said with a smile. “Take this sack of flour and give it to your mother.”
As soon as we unloaded the wagon, I put the horse in the pasture and returned to the house. Father was giving Mother a bundle.
“Twenty yards of unbleached muslin,” he said as he handed her the paper-wrapped package.
She smiled. “Thank you, James!” she said happily. Then she undid the string and removed the paper. “You can add the string to the ball,” she said, handing it to me. “Then you can have the paper for your schoolwork.”
I wound on the piece of string, then sat and watched as the rest of the provisions were put away. At the very last, Father reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of cinnamon candy. He rumpled my hair then handed the candy to me. My mouth watered and I was about to break off a piece when Mother reminded me that it was time for lunch. At the table we bowed our heads while Father offered the blessing. As we ate, I listened to them talk.
“Ed Beesley was in town, Ellen,” Father said. “He offered to buy our land.”
Surprised, I looked from Father, who sat eating contentedly, to Mother, who looked like she was about to explode.
“And what was your answer?” she asked in an uneven tone.
“Well,” Father replied as he slowly took another piece of meat, “he would pay us a lot of money.”
Mother’s eyes began to widen as she waited to hear the rest of the story. My father, however, took his time in the telling. “You could have almost anything you’d want … with plenty left over,” Father added.
“James Putnam!” my mother scolded. “Will you please tell me what answer you gave him?”
Father looked up and his eyes danced with mischief. “I told him no,” he replied simply.
Mother’s face turned into a bright smile as she went to his side. She kissed him, and they both laughed. “James Putnam, sometimes I just don’t know what you’re thinking.”
I smiled and finished my lunch.
Father carried the ax as we returned to the tree stump. “So you got all the digging done,” he said, smiling. “Good! But tell me, Todd, did you practice your writing today?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “But I do hate it, Father.”
“You hate it!” he laughed. Why do you hate writing?”
I kicked at a clump of sod and shrugged. “My eye knows how it should look, but my hand does it all wrong.”
Father laughed again and lowered the ax to the ground. He took off his shirt and looked at the stump. “You mean your hand isn’t disciplined yet. Keep at it, Todd. Practice is good discipline.” He knelt beside the stump and felt around the roots. “You did do a lot of digging, but there are still some big roots down there. I’ll chop them loose then we’ll be able to get this stump out of here.”
He reached for the ax and I knelt beside him, watching. When the roots were chopped, he knelt beside me, resting.
“It’s a lot of work, isn’t it, Todd?” he puffed with a smile.
“Do you think you’d ever sell the farm, Father?” I asked. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
He was quiet for a minute, then he smiled. “Money comes and goes, but the land is forever. No, Todd, I’d never sell it. It will be our legacy to you.”
“What’s a legacy?”
“A legacy is something precious that you leave to someone you love. What you decide to do with it will be your decision. But people see things differently. Ed Beesley sees land as something you divide it into small lots and sell. But land’s a funny thing, Todd; even when you have a deed, it’s not really yours. You’ve just paid for the right to use it.” He picked up a handful of soil. “Smell that promise of all green and growing things, Todd. It’s a lasting responsibility, and long after we’re gone, the land will still be right here for others to use. While I use it, I intend to treat it kindly, and with discipline, just as God intended.”
“What do you think God intended?” I asked quietly.
“I think He wants us to dig out dead stumps … and grow things. You see, when we treat the land with discipline, it treats us kindly. We leave a stand of forest for the deer and rabbits that live in our meadow. If we had no meadow, Mother wouldn’t be able to make rabbit stew. If we grew no crops, we’d have little or nothing to eat. If we didn’t clear stumps and rocks or didn’t plant seeds, no crops would come up and we’d have no one to blame but ourselves. So we discipline ourselves to hard work, Todd, just as you can discipline your hand to write properly. Then as time goes by, you will see the benefits of your effort.” Father got up. We’ve rested long enough,” he said, “now let’s see if we can move that old stump and make room for growing things.”
He put his back to the pole while I gripped mine with both hands. Slowly we pried, then eased up. Then we pried again and pushed with all our might. With a groan the stump slowly moved upward as the ground yielded its hold. My father laughed as streams of sweat ran down his face. And soon the stump lay upside down on the ground. He clamped a hand on my shoulder and shouted, “We did it, Todd! We did it!”
“Hello!” Mother called as she came across the field. “I’ve brought a cool drink of water.”
She ladled a cup for me, then she and Father went to sit beneath the shade of a tree. I stayed to break clumps of dirt from the bottom of the stump. Then I dug my fingers into the damp brown earth and let it trickle through my fingers. It formed a soft mound of earth that I smoothed flat with my hand. Carefully I wrote my name with a stick. The lines were scraggly and uneven. But with practice … yes, I knew I could write better.
I scratched out my name and looked out over the fields. Long green lines marked our rows where parsnips and corn and carrots and beets were reaching up through the ground. Here and there a tree stump or a rock poked through the soil. It will take years to clear them, I thought. Then I smiled to myself. It’ll be a big job, but the land will be mine. And I’ll be proud to continue my parents’ work.