Gospel Story Finder

I am a Beehive. Last month, I got my first CD of Church music. I listened to it a lot and downloaded it onto my MP3 player. One day when I got on the bus, there was no place to sit except in the back, right in the middle of the teenagers who say bad things. They were talking so loudly and using such horrible language that I couldn’t block them out. I had a feeling to get out my MP3 player and listen to my church CD. Once I did, the sounds and words around me immediately melted away, and I felt like I was in another place. I concentrated on the lyrics and felt happy. I’m sharing this story so that everyone can know that if you are in situations similar to this, you can listen to music that brings the Spirit, and you’ll feel better.

My dad taught us to work hard. We worked hard all the time, and it became a habit. We even worked on holidays! One year between Christmas and New Year, we built a mile and a half of fence out on the ranch in the snow. But my dad taught us how to make work enjoyable. He taught us a little song that said, “Sing as you work, and work will be play.” So we sang all the time while we were working, and that way we learned the joy of working hard and seeing a job well done. I have found throughout my life that being able to work hard is very important in anything we do.

Competing in fiddling competitions has been good for the girls. (Jesse is only four and does not yet compete.) They have made some good friends at the competitions. When Vanessa and Joanna competed in the same age group, occasionally Joanna would beat out her sister. Linda comments about Vanessa’s reaction, “I think Vanessa would rather that Joanna didn’t beat her, but when it happens she’s good about it. She says, ‘I’d rather have my sister win than someone else.’ “

Often their best friend beats them both. They honestly say, “Who could you want to win it more than your best friend?”

The competition, instead of creating a “killer” instinct in the girls, has taught them to value a person for what he is, not for how he does in a contest. They have learned to take the ups and downs of competing in stride. They know that when they come off the stage, all their friends will be talking and having fun no matter how they did in the competition. They get to know and like people as individuals, not whether they come in first or last.

I looked up as my Primary teacher asked me to read a scripture.
I read, “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed … nothing shall be impossible unto you” (Matthew 17:20).
Our teacher held out her hand and showed us a tiny mustard seed. I started feeling excited. I definitely had that much faith. So nothing would be impossible? What a great way to live!
The next day I went to school with big plans. Things were going to be different from here on out. No more working hard for good grades. Not with faith on my side!
My math teacher walked to the blackboard. “Take out your notebooks. We have a lot to review for the test tomorrow.”
I wanted to laugh out loud. Why should I bother paying attention? I had faith! I relaxed at my desk and ignored the lesson. Who knew school could be this easy?
That night after dinner I helped Dad carry dishes to the sink. “Have any homework tonight?” he asked.
“Nope.” I almost told him more, but I decided to keep it a surprise for now. He’d be so proud of me once he learned how much faith I had.
“Wow, lucky you.”
I smiled. Oh yeah. I was feeling plenty lucky, all right.
The next morning Tia ran over as I got off the school bus.
“Hi!” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t come over last night. It took me forever to study for the test.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. I didn’t study at all.”
“What?” Nathan said. He’d just joined us. “You didn’t?”
“Nope. I don’t have to study to get an A. I have faith! Just wait and see.”
My friends were impressed.
When I got my test score later that afternoon, though, all my bragging stopped. I got an F! I couldn’t believe it. An F, as in fail. What about all my faith? What had gone wrong? I knew my faith was bigger than that shrimpy seed. I hid my grade from my friends.
Later that night I sat at the kitchen table, still confused. Dad sat down next to me. “Something wrong?”
I took a deep breath and told Dad the whole story. When I finished, he nodded slowly and said something I’d never forget: “Faith without works is dead.”
Then Dad taught me how faith really works. I learned that it’s not enough just to believe in something. I have to act too. That means I still have to do my part.
I went to bed that night with my pathetic math test on the floor next to me. I looked down at the big, fat, red F on top of the page. Dad was right. Expecting to do well without doing any work is like trying to grow a mustard plant without even planting the seed in the ground.
After that day, whenever there was a test, I still had faith. But this time I had faith that Heavenly Father could help me work hard and study and do my very best.
With this kind of faith, nothing really is impossible!

This same sensitivity he enhanced manyfold through mixing with all types of people and through coming to know their problems. When he was twenty years old, George Albert Smith was engaged as a salesman for Zion’s Cooperative Mercantile Institution, traveling through Southern Utah with a companion known to history only as Jim.
One is impressed with the ability of the future prophet even then to mix well with all types of company. He entertained on occasion with his harmonica and guitar and kept himself in good physical shape by exercising with Indian clubs and dumbbells (occasionally giving an exhibition of his prowess with the same in some of the villages).
His sense of humor, which helped him open many hearts, was evidenced from time to time. A demonstration of this is shown in an incident on the journey involving a jug of whiskey that Jim had brought on the trip to share with his customers. This fact bothered George, when he discovered it, because of his own commitment to the principles of the Word of Wisdom. However, there was no sermon preached by him to his companion, no chastisement—just an idea for a great practical joke somewhere along the route of the journey. The chance came before the two left Provo, about fifty miles south of Salt Lake City. While Jim was away from the wagon, the jug was located and carried off secretly to a friend with instructions for him to empty the whiskey and to fill the jug with water. Then the jug was put back in its original place. Several nights later it was brought out by Jim and the secret was revealed: no whiskey, just a jug full of foul-smelling sulphur water—much to the amusement of President Smith, who often loved to retell this story and others when he himself was the victim of a practical joke.

Tom was eight and I was six when we saw our first rodeo. We drove to Saskatoon in our Ford truck and fought to sit next to Dad. It was a great journey for Tom and me, like a trip to Alaska—almost.
I don’t remember much of the day, except the ride and the barrel man (a barrel man dresses like a clown and distracts the bulls when the cowboys fall off).
Well, a bull had thrown some cowboy and the barrel man was twisting and dancing, pulling the big bull away from the guy on the ground. Then the bull turned fast, unexpected. The barrel man twisted again, sprinted, then dove into a barrel headfirst just as the bull knocked it across the arena floor.
I could feel the ground shake, even in the stands. There was silence. And then the clown stuck his head out of the barrel and blew the bull a raspberry. We laughed about that all the way home.
The next day the rodeo came to our backyard. “The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” game was Tom’s idea; and Leonard, our German shepherd, was as good a bull as we could have hoped for. Whoever played the bull rider would lie helpless on the ground as Leonard tried to bite his ears. Meanwhile, the barrel man hopped back and forth trying to distract the “bull.”
Finally, Leonard would take off after the barrel man and the two would race around our old, plastic garbage can until the “bull” got too close. Then the barrel man could dive in.
Tom and I took turns. Leonard could catch me, but not Tom. He was too quick. He was a great barrel man.
Tom even dressed for the part. He would paint his face and wear cutoff jeans and an ugly Hawaiian shirt with big red ferns plastered all over it. He looked like a real barrel man.
The years passed. Tom turned 14, and I was almost 12. Over those years my brother never lost his love of the game. We would play “Bull Rider and the Barrel Man” all summer, along with the rest of our summertime activities. Some nights we’d play well past dark, when the yellow glow of the porch light made us all look bigger than we really were.
“Getting late,” Tom said one summer evening, a Saturday. Leonard was asleep at our feet and dusk was approaching quickly. Behind us our shadows faded all the way to the house.
“You’re getting slower,” I said. “I mean, he almost got you that time.”
“Ahhhh,” Tom said, smiling. “I saved your life at least a dozen times today.” The red mud we have in Saskatchewan caked Tom’s face. It looked like barn paint had spilled and dried on him and his clown clothes.
“Church tomorrow,” I said. Tom nodded.
We looked out onto the prairie and didn’t say anything for a while. The wheat fields stretched unbroken to the start of the dark blue sky and I daydreamed. I thought about the prairie, how it could have been a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.
“One day I’m gonna be in the rodeo,” said Tom. “Be a real barrel man.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
Tom shifted from one leg to the other, then back again. He started rocking. He was always moving.
“We should ride over to the creek tomorrow,” Tom said. “And fish and stuff.” It was a strange thing to say. We never did anything like that on Sunday.
“Sure,” I said, though I really wasn’t too sure.
Tom brought his hand down on the side of his jeans, making a loud slap. “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed. “Maybe we can go early and catch us a tasty catfish.”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
Then I waited for Tom to say something else, but he didn’t. I didn’t know what Tom was thinking. Mom and Dad wouldn’t like the idea of us taking off, missing church, breaking the Sabbath. I hoped he’d forget the whole thing by morning.
Tom’s voice woke me the next morning. I looked over and Mom was feeling his forehead while he moaned and made a series of pitiful faces.
“Stomachache,” he growled.
“I’ll stay home with you,” said Mom.
“No, that’s okay.” He quickly added, “I don’t want you to miss church, Mom.”
She felt Tom’s forehead again and shook her head. “No fever. I’ll get you some cereal.” She left for the kitchen and Tom leaned close to me.
“Tell her you need to stay home too,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to lie,” I said, as Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t mind going to church. We can ride over to the creek tomorrow.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Tom was getting mad. “Tell her you’ve got the same thing or, um, or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Mom came back in with Tom’s breakfast.
“You’d better get yourself something,” she said to me. I didn’t say anything. I just sat frozen in my bed, looking at my feet.
Tom spoke up. “I don’t think he feels good either.”
“Your stomach hurts too?” Mom asked. I looked at her and saw the concern on her face. I wasn’t looking at Tom, but I felt his eyes on me. I didn’t want to make Tom mad at me, but I didn’t want to lie. And though I’d never thought about it before, I didn’t really want to miss church.
“Nah, I’m okay. I think I can go.”
Tom wouldn’t talk to me when we left, but as I walked by our room he mouthed the word “Baby.”
Tom didn’t say anything to me for three days. He left early in the morning and stayed at a friend’s house until dark. At supper, he wouldn’t look up from his food or talk to anyone. I’d never seen Tom that quiet. Usually he was a comic, full of life and words.
After breakfast and chores Thursday I climbed into our private den above the barn. Earlier that summer Tom and I had painted the walls with some leftover yellow paint and made our own furniture out of the paint cans and some broken fence boards. In the rafters there were a dozen sparrow nests. Dad said we could clean out the nests, but we left them alone. It was their room first. And they were part of what made it a great room.
Outside the wind was blowing across the endless brown prairie. It was whining through the cracks in the walls, stirring dust bowls on the floor. I was alone, and I felt that loneliness swelling in me. I choked on a sob and shook my head.
“No blubbering,” I whispered, and picked up our half-finished U.S.S. Lexington model from the table. Tom and I hadn’t gotten around to putting in the bridge yet.
“That’s mine,” said Tom. I spun around. Tom stood in the doorway.
“It’s mine too,” I said.
Tom slumped down on one of our paint-can chairs. “Ah, you can have it.”
I put the model down and looked up at the sparrows. “Ain’t you going out today?” I asked. Tom didn’t answer. “We could go to the creek if you want.”
“Nah,” he said.
I looked at him. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Ever since Sunday you act like I gave you a wormy apple.”
Tom couldn’t help smiling; it was, after all, one of his funny lines. “Weirdo,” he said. Then he put his mean face back on. “Why’d you weasel out of skipping church?”
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel good about it.”
“Nobody has a right to plan something then weasel out,” Tom said.
“Yeah, I guess I did do that. I should’ve told you before that I didn’t want to skip church.”
Tom nodded. “I don’t know. I guess I understand. I mean, I sort of missed it. Priesthood and even Sunday School. I probably shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for going.”
Leonard started barking in the driveway and I looked out. “The bull wants to play,” I said.
“The Bull Rider and the Barrel Man,” Tom said. “That’s what church is like.”
“Huh?”
“Going to church. It’s like when I play Barrel Man. I have the barrel to jump into if the bull is gonna get me. I know it’s dumb, but going to church is kind of like that. Every week you go to church, you get protection. You do something you know is right, and then you feel good. If you don’t do it, you feel bad and take it out on everyone else. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so. If you don’t jump into the barrel you get mad at your brother.”
Tom laughed. “Right.” He got up and started to pace back and forth in front of me. “Sorry I’ve been a jerk to you,” he said.
“Forget it. You getting happier yet?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m feeling better now.”
He made a few more turns up and down the den floor, pacing faster and faster each time. Finally he said, “You look like you could use a bull ride, Shorty.” And then he grabbed me in a head lock and we spun around. The old Tom was back. He pushed me aside and bounded down the steps three at a time. I could hear his “Ha, ha, ha” from the yard, and I ran to the window. He was in the driveway, flipping Leonard’s ears. Then they took off, chasing in a complete circle around the barn.
They made a pass below me, still running hard. Leonard was barking, and Tom was laughing his usual, annoying laugh. “Ha, ha, ha, let’s go, bull rider!”
Beyond the noise and excitement below, beyond the driveway and the fence line, I looked to the wheat fields that seemed to stretch forever. I thought about the prairie, and how it could be a lonely place if I didn’t have a brother like Tom.

I was baptized on 20 December 1995. Before I was baptized, I read the Questions and Answers section of the Liahona (English) in the November 1995 issue, entitled “I Don’t Feel the Spirit. Is There Something Wrong with Me?” I was touched because I also hadn’t felt the Spirit during Church meetings. But after I read the readers’ answers and testimonies, I tried harder to listen to the sacrament meeting speakers and I felt the Spirit as I never had before. I now make an effort to become interested in what speakers have to say in Church meetings.
Lorna Penuliar,La Trinidad Second Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake

I smoothed my skirt and took a deep breath. It sounded like the meeting on the other side of the door was coming to an end. The bishop stood in the doorway and shook hands as people filed out. He turned to me as I sat in a chair outside of his office, and he smiled broadly.
“Come on in, Erica,” he said with his hand extended.
I stood and shook his hand, suddenly feeling older than 12 years old.
Bishop Morris was a kind man whose love you could always feel. I felt more at ease as soon as I saw him. I told myself to quit being nervous, to remember that interviews with the bishop are regular occurrences once you are in Young Women. Still, I just didn’t know what to expect.
Soon the bishop had me talking about my family, school, and friends. He asked about my goals. And then we talked about testimony.
He asked me to share what I believed with him.
Suddenly my nervousness returned. I had only shared my testimony once before. So I gripped the chair handles and started with the first thing that came to mind—Joseph Smith. I told Bishop Morris that I believed Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ. I said I believed that Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon. I expressed my belief in this book, my gratitude for my family, and my admiration of our current prophet.
Before I knew it I had tears in my eyes. Goosebumps began to spread from my toes upward as I started talking about the Savior. I told the bishop that maybe I didn’t know a lot yet but that I did know that Jesus Christ lived and died for me.
Until this moment, I hadn’t recognized my own testimony. I read my scriptures and said my prayers, and I knew I had felt the Spirit, but I didn’t know I had a testimony of my own. When I finally bore testimony, I knew.

It was in March of 1845 that Thoreau decided to move out on the banks of Walden Pond and spend two years trying to figure out what life was all about. He settled on a piece of property owned by his good friend Ralph Waldo Emerson. He purchased an old shanty from a railroad worker, and tore it down. From the lumber from the shanty and the lumber from the woods, he constructed his own cabin. He kept meticulous financial records, and he concluded that for a home and freedom he spent a mere $28.12. He planted a garden, where he sowed peas, potatoes, corn, beans, and turnips to help sustain his simple life. He planted two and a half acres of beans with the intent of using the small profit to cover his needs. Small profit indeed: $8.71.
Thoreau lived quite independent of time. He had neither a clock nor a calendar in his little cabin. He spent his time writing and studying the beauties and wonder of nature that surrounded him, including local plants, birds, and animals. He did not live the life of a hermit—he visited the town of Concord most days, and he invited others to come into his cabin for enlightening conversations. When the two years ended, he left his cabin behind without regret. He considered the time he had spent there a proper amount of time to accomplish his purpose—to experience the spiritual benefits of a simplified lifestyle. He also felt he had other life experiences ahead of him. It was time to move on and explore other opportunities.
From his experiences at Walden Pond, Thoreau determined that there were only four things that a man really needed: food, clothing, shelter, and fuel. I would like to expand on each of these four basic needs of life, as well as the spiritual benefits of a simplified lifestyle.

Back home, on December 20, Sis. Odulio began to experience labor pains. She was rushed to a downtown Manila hospital, only to be turned away for lack of accommodations. Rushing again, this time to a city-owned hospital along Roxas Boulevard, they faced the same situation. The labor pains were coming at short intervals, and the only alternative left was to proceed immediately to an expensive private clinic. Though hard-pressed financially, Bro. Odulio had no other choice. On December 21, another boy was added to his family of 3 boys and 2 girls. He was named Jacob.
Our story goes on. Three days before Christmas, two friends unexpectedly came to the clinic bearing goodwill and love which the Odulios will long remember.
Without a word being said by the Odulios that their savings were not enough to cover the maternity bill, the two gentlemen left the clinic only after assuming a major portion of the bill—truly a gift of the magi for a couple turned away by two hospitals for the birth of their sixth child, Jacob, who was sealed with them in a temple of the Lord.

Most recently, my husband and I fasted with a desire to know and act on the Lord’s will about our next steps. The very next day, I found out my insurance had recently began covering a fertility treatment we were unsure about. We aren’t always great at recognizing answers, but we felt that Heavenly Father had given us clear guidance. We decided we’d better act on it and got started right away.
We are hopeful that this treatment will help me get pregnant soon, but we are doing our best to focus our faith on the Savior. As President Nelson said, “[The Savior] paid the compensatory price and provided the power for you to move every mountain you will ever face.”4 Sometimes it feels like we are moving our mountain one shovelful at a time, but we are starting to see how those shovelfuls are adding up to something wonderful. Faith in Him is helping us move our mountain of infertility, whether that means I get pregnant soon or we continue to dig for a while.

“Here she comes!” Shelly hissed, and the three girls flattened themselves against the ground.
The wild sweet peas rustled, and Julie jumped.
“Shhh!” Deena whispered. “If she sees you, she’ll turn you into a frog.”
Julie knew it wasn’t true, but she shivered anyway. Cautiously she peeked through the tangled weeds. Across the street she saw the hunched figure of the old woman trudging toward her mailbox. Overgrown shrubbery caught at the sleeve of the woman’s patched sweater as she made her way down the path from her house to the side of the road. The girls watched as the old lady’s gnarled hand tugged at the rusted latch. She peered inside, then closed the little door. With her shoulders hunched even more, she turned and walked empty-handed back to her house.
Shelly rolled over on her side and propped her head up with one hand. “Why do you think she looks for mail every day when she never gets any?”
“Do you really think witches get mail?” Deena asked.
“Oh, Deena, she’s not really a witch,” Julie said.
“She is, too!” Shelly protested. “Why else would she live all by herself in that old run-down house? She never talks to anyone, and did you notice her hair? It looks kind of green under that old scarf she wears. Of course she’s a witch!”
Julie shrugged. The stories they made up about the witch who lived down the street had added a little excitement to the long summer afternoons, but Julie’s mother had told her that Mrs. O’Hearn was just a lonely old lady who had no one to look after her. Sometimes Julie felt sorry for her and even considered being Mrs. O’Hearn’s friend. But she was afraid. Maybe the woman really is a witch, she thought.
“Let’s go back to your place, Julie,” Shelly said as she scrambled to her feet.
The three girls cut across Julie’s front yard and glanced around quickly before sliding into the space between the garage and the neighbor’s fence. Blackberry vines curved overhead to form a tunnel. It was their own special place.
“Want to play truth or dare?” Deena asked.
“OK,” Shelly replied.
“It was my idea, so I go first. Truth or dare, Shelly.”
“Dare.” Shelly always chose the dare.
“I dare you”—the other two girls learned forward eagerly—“to go knock on the witch’s door.”
“You have to come, too,” Shelly said.
“Oh, we’ll come, but only as far as the corner of the hedge.”
From the street Mrs. O’Hearn’s house was barely visible, but the back door was only separated from the alley by a wooden porch. The three girls paused at the hedge that marked the boundary of Mrs. O’Hearn’s yard.
“Go on, Shelly,” Deena prodded.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Julie said hesitantly.
“Aw, come on, Julie, don’t be such a sissy. Besides, all you have to do is hide,” Deena said.
“I know, but …” Julie stopped. I know it’s wrong to tease the old woman, she thought, but I don’t want Deena and Shelly to make fun of me.
Shelly darted forward. Her feet echoing against the wooden planks, she pounded on the door, then raced back to where the girls hid behind the laurel hedge.
The door opened, and the old woman looked in their direction. “You young rascals stay away from my door!” she shouted, shaking her fist. The door slammed as she went back inside.
The girls scampered back to their hideout to continue their game.
“It’s my turn now,” Shelly announced. “Julie, you’re first, and this time you have to pick a dare.”
“Yeah, Julie,” Deena agreed. “You never want to take a dare.”
“I dare you to go look in the witch’s window,” Shelly said before Julie could protest.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Deena applauded.
“That’s not fair,” Julie argued. “She’ll be watching.”
“She’ll never see you,” Shelly said,” not if you’re quiet.”
“Julie’s a scaredy-cat. Julie’s a scaredy-cat,” Deena began to chant.
“OK, OK, I’ll do it.”
“That’s better.” Shelly led the way back to the alley. When they reached the hedge, she began to whisper directions.
“Just follow the hedge to the Petersons’ yard, then go along their fence to that hole. You can squeeze through there, and you’ll be right under her window. All you have to do is climb that apple tree and look inside.”
As Julie crept along the hedge and Peterson’s fence, she wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans. She hoped Mrs. Peterson would see her and chase her out of the yard, but nothing happened. She reached the gap in the fence and looked back.
“Go on!” Shelly motioned.
Dropping to her knees, Julie edged forward, her heart pounding. She rose to her feet, and directly in front of her, on the other side of the tree, was the house. She glanced toward the alley. Shelly and Deena were hidden from view. It was very quiet, and Julie felt totally alone.
They’ll never know if I don’t do it, she told herself. But even as she thought it, she moved toward the tree.
Julie’s sneaker-clad foot slipped once on the damp bark, but soon she reached the level of the window. Curiosity overcame her fear, and Julie rubbed the dirty windowpane with a dampened finger and peered inside.
The room was dark. At first she could only make out dim outlines of furniture. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the old woman hunched over a table, her head resting on her arms. At first Julie thought that she was sleeping. Then she saw the shaking shoulders and realized that the woman was crying.
Julie slid down the tree, thoroughly ashamed of her actions. She retraced her path and joined the other two girls in the alley.
“What did you see?” demanded Deena.
“Was she making witch’s brew in a kettle?” Shelly asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Julie snapped.
“Well, what did you see?” both girls chorused.
Julie hesitated. “Nothing,” she said at last. “It was too dark.”
A voice called out.
“That’s my mother,” Julie said. “I’d better go.” She ran home, glad to get away from the house and from her friends’ questions.
“Want to get cleaned up and go shopping with me?” her mother asked.
As they drove toward town, Julie kept remembering Mrs. O’Hearn bent over her kitchen table, shaking with sobs. She was sorry that they had teased her.
While her mother shopped, Julie paused at the greeting card counter. She picked up a small card with a picture of a raccoon in a mailbox. It seemed to have a smile on its face, and one paw poked out as if it wanted to shake hands. Julie looked at the card for a long time. “Can I get this?” she asked when her mother came by.
Her mother glanced at the card in Julie’s hand, and smiled. “It’s kind of cute, isn’t it? All right, we can buy it. Just tuck it into the shopping cart.”
When they were home from the store, Julie pulled the card from the shopping bag. Just looking at the furry little animal made her want to smile. She slipped the card into its envelope and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. Then she went outside.
The next day Julie hunched down in the tall weeds of the vacant lot and waited. The sun grew warm, and the back of her neck began to itch, but Julie stayed motionless as she continued to watch the house across the street.
At last Mrs. O’Hearn came down the path. She opened her mailbox and started to turn away. Then she stopped and looked inside again. Slowly she reached into the box and pulled out a small white envelope. The gnarled fingers shook as she opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside.
Julie saw Mrs. O’Hearn open the card and read it, then carefully slide it back into its envelope and into her pocket. The old woman looked across the street for a moment, smiled, then turned to make her way back to the house.
Julie rolled over on her back and watched the clouds skim across the blue summer sky. Aloud she recited the words that had been written inside the card: “Have a nice day. From your Secret Friend.”

Siabebe, a young Kuna Indian girl, sits beside her mother on the earthen floor of their palm-leaf hut. Like her mother, she takes a needle, thimble, and scissors and sets to work with brightly colored cloth. For many weeks now, Siabebe has clipped and tucked and stitched. She’s eager to finish her work, yet careful to make perfect stitches she and her mother can be proud of.
In one more week, Siabebe will attend an important celebration with her family and all the people of her village. She and her mother will wear the lovely mola blouses they are making. Siabebe’s is a tutu (flower) mola; her mother’s a yauk (sea turtle) mola.
Two special ceremonies are held for every girl who grows up in a Kuna village: when she officially leaves childhood behind and is declared an adult (usually around the age of twelve) and another time a couple of years later when she is presented as being ready for marriage. Then the village members celebrate with music, dancing, and storytelling. It is during these ceremonies that the finest molas are worn. And it is for Siabebe’s own coming-of-age party that she and her mother have worked so hard to make theirs the loveliest of molas.

I plead that we will not procrastinate and that we will heed our Lord’s commandment to live the law of the tithe. I know of two missionaries who visited a very poor family. The family’s home was made of pressboard and sticks, with a dirt floor and no electricity or beds. Each evening the father, a farm laborer, spent his entire day’s wages on groceries for dinner. Departing from the family’s humble home, the senior companion thought to himself, “The law of tithing will surely be a stumbling block to this family. Perhaps we shouldn’t bring it up for a while.” A few moments later, the junior companion, who had grown up in similar circumstances in his own country, voiced his own thoughts aloud: “I know the principle of tithing isn’t taught for four more discussions, but can we please teach it the next time we visit? They need to know about tithing now because they need the help and the blessing of the Lord so much.” This missionary understood that “there is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” The Lord wants to bless this family and anxiously awaits their obedience so He can.

Others along the way helped me on my personal journey with the Book of Mormon. My first seminary teacher shared her experience as a young missionary wanting to know if the Book of Mormon was true. She told of reading King Benjamin’s speech and in her mind’s eye seeing King Benjamin standing on his tower and hearing him deliver that great sermon. Her testimony, accompanied by the Spirit, left a deep impression upon my mind.
I remember the summer before entering college having the chance to go to Monument Valley to work on the first high school built there for the Navajo people. As I was about to leave home, my father asked me if I was going to take my Book of Mormon. I hadn’t thought to, but I paid heed to his question. I remember lying in my bunk late at night at the construction site and feeling the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon.
I remember as a young missionary in the Great Lakes Mission coming to that great knowledge and absolute testimony that the Book of Mormon was another witness of another nation that Jesus is the Christ and that this Church is true. From those experiences there burns in my heart today that divine witness of the message of the Book of Mormon, of Christ as our Savior and Redeemer, and of the Restoration of His Church in these latter days.
I want to share with you some of the great blessings the Book of Mormon can bring to us. The Book of Mormon can and does change lives. After our son John received his mission call to Japan, he said to me, “Dad, before I enter the Missionary Training Center, I am going to read the Book of Mormon twice.” I said to John, “That is quite a demanding goal.” I felt his resolve and made the decision to follow his example. I began reading early each morning. A few days later when I came home from work, John said to me, “I caught up with you today.” I asked, “What do you mean?” His response: “I caught up to where you are in the Book of Mormon. You left it open on your desk.” The next morning after my reading, I felt inspired to turn about 150 pages past where I was. I left my Book of Mormon open where he could not miss it and went to work. After a meeting that morning, I checked my voice mail. The very first message said, “Yeah, sure, Dad!”
Why this story? As I watched my son read from the Book of Mormon, I began to see a special change in his life as he prepared to enter the Missionary Training Center. That experience has anchored my son to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I recall an experience with a zone leader in England who came to me during the lunch break at zone conference. He said, “We are teaching a lady who is blind and nearly deaf. She wants to know if the Book of Mormon is true. What shall we do?” I did not have an answer at that moment, but I said, “I will let you know after our conference.” During the afternoon session I had the distinct impression come as to how to help her. After the meeting I said to the zone leader, “Have this sister hold her copy of the Book of Mormon and turn its pages very slowly. When she has done this, have her ask if it is true.” Though she could not read nor hear the words, she felt the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon, and it changed her life.

For example, Julia Mavimbela shows charity in her community service in Soweto, a township outside of Johannesburg, South Africa. She works to eliminate illiteracy and other social problems among her people. In addition to working with national and community leaders, she began gardening with children, many of whose parents were out of work because of the political disorder. These children began showing their parents gardening skills, which led to many new family gardens. As others watched them establish gardens, they, too, became involved. Julia not only helped alleviate temporal distress, but she also met the social and spiritual needs of many members of her community.

As a new member having received my patriarchal blessing, I would read it from time to time. One day I read something that I had never read before. I cannot remember the exact words, but I was told how the Lord had preserved me for this time. In that instant my mind went back to the late 1950s when I worked for a private firm repairing railway wagons. Twice a week about eight of us would pile in the works’ van to be dropped off at places where wagon repairs were needed.

I realise now that the Lord had protected me, I did not show my patriarchal blessing to my wife, but I told her about what I had read. However, the following week when I read my blessing again, looking for the phrase about Lord preserving me for this time, it was not there. I read and re-read it, but it was not there. To this day I cannot explain this, but I do believe that our Heavenly Father is watching over us and preparing the way we go.

I was recently told of a woman in Idaho Falls, a widow. Over a period of 15 years she acted as proxy in giving the temple endowment to 20,000 individuals in the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple. She completed her 20,000th endowment on a Friday and returned on Saturday to do five more. She passed away the following week.
Just think of what this one little woman did. She performed these vicarious endowments for as many people as are assembled in this Conference Center this morning. Think of the reception she must have received on the other side.

My father was my best friend while I was growing up. He had a great influence on my life because of the way he treated my mother. I never, ever heard him speak a cross word to her. He treated me and the rest of our family with the same kindness.
He often took me fishing. We also worked together at our family’s sawmill. After working hard all day, we sometimes went on evening picnics. Spending time working and playing together created a real family bond.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!