Gospel Story Finder

Sam watched the red ball soar toward him. He caught it just like he had practiced with Dad. It was his first day at footy practice and his first year playing on a real team.
At the end of practice, Sam waved goodbye to his teammates.
“See you next week!” one of them said.
Sam climbed into Mum’s car to go home.
“I just found out that the games for your footy team are on Sundays,” Mum said. “What do you think we should do?”
Sam was quiet. If he went to church on Sunday, then he wouldn’t get to play footy with his team. But if he went to his games, he probably couldn’t make it to church. He wanted to do both! “Could we go to the games that are before church?” he asked.
“It takes us an hour to drive to church. Plus, we need time to get ready before we go,” Mum said.
Sam knew Mum was right. He had a little sister and baby brother. It always took a long time to get everyone ready for church.
“But the most important thing is that we want to do things on Sunday that remind us of Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father,” Mum said. After a minute she added, “Maybe you could go to footy practice on Thursdays and go to church on Sundays.”
Sam looked out the window. He liked going to church and learning about Jesus on Sundays. He knew that one way to be like Jesus Christ was to keep the Sabbath day holy. But he would be sad to miss his footy games.
Sam didn’t know what to do. Then he had an idea.
“Let’s pray about it,” said Sam. “I’ll say a prayer while you keep driving.” He folded his arms and closed his eyes. It felt a little strange to pray in the car. But he knew he could pray anywhere. In his prayer, he explained to Heavenly Father what happened.
“Please help me make the right choice,” he said. When he was done, he said amen. Mum said amen too.
Sam had a warm feeling in his heart. He knew what to do.
“What do you think?” Mum asked.
“I want to go to practice on Thursdays and church on Sundays.” Sam smiled. “I know it’s important to make Sunday special.”
“That sounds like a great plan,” said Mum.
That week, Sam went to footy practice on Thursday. On Sunday, he went to church. He learned more about Jesus. Sam was glad he got to go to both church and footy, even if he couldn’t play in the games. It felt good to keep the Sabbath day holy.
This story took place in Australia.

On Easter Sunday we had a unique lesson in our Young Women class. We were each given a paper to write down what happened during the days of the Savior’s last week in mortality. For the day of the Resurrection, we came together with all of the young women and listened to a narration of the final hours of the Savior’s life. As it neared the end, I stood up with several other young women to hold up portraits of the Savior.
When I stood up, I noticed that Meghan, an autistic girl in our Laurel class, was crying. I asked a friend to take my place, and I went over to Meghan. After the presentation was over, Meghan began filling out the space on her paper to describe the Savior’s last day. As she finished, my heart was filled with love and humility as I read what she had written from her heart—simple, innocent, and pure: “He will be with us forever.”

Everybody knows that pine trees come from plain old nuts. And when the Munns family decided to grow pine trees to pay for their missions, some people thought the Munnses were just that—nuts.
To begin with, April and Ranier Munns of Longwood, Florida, have 13 children. That’s pretty unusual by many people’s standards. Then there was the matter of the big pine tree nursery they started in their backyard. That’s not exactly conventional, either. But then, the Munnses have never been that concerned about what’s conventional.
What April and Ranier were concerned about was the fact that theirs was a family with great potential for missionary service. They also knew that they could end up with three or four sons on a mission at one time. So during one family meeting, they discussed the possibility of setting up a tree nursery in the three-and-a-half-acre vacant pasture behind the house. It seemed an ideal solution, since they had three or four years to earn the needed money.
Once they decided on a project, things just started to happen. From a nursery in Sanford that was going out of business they bought, for 50 cents apiece, about 400 slash pines planted in one-gallon buckets. The trees were small, only 12–18 inches tall, but the Munnses knew that with hard work and care, the potential was there.
Then the family purchased about 5,000 bare root seedlings from the Florida Department of Forestry and bought used three-gallon buckets to plant them in. “We had a family night and got the assembly line started,” Leah says.
“One person put dirt in the bucket,” Jacob continues, “one person used the planter Grandad made for us to make a hole in the dirt, and another put the seedling in and passed it to the next person who added more dirt and watered the tree.” Then the responsibilities of weeding, fertilizing, and watering the seedlings were assigned and divided among the family members. “All of us worked,” Daniel recalls.
Ryan remembers, “My friends thought it was a little bit bizarre that we worked so hard to go on a mission instead of applying the money to college or using it for a car. We’d work in the trees in the mornings and get green stains on our hands that we couldn’t get out before class. I remember somebody asking me if I had a disease because of the green stuff on my hands.”
Eventually they had 6,000 slash pines and 700 oak trees. Jacob reports, “Raising the trees was not easy. Dad would wake us up before school to work an hour before we got ready for classes. And in the afternoons and Saturdays, when the rest of my friends were bowling, fishing, camping or going to movies, parties, and football games, we were picking weeds.”
Daniel says, “Our friends called our house ‘The Plantation,’ and those who came to stay overnight or for weekends knew we had to get up early on Saturday mornings. But they didn’t mind. Most of them didn’t have chores at their own homes, so they had fun riding the tractor around the nursery, hauling dirt, and filling buckets. They’d move trees and work along with us.
“Rain or shine, we’d always be down there. We liked working in the rain best because then you didn’t perspire and the weeds were easier to pull. Sometimes when we picked the weeds out of the pots, we’d find surprises. Like huge piles of ants—we’d be working fast and not even looking at our hands and wouldn’t realize until the ants started biting that we were in a fire ant bed. We occasionally found snakes and spiders. Once we caught a six-foot albino rat snake.”
An opportunity arose for them to sell the trees when they were three to four feet high for seven or eight dollars apiece. But the family decided to continue with the nursery as the boys were not yet old enough for missions. It was at this time that all 6,000 trees were transplanted into 15-gallon containers. That meant handling each tree, one by one, getting the dirt for them, and changing the sprinkler system. In the following two years, the trees grew from four feet tall to between eight and twelve feet tall.
Despite the hard work, the family recalls the Mission Pines Nursery as a positive experience, and they laugh as they recall the difficult times.
Collin tells how “one morning Dad said we all had to get up because 75 percent of the trees were on the ground. Some of the rain and winds from Hurricane Andrew had come through during the night. Luckily, slash pines just bend with the wind.”
But there was as much fun as work. Sometimes they’d take a break from the heat by jumping into the pool or by spraying each other with the hose. And there was still time for high school sports, Scouting, and the boys’ favorite activity of all—fishing. In fact, it was during this time that Collin caught a 250-pound blue marlin.
Finally, the spring arrived when the family contacted potential buyers. Many trees went to Atlanta, Georgia, in preparation for the 1996 Summer Olympics and to the Miami area for reconstruction after Hurricane Andrew. Others were sold to Disneyworld or to the state of Florida. Ranier says, “We had prayed about the trees and taken good care of them. The largest landscaping nursery in Florida, which never bought from other nurseries, came down and looked at our trees. It was the first time they bought directly from another nursery and put their labels on them.”
The Lord answered their prayers. The Munnses were able to sell, not only the trees, but the mats, the old three-gallon buckets, the stakes, and the bamboo. The only thing left in the pasture was the large patch of brown grass where the trees used to stand.

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my missionary companion, Elder Granville, informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway even though she wasn’t a member.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened. “Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she said.
“Flowers,” I said, “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers,” she interrupted. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the basket of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior companion I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the Missionary Training Center.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Trés bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us, they’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Trés bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned. “And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tous les jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she said. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for awhile.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed, when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! and she’s asking questions, good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.” If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior missionary companion. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactive members coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney” it began. “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

What’s wrong?
I heard Miguel and Julia talking about me.
They said I was annoying. And they don’t want to be my friend anymore.
I’m really sorry.
You know, they’re just missing out! I always have fun with you.
Seriously! You even make chores fun somehow. You have the best jokes! And the best ideas. And you’re nice to everyone.
OK, OK. You don’t have to say all that.
Hey, I’m just telling the truth.
Thanks, Paolo. You always know what to say. I feel a lot better.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

Hironui Johnston, 16, and his sister Merirani, 15, spend a lot of time at the Papeete Tahiti Temple.
They aren’t performing baptisms for the dead, except for a couple times each year. They aren’t even inside the temple. They’re on the temple grounds—not gardening or doing some other service project—just sitting or walking around. But always looking.
“I love to see the temple,” says Merirani. “We have a lot of good memories here.”
Hironui and Merirani go to the temple grounds because of how they feel there. It’s a place where they can get away from the world.
“Our neighborhood isn’t bad, but there are some bad kids there,” says Hironui. “So we spend time here. It feels so good to be on the temple grounds.”
Sometimes their whole family comes, whether for a family home evening activity or just to spend time together.
“Sometimes when we aren’t getting along, we come here to put things right again,” Hironui says. But even when the Johnstons aren’t at the temple, the temple is part of their lives.
“I think we have a picture of the temple in every room in our house,” Hironui says. “It’s beautiful. It reminds us that our family can be together forever. Seeing it helps us feel the same peaceful spirit.”
Hironui and Merirani are part of the first generation of Tahitian members who don’t know what Tahiti was like without the temple, which is now more than 20 years old.
“We watch our parents go to the temple,” says Hironui. “We see them living worthy to go. We see how their temple attendance blesses us, and we choose to follow them.”
That love for the temple, which began with the Johnstons’ parents, has been passed on to Hironui and Merirani. And it won’t end there. Their actions can pass it on to the next generation.
“I want to have children someday,” says Merirani. “I want to teach them that the temple is the house of the Lord and that if we are faithful we can be together forever because of the temple.”
“The Lord has given us a real blessing by building His house in our land,” Merirani says. “But the greatest blessing is that through the ordinances of the temple, our ancestors and families can be sealed together, and we can all live with our Father again. I would do anything for that blessing.”

Feeling good about yourself is very hard, especially for teenagers, since we are at an age when almost everything makes us feel different and awkward.
I did some things to help myself. I started taking ballet and jazz classes. I also turned to people I knew would lift me up and never put me down. I asked my best friend, my parents, and church leaders to write down a list of things they saw that were good in me, and I started working at improving myself in those areas. I started feeling better about myself and people felt more comfortable around me, so I had more friends and that made me feel better too.
Remember no matter what you or anyone else thinks, Heavenly Father thinks you are great!
Astrid Sieger, 15Dallas, Texas

The living room lights were making patterns on the front lawn when I pulled in the driveway. I gathered my books and practice uniform and staggered toward the door, hoping I would find my family about to say the closing prayer for family home evening. Instead the strains of a Primary song greeted me. Home evening was just getting started.
I dropped my armload on the kitchen table and tried to ignore the number of books I’d brought home. Of all nights to have so much homework. Of all nights for Carrie Willard to ask for a ride home and then insist we stop to look at the sweater in the window of Robertson’s Department Store. We’d probably still be there if Paula hadn’t finally said, “Hey, it’s Monday night. Don’t you guys have family home evening or something?”
I hope she caught the grateful look I threw her. Paula, the only nonmember in the group, knows the conditions of the pact I signed with my dad after getting my driver’s license. It states that I agree to drive carefully, treat the car with respect, keep it clean, keep the tank filled, and attend to my family and Church responsibilities. Specifically, that means keep my room clean, do my assigned household chores, and attend Church meetings, seminary, and family home evening.
All this for the privilege of driving the old clunker so I don’t have to beg rides wherever I need to go. I am allowed infractions, but only rarely, or I lose my driving privileges.
“Kathy,” Dad called, “we’re waiting for you.”
I dropped into the nearest chair. “Sorry,” I said. “Practice ran awfully late tonight and I’ve got a ton of homework.”
Dad just smiled and stood up to begin the lesson. “A thought came to me today. It just wouldn’t go away, so I decided it must be inspiration and that I would go with it for tonight’s lesson.”
I swallowed a groan. My sister Gayle rolled her eyes heavenward. Dad’s inspirations usually meant we were in for something unexpected.
“On the way to work this morning,” Dad continued, “I heard a radio program about first aid. It seems too few people know what to do in an emergency.” He paused for effect.
“It just so happens there’s a section on first aid in the Family Home Evening Resource Book. Now who knows what to do in the case of shock?”
For the next half hour we acted out various scenarios. Dad treated Darrell for shock as the result of a traffic accident. My little sister Linda cut her arm on a broken bottle and Mom controlled the bleeding. Then Darrell saved Dad from drowning in the ocean between the bookcase and the couch and revived him. Gayle and I went out to dinner where we each managed to save the other from choking by using the Heimlich maneuver.
It was all rather silly and fun, and as usual we learned something. When we’d finished, Dad announced he’d signed us all up for a CPR class the first Saturday of next month. Gayle and I sighed. One more thing to fit into our busy schedules.
We had strawberry shortcake for refreshments. I took mine to my room to eat while I studied. Mom came in later and found me with my nose resting in the margin of my vocabulary book. I’d finished my math problems and written an essay, and I knew most of my vocabulary words. I’d have to study biology in the morning while I curled my hair.
My hair refused to cooperate in the morning and it got more attention than my biology, but I still had the noon hour. I gathered at a corner table with the usual lunch group and tried to memorize all the bones in the body while everyone else criticized the food and exchanged lunches. I was barely listening to the conversation, so I missed whatever it was Kenny Jamison said that made everyone else shout with laughter, especially Paula. I’ve noticed lately that Paula pays particular attention to anything Kenny says.
Suddenly, through the lunch room sounds, I heard something else—a sound so soft that I shouldn’t have been able to hear it above the noise and laughter, but I did. I glanced up to see Paula with her hand at her throat. There was perspiration on her forehead and she seemed to be turning a bluish color, just as Gayle had pretended to last night. Except this was for real.
Almost without thinking I jumped up and pulled Paula to her feet. I circled my arms around her from behind and tried to find the place to fit my fist. It had all seemed so easy last night with Gayle. But Gayle had been laughing all the while, not actually choking.
I pulled my fist back with my other hand in four sharp thrusts. Nothing. All the noise and laughter at our table stopped, but around us it continued. I closed my eyes and prayed, “Please, Heavenly Father, help me.”
I pulled again, four quick movements a little harder than the last. A bite of Paula’s peanut butter sandwich flew from her mouth like the cork from a bottle, just as the resource book had said it would. I felt her lungs fill with air. Then I began to cry.
Pandemonium broke out at our table. As soon as Paula had enough air to breath she was crying too. Several students patted me on the back. Someone had called the principal and the school nurse, and they took Paula off to the nurse’s office. The bell rang, but I didn’t follow everyone back to class. I dropped my head down on the table and tried to stop crying.
“Aw c’mon now, is that any way for someone who just aced a biology test to act?”
I lifted my head to see Mr. Spencer, my biology teacher, sit down next to me. He patted my hand and smiled. “It’s standing policy in all my classes. Anyone who can successfully demonstrate the Heimlich maneuver can skip their next test. Of course finding a volunteer for the victim is usually the hard part.”
I started to cry again.
He handed me a tissue. “Hey, hey, I’m only teasing. Mr. Williams said you could go home, Kathy. You’ve had enough excitement for the day. Do you need someone to drive you?”
I dabbed at my eyes and shook my head. “I’m okay. Thanks for letting me skip the test.”
The smile slipped from his face, leaving it serious. “Thank you, Kathy. You know you may have saved Paula’s life. How is it you were so quick on the Heimlich maneuver?”
“My Dad … last night … it was inspiration …” I was crying again.
“Go home, Kathy,” Mr. Spencer said. “Tell me about it some other time.”
I stopped by my locker and got the rest of my books. I thought about Dad and home evening as I walked home. And then I thought about Paula. She had moved to our school last year, and from the beginning we’d been good friends. We liked so many of the same things—volleyball, hot Mexican food, track. Neither one of us cared about being up on the very latest styles and fashions. Paula was comfortable just being who she wanted to be.
When she first moved, several of the kids tried to get her interested in the Church, but Paula politely informed them she had her own church. She and I kind of agreed not to talk about religion. She came to an occasional activity with me, and I went places with her family. Once just after I met Paula, Mom had challenged us in a home evening lesson to write our testimony in a Book of Mormon and give it away. The testimony I wrote was for Paula, but I had never given the book to her. That copy of the Book of Mormon still lay in a drawer I rarely opened. It seemed to accuse me every time I saw it. I wanted to give it to her, but I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize our friendship. I loved Paula as much as a sister.
“Kathy!”
I’d been so intent in my thoughts I hadn’t seen my mother’s car pull up.
“Are you all right, honey? The school called and Paula’s mother called. I’m so proud of you.” She gave me a big hug and I started to cry again.
“Mom,” I said when my voice was under control. “Can we go over to Paula’s house later this evening? I didn’t get a chance to tell her that I learned the Heimlich maneuver in home evening last night. And besides, there’s something else I need to give her.”

I don’t think it’s any 14-year-old girl’s dream to find herself in a dusty barn, hoisting a rusty shovel, cleaning out a smelly horse stall. But there I was after school every day until I was old enough to get a different job.
It definitely wasn’t my ideal situation to work during high school, but I understood then that if I ever wanted a job I actually liked—one that didn’t involve cleaning up after animals—I needed college, and to go to college, I needed money. I knew that for me, education was the right step toward a (hopefully) fulfilling career.

Performance of duty, regardless of the sacrifice involved, is a part of dealing justly with oneself and others. Early in the history of this valley Joseph W. McMurrin was placed in charge of guarding some of the leaders of the Church. At a meeting in Social Hall in Salt Lake City, an intruder under a claim of authority tried to enter the hall; and Joseph W. McMurrin, being true to his trust to guard the servants of the Lord, restrained him from going through the door. President Heber J. Grant relates that the intruder “finally got his hand loose and took his pistol and, pressing it against Brother McMurrin’s body, fired two bullets … through his vitals. Those bullets lodged just under the skin in his back. He was attended by Dr. Joseph Benedict who told Joseph W. McMurrin that no man could live after two bullets had passed through his vitals, and then added: ‘If you wish to make a dying statement you should do so immediately.’

“I went with John Henry Smith to Brother McMurrin’s home and saw where the flesh was burned away around those terrible gaping wounds. I saw where the bullets had gone clear through him. I heard John Henry Smith say, ‘By the authority of the Priesthood of the living God which we hold, and in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ, we say that you shall be made absolutely whole, and that there shall be no physical weakness left upon your body because of these terrible wounds that you have received while guarding the servants of the living God.’”

On November 21, 1931, President Grant concluded, “Joseph W. McMurrin is alive and well, and has never had any physical weakness because of those terrible wounds.” (Gospel Standards, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1969, pp. 310–11.)

Elder Didier remembered another lesson he learned as a young man: “One day while I was shooting a BB gun at some cherry trees in our garden, I heard the noise of shattering glass, and I knew that I had broken someone’s window. I hid in my room, imagining that the police would come and arrest me. Then I decided to do the honest thing. I rode my bike to the house with the broken window. When I rang the bell, a man came to the door. Trembling, I said, ‘I came to see if by any chance you have a broken window. If you have one, I’m sorry, for I am the one who did it. It was an accident.’
“The man said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, young man, I do have a broken window.’ And to my surprise he added, ‘I admire your courage to come and tell me. Not many young men would have done that. I’m proud of you. Telling me is enough. I’ll repair the window myself.’ Then he shook my hand!
“It was an experience that I will remember forever because I learned that it’s always best to be honest, even when you’re afraid.”

by Shirley F. Berlin
It was the night of the annual basketball game between the “Young Men” and their “Old Men” church leaders in the 30th Ward, Ogden Utah East Stake. In the stake center bleachers, ward members, families, and friends excitedly shouted encouragement to both teams.
Bob Blair of the Old Men had just connected, closing the Young Men’s lead to one point at 16–15, with 4:41 left in the second quarter.
“We’re going to walk away with it—take it from the coach,” Darold Rawson, Sr., of the Young Men said confidently.
The competition had begun five years before when the youth were planning a fund-raising project. They challenged their priesthood leaders to a game of basketball, certain that they could easily beat such out-of-shape old folks. But the Old Men won! A surprised group of Aaronic Priesthood boys immediately planned a comeback. They would have another game next year, and the next, and the next.
Over the years, the boys had grown stronger and taller, and their leaders had grown … well, older. The Young Men had won three times, and their leaders had won twice. This one could be anyone’s game.
Earlier in the evening, the excitement started as the Young Women introduced the players on each team with words from original songs. The Old Wives Cheerleaders waved their pom-poms. Dressed in jeans rolled to mid-calf, with shirts emblazoned with big “O’s”, they were poised for the grand entry of their husbands.
As the Old Men burst energetically through their “We’re the Greatest!” banner, the crowd went wild.
Then, all eyes turned to the opposite corner where the Young Men were eagerly waiting their turn behind the banner reading, “We’re #1.”
Unexpectedly, Zan Treasure casually tore an opening through which the boys stepped with dignity, one at a time. Then Mike Ward ceremoniously placed some steps a few feet from the basket and stood at attention. Suddenly, Jim Berlin streaked past and went up for a spectacular slam dunk. The fans roared as the Young Men sprang into action. Following the tip-off, Darold Rawson, Jr., quickly scored the first point.
Bishop Arlo Ward, who has played in all the games, said, “They’ve been highlights for me. They are an opportunity for the Young Men to really get the best of their leaders. They haven’t always done it, but as they have prepared and developed, they have given us a challenge. The games bring out a closeness that you don’t always get.”
When asked how many practices the Old Men had before the game, Bishop Ward smiled. “Zero. But we’re so good we don’t need any.”
However, his counselor Gary Saunders didn’t sound so confident. He admitted that when the Old Men heard that the game would be played on the large stake center floor instead of the small one in the ward cultural hall, “We decided to play with two teams—one defense and one offense so we wouldn’t have to run up and down that big court.”
The Young Men hadn’t had many more practices than their elders. Term papers, final exams, jobs, and dates interfered. However, some mornings at 5:30, the more eager ones jogged. On moonlit nights they played ball in the driveway of the home of three participating brothers. But even when the boys weren’t actually practicing, they were “psyching up.” In fact, one night after the youth had been boasting in the Elliott Berlin living room, Brother Berlin commented, “There’s enough hot air in here to dry a corn field.” But they won anyway.
All of the original Young Men will be on missions, married, or will have “graduated” to Old Men status by the next game. New loyalties will have to be formed as rivals become teammates. A different group of hopeful young players will challenge their leaders, and an enjoyable tradition will carry on.
Visitor Brenda Gilbertson summarized the feelings of many when she said, “I’m really impressed with your ward. You do such fun things. I can see why your boys stay active.”
Indeed, the 30th Ward surely demonstrates that a ward that plays together stays together.

Little Willie Splasher wasn’t big enough! Take the day Teacher Hushposher said, “Who can reach the top library shelf?”
Peter Brown said, “I can.”
Jack Santos said, “I can.”
Meg Nash said, “I can.”
And Little Willie Splasher said, “I can’t.”
You can believe that Little Willie Splasher was miffed. And he looked glum. But he said nothing. Peter Brown, Jack Santos, and Meg Nash cleaned the library shelves for Teacher Hushposher.
Take the time Teacher Hushposher thumped on the desk and declared, “Will all the children who can reach the top of the blackboard please stand.”
Peter Brown stood up.
Meg Nash stood up.
But Little Willie Splasher didn’t!
You can believe that Little Willie Splasher was miffed. He looked glum. But he said nothing. And Peter Brown, Jack Santos, and Meg Nash cleaned the blackboard for Teacher Hushposher.
One day, Teacher Hushposher stood up in front of the classroom and announced, “I need three nice, tall children to be tall pine trees in our school play. Let me see, who can that be?”
“Me!” cried Peter Brown.
“Me!” cried Jack Santos.
“Me!” cried Meg Nash.
“Not me!” mumbled Little Willie Splasher.
You can believe Little Willie Splasher was miffed. And he looked glum. But he said nothing. Peter Brown, Jack Santos, and Meg Nash were beautiful tall pine trees for the school play.
So it’s no wonder Little Willie Splasher decided that being little was like being good for nothing! And the more Little Willie Splasher thought about it, the more unhappy he became. That’s why Little Willie Splasher went to school one Monday feeling gloomy. He went to school on Tuesday feeling like a rotten egg!
But leave it to foxy Teacher Hushposher. He called Little Willie Splasher in from recess. Now when Teacher Hushposher called you in from recess, you were in trouble! So you can believe poor Little Willie Splasher was pretty scared when he faced Teacher Hushposher. Especially since Little Willie Splasher had no idea what kind of trouble he was in!
Teacher Hushposher cleared his throat. He took a long, hard look at Little Willie Splasher and said, “What is your problem?”
“Why nothin’. Nothin’ at all,” Little Willie Splasher replied.
“Come, come now.” Teacher Hushposher said. “I haven’t seen you smile for a week. And you never speak unless you are spoken to. There has to be something wrong.”
At first Little Willie Splasher insisted there wasn’t, but finally he blurted, “It’s just that I’m never big enough to do anything.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Teacher Hushposher grinned. “Someday you will find out that being little is no problem at all. Now run along and play.” So Little Willie Splasher hurried outside to play, but his heart wasn’t in it.
It was that very afternoon, right in the middle of spelling, that someone let out a shriek and cried, “Myrtle the turtle is gone!” Everyone gasped at the empty bowl on Teacher Hushposher’s desk.
“Tut, tut, now,” Teacher Hushposher exclaimed. “That turtle must be right here in this room.”
As Teacher Hushposher looked all around and under everything, the class did, too. It was Jack Santos who spied Myrtle the turtle in the corner under the reading table.
“I’ll get her!” cried Peter Brown, who was used to being big enough to do everything. He tried. And he tried. But he couldn’t! For Peter Brown was too big to squeeze in between the table and the supply cupboard where Myrtle the turtle was snoozing.
“I’ll get her!” cried Jack Santos. “I’m thinner.” So he tried. And he tried. But he couldn’t! For he was too big, too!
“I’ll get her!” Meg Nash cried next. “After all, I have the longest arms.” So she tried. And she tried. But she couldn’t, because she was too big and her arms weren’t long enough!
Teacher Hushposher frowned. “If we only had a little fellow who could squeeze in there and pick Myrtle the turtle up, our problem would be solved,” he said.
Little Willie Splasher’s heart was pounding. His bright little round face was smiling. And before Little Willie Splasher knew it, he heard himself say, “I’ll get her!”
And Little Willie Splasher, who was never big enough to do anything, got up and did something no one else could do because they were too big!

One day I was feeling down and I remembered something someone told me: “If you don’t know that Heavenly Father loves you, ask Him.” So I did just that. I didn’t hear a small voice say, “Yes, absolutely” or “Of course I love you,” but I did feel prompted to read my patriarchal blessing. So I pulled it out.
Before I read a single word, I was overcome with emotion. I felt the Spirit testify to me in my heart boldly that my Heavenly Father loves me and that my patriarchal blessing is not just a blessing about the future but also a blessing of love and comfort whenever I need it.

I was recently assigned to preside over a stake conference at the Salt Lake Granger West Stake in Utah. During this event, I met a stake president who has diligently developed his ability to discern the promptings of the Holy Ghost through righteous living and daily repentance. As part of our ministering efforts, we coordinated visits to three households. Upon completing our final visit, we found ourselves with approximately 30 minutes remaining before our next engagement. As we traveled back to the stake center, President Chesnut received an impression to visit one additional family. We both agreed to follow this prompting.
We proceeded to visit the Jones family, where we discovered Sister Jones confined to bed due to illness. It was apparent that she needed a priesthood blessing. With her permission, we administered to her. As we prepared to depart, Sister Jones asked how we knew of her urgent need for a blessing. The truth is, we didn’t know. However, our Heavenly Father, who was aware of her needs, did know and inspired President Chesnut to visit her home. When we are receptive to the guidance of the still, small voice, we are better equipped to more effectively minister to those in need.

Working with Spanish-speaking investigators is an experience shared by Elder Santiago Tinon from Chicago, Illinois, and Elder Alejandro Flores of E1 Paso, Texas. Originally called as English-speaking missionaries in the Utah Salt Lake City South Mission, the two elders are now working exclusively with Spanish-speaking people from Mexico, Guatemala, Venezuela, and El Salvador. In one month alone, this missionary pair had six baptisms. One of them was a young Mexican woman who had come to Provo, Utah, to study. She smoked cigarettes heavily but accepted the challenge to read the Book of Mormon. By the third discussion, she was converted and readily gave up her smoking. She was an example, Elder Flores says, of how well the gospel is accepted among Hispanics.

Eta’s mom owns a dessert bakery on their island. Eta and her older sister, Talai, love to share with their teachers and leaders and with people who might be having a hard time. Sometimes they go for a drive with their mom and give cookies and other treats to people they see on the street. It makes people so happy, and it makes Eta and Talai happy to share. They get more joy from sharing food from the bakery than from eating it themselves! They are both learning to bake as one of their Children and Youth goals this year, so they always have treats to share.
Eta says, “I love sharing with others because it makes them glad, and it makes me glad. I know that’s what Heavenly Father wants us to do.“
Eta followed Jesus by sharing with others. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus helped others.

Perhaps a personal experience will help to illustrate the point. When I was a young resident physician at Boston Children’s Hospital, I worked long hours and traveled between the hospital and our home in Watertown, Massachusetts, mostly by bicycle since my wife and young family needed our car. One evening I was riding home after a long period in the hospital, feeling tired and hungry and at least a bit discouraged. I knew I needed to give my wife and four small children not only my time and energy when I got home but also a cheery attitude. I was, frankly, finding it hard to just keep pedaling.
My route would take me past a fried chicken shop, and I felt like I would be a lot less hungry and tired if I could pause for a piece of chicken on my way home. I knew they were running a sale on thighs or drumsticks for 29 cents each, but when I checked my wallet, all I had was one nickel. As I rode along, I told the Lord my situation and asked if, in His mercy, He could let me find a quarter on the side of the road. I told Him that I didn’t need this as a sign but that I would be really grateful if He felt to grant me this kind blessing.
I began watching the ground more intently but saw nothing. Trying to maintain a faith-filled but submissive attitude as I rode, I approached the store. Then, almost exactly across the street from the chicken place, I saw a quarter on the ground. With gratitude and relief, I picked it up, bought the chicken, savored every morsel, and rode happily home.
In His mercy, the God of heaven, the Creator and Ruler of all things everywhere, had heard a prayer about a very minor thing. One might well ask why He would concern Himself with something so small. I am led to believe that our Heavenly Father loves us so much that the things that are important to us become important to Him, just because He loves us. How much more would He want to help us with the big things that we ask which are right? (see 3 Nephi 18:20).

Sister Winder A friend of mine in Salt Lake City is suffering from a debilitating disease. She rides in a wheelchair and drives a car especially equipped so that she can do her visiting teaching. She will pick up her companion, then drive to the home of a sister. The sister will come out of her house and sit in the car while my friend does her visiting teaching. She is such a bright and loving spirit that neighbors will often come and visit around the car.

At age 13 I was called into Bishop Murray Holt’s office, and he extended a call to me to serve as the president of the deacons quorum. He told me I needed to go home and pray about who my counselors should be. He taught me that the Lord would help me decide. He did. I then learned about counselors, and I began to see why the Lord has His Church directed by presidencies, not just presidents. I loved my counselors in the deacons quorum, and we prayed and worked hard to help the boys in our quorum. Bishop Holt taught me the pattern of presidencies and taught me how a presidency should operate and function in the Lord’s Church.