Gospel Story Finder

Shortly after Joseph F. Smith’s birth, a group of men broke into the Smith home. His mother Mary was ill at the time and his father Hyrum was in jail. Ransacking the house, the men entered the room where the baby slept and, without realizing it, threw sheets and blankets on top of him. They would have been surprised if they had known a baby was hidden by their actions.
Everyone was relieved when the men finally left the home. After a few minutes Mary remembered Joseph, and she and her sister Mercy ran to check on him. When they saw what had happened they were fearful the baby had smothered. Fortunately, their frantic efforts to revive him were successful.

In 1831, Ezra Booth witnessed the healing of Alice “Elsa” Johnson’s arm by Joseph Smith. That miracle convinced Ezra that Joseph was a prophet and led to his baptism and subsequent ordination as an elder in the Church. Several weeks later, Ezra went with other Church elders, along with Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon, to Jackson County, Missouri, USA (see Doctrine and Covenants 52:22–34). After they arrived, the Lord revealed to the Prophet that the City of Zion would be located in Independence, a small town in the county (see Doctrine and Covenants 57:1–3).
Ezra was very disappointed in hearing the news. Independence—which was still relatively undeveloped—seemed too rough to serve as the “center place” of Zion. “The prospect appeared somewhat gloomy,” Ezra explained, because the town contained only “two or three merchant stores, and fifteen or twenty dwelling houses.”1 How could Independence become the beautiful Zion he had heard so much about?
Ezra’s disappointment deepened when he realized that few Church members lived in Independence. Joseph had prophesied that a large congregation would exist in Independence. But when the prophecy hadn’t yet been fulfilled, Ezra began to question Joseph. He didn’t think Joseph conducted himself the way a prophet should, and he refused to share his testimony with the people of Jackson County.2 His disappointment slowly transformed into dissension.
The Lord asked Ezra to repent because he and others “condemned for evil that thing in which there was no evil.” The Lord said, “When these things are made known unto them, and they repent of the evil, they shall be forgiven.” (See Doctrine and Covenants 64:15–17.)
But Ezra never repented. Instead, he left the Church, became a bitter critic of Joseph Smith, and published a series of letters against him.3

President Gilbert We would like to share several experiences in our own lives that have helped us learn the importance of this pattern. During the midst of a very challenging academic season in my graduate studies, I was extended a call to serve in the Boston Stake Young Men's presidency. Having never served in that calling before, my first thought was that the assignment would basically entail planning a few dances each year at a stake center. But I soon learned to look up and see that the Lord had much more in mind. In fact, the Lord was looking for someone who could invest personally in the lives of the young men in Boston, young men who were new in the gospel and who needed to know the Lord's love in a personal and direct way.

Sister Gilbert Once President Gilbert looked up to see what the Lord expected, he realized this call would mean much more than a quarterly stake dance. It would mean every Sunday driving around the Boston Stake attending meetings, teaching, and getting to know those youth. It would mean attending weeknight youth activities in inner-city branches where there were not always local youth leaders available. It would mean having youth in our home and into our lives. Here is a picture of some of those youth sharing a meal in our dining room. President Gilbert loved those boys as if they were part of our family. He prayed for them. He knew them the way the Lord knew them, and he knelt at night asking how best to reach each of them. The Lord put great power into my husband because he was on the Lord's errand.

President GilbertNow, I want you to focus especially on the four boys pointing at the camera. Each of those boys would eventually come here to Rexburg and attend BYU-Idaho. Each of them would eventually serve a mission. And each of them would eventually meet a wonderful young woman and marry in the temple. This is a picture of all four of them in front of the Oakland Temple at a wedding that happened last summer in California. I love those boys. I love everything they have become. Mostly, I love that the Lord allowed me to serve them and to witness His power in their lives as He has shaped them into the men they are today.

The Lord once counseled the Church, “If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear.” Perhaps a Nolan Crabb-revised edition of that scripture might read, “If you can’t see the congregation, it’s easier to talk.” To illustrate very briefly (because this is Elder Ballard’s time and the Lord’s time and not mine) what the light of the gospel can do, may I share with you just one experience. Upon arriving home from my mission, I was called into the office of a great bishop in Ogden, Utah, where hands were laid upon my head and a very special blessing was given me. Three months later I was walking on this campus. I have been blessed by our Father in Heaven to such a degree that I have been able to learn, I would say, 95 or 98 percent of it. The mobility instructor who taught me the campus did not show me where the girls’ dorms are (I guess that is fortunate for some of you, particularly for my wife, who sits behind me here today), but I would say 98 percent of the campus is within my grasp thanks to the light of the gospel.

On one occasion when I was in a hurry to get to class, a good brother whom I know well came along and said, “I’ll take you with me.” As we were running along—wouldn’t you know it—he took a short cut I had never been through before, one of the two-percent areas; and then he stopped in the middle and said, “I’ve got to take off to my class now, but you can make it; it’s really easy.” I said, “I wish I had as much faith in me as you do,” and I proceeded to move. It was like being flown over to Tokyo, dropped out of the plane, and told, “Walk to the temple site.” I thought, “Right. How?” But I began to move, and as I did so I began to talk to the Lord. With the full power of my spirit I said, “Now, Father, the nearest person is about three hundred feet away, and this is BYU, where you don’t ruin your reputation by hollering, ‘Hey, come and help.’” People would think I was some kind of a freak, and I couldn’t afford that, so I said, “You’re the only one who can hear me at this point. Can you please get me out of this jam? I’m not exactly sure where I am.” As I began to move again, I began to hear a voice as clearly as I speak to you that said “turn left here” or “go right” or “stay straight.” I also felt a hand on my shoulder, and so real was that force and feeling that I turned around to see who was back there. I did not see anyone, obviously, but more significantly, I did not hear any footsteps either, nor did anyone speak. Within two minutes, brethren and sisters, I heard the sound of a familiar landmark. (The blind find their way by sound here at BYU. Hollywood counts steps in those movies about the blind, but can you imagine doing that on this campus? “Three thousand two hundred and forty-one, three thousand two hundred and forty-two”—we would go crazy. That would not work at all here; we have to use sounds and landmarks.) At any rate, when I heard that sound I knew where I was, and I was able to turn and enter the building where my class was.

As I did so, there were tears in my eyes because I heard another voice, and I thought, “My goodness, what’s my bishop doing down here?” Well, it wasn’t him. It was his voice, but he wasn’t here on campus that morning; I was merely hearing his voice as it was recalled from memory by the Spirit, repeating what he had said three months earlier in that blessing after my mission: “I bless you that in your time of trial the angels of God will come and encamp round about you. And though they will be unseen, they will serve as your guide lights, as your beacons, and as your friends to guide you in areas throughout this earth wherein you need their help.” That guidance comes physically as well as spiritually.

The United States Navy’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) is an intense 13 weeks of training for college graduates who want to become naval officers. The first week is especially difficult—seven days with a Marine drill instructor whose job it is to indoctrinate his new class with military discipline and attention to detail. During the training, the Navy’s core values of honor, courage, and commitment are taught and emphasized.
My class drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Cagle, stressed to us the importance of honesty and integrity. The consequence of making a mistake was a powerful chewing out—packed with choice words—by Cagle and a “mashing session” consisting of extra push-ups, jumping jacks, leg lifts, and eight-count bodybuilders. Often he would test us by putting us in situations in which we would have to stand up and admit that we had made a mistake just to see how we would act. If someone confessed, his punishment was usually reduced significantly. Still, no one wanted to stand out and draw more attention to themselves than was necessary.
Having been forewarned about what to expect at OCS, I was a little worried about being able to mentally and emotionally handle it. And knowing that many of my classmates probably would not have the same standards as mine regarding drinking, entertainment, and other distractions, I worried that I would not have the strength to stand up for my beliefs under pressure. So, as part of my preparation to enter OCS, I prayed and fasted for strength and asked for a blessing that everything would work out okay. I determined how I would react and what I would do if I found myself in a situation where I would have to defend my beliefs. Still, those drill instructors sounded pretty intimidating.
An opportunity to stand up soon came. Gunnery Sergeant Cagle had all my classmates packed into one of our rooms to show us how we were to fold our clothes and store them in our wall lockers for an upcoming inspection. He started his explanation, mixing it with a few colorful metaphors. At one point he stopped and asked if there were any of us who had not seen an R-rated movie. I almost didn’t raise my hand for fear of standing out, but I remembered what he had said about being honest as well as the commitment I had made to myself to stand up for what I believed. Much to the disbelief of Cagle and the rest of my class, I raised my hand. He stared at me for a minute then asked if I really hadn’t seen an R-rated movie. I answered again that I hadn’t. He told me he would talk to me later, then continued to justify his language to the class.
After he dismissed us for the evening, he pulled me aside and again asked me, in disbelief, if I really had never seen an R-rated movie. For the third time I told him, “No.” He then asked me if I found his language offensive. Taking a deep breath, I told him that, yes, I did find it offensive—a bold answer to my drill sergeant, but one worth any retribution I might receive.
My response caused him to pause again. He asked if I minded if he used that language as long as it was never specifically aimed at me. Again I told him, “Sir, I do mind, and I would prefer it if you would not use that kind of language. However, it is your choice, and I understand that some of it may come with your job.”
I guess he was taken aback, but he let me go. Later that night, and even for a couple of days after, my classmates would ask me what had happened. They told me they didn’t really like Cagle’s language either. They told me I was brave, then asked why I didn’t watch R-rated movies. Their curiosity gave me the chance to tell them about what I believed and about the Church.
Later in the course, we were reminiscing with Cagle, and someone asked him if anybody had ever answered his R-rated question like I had. He looked at me and replied that I was the first, and that I had totally taken him by surprise.
By the end of OCS, my classmates humorously dubbed me “rated-R.” Many of them were even more cautious about swearing in front of me. Because I stood up for my beliefs, I feel I earned the respect of not only my classmates but also my drill instructor.
I am grateful for the strength I felt from the Lord. I am also grateful I decided ahead of time what I would do if I had the choice to say nothing or stand up for my beliefs. I do know the Lord watches out for us and even turns sticky situations into missionary opportunities.

One Saturday evening in April, my fellow teachers and I attended a fireside that the branch had organized to celebrate the Prophet Joseph Smith’s birthday and the restoration of the Church. Members shared messages about the Prophet’s life and bore their testimonies and expressed their love for him. I would have felt the strength of their testimonies even without the help of the missionaries who sat behind us to translate.
As I listened, I reflected on how hard it must be to accept the story of a young American boy who knelt in a grove of trees so far across the world and spoke to God. And yet these faithful members felt the power of this message and embraced it.
I had been practicing with the branch choir, and I joined with them as they sang “Faith in Every Footstep” in Russian. There in front of me as I sang was proof of this marvelous work coming forth among all the children of men. With tears in my eyes, I added my testimony to theirs through music in their native language.
After the meeting, Evgeni Kharin, a member of our branch presidency, came bounding towards us American teachers and exclaimed with joy in his Russian accent, “Sisters, rejoice! The Church is restored!” It was as if I had heard the news for the first time.
The Church is still very young in Russia, and these members, who did not always have access to the gospel, understood what a privilege it was to know that Heavenly Father restored the gospel to the earth through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I realized then how much I had taken that knowledge for granted. I had a testimony of the gospel, but I had not felt like jumping for joy because of it—until now.
Since then, in times of spiritual weakness I think of the love of the Russian people and the light in Evgeni’s eyes as he told me to rejoice, for the gospel truly has been restored.

Tara listened as her mother talked excitedly on the phone.
“That’s wonderful, Kevin,” Mom said. Kevin was Tara’s older brother. “We’re so happy for you!” Mom continued. She was crying and laughing at the same time.

Mom hung up the phone and turned to Tara. “Kevin and Chrissy got a call from their social worker. He said that Family Services has a baby girl for them.”

Kevin and his wife, Chrissy, had not been able to have children. LDS Family Services was helping them to adopt a child.

“Will Kevin and Chrissy take the baby to the temple?” Tara asked.

Her mother nodded. “After the adoption is final, Kevin and Chrissy will have her sealed to them, just like you were sealed to us.”

Tara thought of something. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

“That’s right,” her mother said. “Aunt Tara.”

Tara grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

A friend of mine, one of the elect, was deceived. My friend served a mission and was an outstanding missionary. When she came home from her mission, she intended to do all the little things that had brought the Spirit into her life and had strengthened her on her mission. And for a time, she did.
However, she saw friends, many of whom were returned missionaries, come to church each Sunday but outside of church live as the world lives. They seemed happy. They were doing “fun” things. And their lifestyle didn’t seem to require as much work as hers did.
Slowly she stopped doing the little things that had brought her spiritual strength on her mission. She still had a testimony, but she told me that she had concluded, “If I was just attending my Church meetings, I was OK—I was on track.” Nevertheless, she said, “Spiritually, I was inactive.”2 As she lived as the world lives, one bad choice led to another, and soon she became pregnant.
Her unrighteous choices eventually caught up with her. She wasn’t happy, and she knew it. Fortunately, my friend recognized that she had been deceived, and she repented.
Her story highlights that even the best of us can be deceived. Furthermore, her story points out that we must constantly guard against deception. We accomplish this by doing the little things that bring the Spirit into our lives.
I am happy to report that today my friend is happy, is striving to keep the commandments, and is physically and spiritually active in the gospel.

On occasion, courage means to be with and stand by our friends. Other times it means that we have to stand a little apart, not judging them or feeling superior but choosing the right by doing something different.
When I was in junior high school, my friends were planning to go and throw eggs at cars during Halloween. I had good friends, but I knew that having fun at the expense of other people, including their property, wasn’t right.
“You know, this really isn’t what we want to do,” I said. But they were set on it, so I said, “Well, I’m just going home.”
I walked home that night, and my parents asked me why I was home early. When I told them, I knew my parents and Heavenly Father approved of what I had done—and it made me feel good to do the right.

Ryan and his family were so happy to arrive at their new home. They had been traveling for three days and were tired of being in the car. The moving van was soon unloaded, and the family worked hard together to get all of their things unpacked.
Ryan and his brother, Anthony, would be sharing a room. They carefully put away all of their clothes and toys. Ryan hung his favorite picture of Jesus over his dresser, where he could see it. The house was starting to feel like home.
A few days later, Ryan heard a strange sound coming from the kitchen. The old refrigerator they had brought with them was making a strange grinding noise. It smelled funny too.
“What’s the matter with our fridge, Mom?” Anthony asked.
“I think the motor is burning out,” Mom said.
By the time Dad got home from work that evening, the food in the freezer was starting to thaw.
Ryan could tell from the look on Dad’s face that he was worried.
“Dad, let’s just buy a new fridge,” Ryan suggested.
“That’s a great idea, but refrigerators are expensive,” Dad said. “We don’t have the money right now to buy a new one.”
“We could ask Heavenly Father to buy us a new one,” Ryan said.
Dad smiled and hugged Ryan.
“Ryan, why don’t we say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father for His help?” Mom said.
The family bowed their heads, and Ryan thanked Heavenly Father for their new home. He told Heavenly Father that their refrigerator was broken and asked Him for help to fix the problem.
In the morning, the refrigerator was not making strange noises or smelling funny anymore.
“Maybe Heavenly Father fixed our fridge,” Anthony said.
“Heavenly Father answers our prayers in different ways,” Mom said. “Maybe this is His answer.”
But by Friday the refrigerator sounded like it was about to stop working completely. Mom and Dad were worried, but Ryan said, “Heavenly Father always answers prayers.”
On Saturday the family was busy getting ready for Sunday. Mom folded clothes as the boys cleaned their room. Suddenly Dad announced that he was going to take the children for a walk. The children put on their shoes and left with Dad.
Fifteen minutes later, the children burst through the front door. “Mom!” Ryan shouted, “Dad bought a new fridge.”
Dad walked through the door with a big smile on his face. He explained to Mom that the neighbors up the street were having a yard sale and they were selling a nearly brand-new refrigerator—at a price Dad could afford. Dad had bought the refrigerator.
The neighbor helped Dad move the old refrigerator out and the new one in.
“Ryan, Heavenly Father answered our prayers,” Dad said. “He helped our old fridge run for a few more days. Then He helped us find a new refrigerator nearby. And He helped me earn just enough money to pay for it.”
“I know, Dad,” Ryan said. “Heavenly Father always answers our prayers.”
Ryan asked Dad if he could say another prayer. This time he wanted to thank Heavenly Father for the new refrigerator.

When Sister Kapp gave this talk, she called Gail Gardner, a 17-year-old Laurel, out of the audience to tell what the scriptures mean in her life.
Do you have a favorite scripture?
Yes. One of my favorite scriptures, one that has really helped me, is found in the Book of Mormon in Mosiah 4:27. It talks about man not having the need to run faster than he has strength, but that if he will be diligent, all things will come to him. That scripture helps me because I’ve always been really busy and have wanted to be actively involved in a lot of different things with family, church, and school.
A specific incident with that scripture happened just awhile ago. I was preparing to compete in a big speech tournament and was facing college entrance exams. I’d just been called to serve on our seminary council and was worried about responsibilities there. I also have one brother and six sisters that I really care about, and I wanted to spend time with them. I read through that scripture and others like it which said that all I needed to do was to set a pace for myself and keep up with it. I felt that my Father in Heaven had answered my prayers in that scripture.

The Provo Utah Sharon East Stake often goes camping or holds outdoor activities for part of its youth conference. But last year, the youth stayed in town and helped in the revitalization project of one of the pioneer neighborhoods in Provo.

Mark Stringham, 16, was on the youth planning committee. They were tossing around the idea of doing a service-oriented project. One of their leaders is involved in city government. He said there was a neighborhood that needed some help. Mark said, “The minute he said it, everybody’s mind just went, Boom. That’s what we need to do.”

The teens worked with an organization already involved in helping the residents improve their land and keep their homes in good repair. To make the project even more enjoyable, the stake invited the teens who live in the neighborhood to come to their youth conference. The young people didn’t know each other because they attended different high schools, so giving service together also became a time to gain new friends.

Brendan Wright, 17, said, “The theme of our youth conference was by helping others you can raise yourself. When you get here, it just explodes. It’s fun. You get to know people. You take pride in what you’re doing. This is my little section of the house. I’m going to paint it the best I can.”

The group not only painted houses, they helped cut down the high, dry weeds running along the railroad tracks. One spark from a passing train could start a fire, and the growth was so tall and dry, it could have caused major problems if it spread to nearby homes. Looking a little like they had been rolling in haystacks, because of the bits of dry grass sticking to their clothes and hair, one group had the weedeaters going full blast. Then passing motorists began to stop and tell them it looked good and how much they appreciated them helping out. The word was spreading with the good works.

Giving service is like dropping stones in a pond of water. From one small act, the ripples start to spread. One act of service creates ripples of hope and encouragement that spread through neighborhoods, communities, and towns.

The ripples are not just on the outside. The teens who made themselves get up early and participate found out that being of service did something for them as well. There is satisfaction in working hard, in joining your friends involved in good works, in making something better. Now if it were only a little easier to get out of bed.

Call the mayor’s office or city government. Ask if there is a person who coordinates volunteer efforts, and set up a meeting with them to come up with ideas.
Create a planning committee. Include both young people and leaders.
Identify everyone that needs to be contacted and what permissions will be required.
Select a day and time. Make sure there are no major conflicts with other church or school activities. Make sure everyone receives notification of the event at least two or three weeks in advance.
Plan in some fun breaks in the work schedule.
Make realistic plans. Make sure you can finish what you start.
Enjoy the good feelings that go with being of service.

For 67 years, Marjorie Pay Hinckley kept pace with her husband, President Gordon B. Hinckley, as he traveled the world. On 6 April 2004, her mortal journey ended. Surrounded by family and loved ones, Sister Hinckley quietly passed from this world to the next due to causes incident to age. Born on 23 November 1911, she was 92.
Often expressing surprise at the course her life had taken, Sister Hinckley often joked, “How did a nice girl like me end up in a mess like this?” In an interview with Church magazines several months before her death, Sister Hinckley said, “Well, it turned out better than I expected. It has been a good life.” Known for her caring heart and quick wit, she told Church magazines, “If we can’t laugh at life, we are in big trouble” (see “At Home with the Hinckleys,” Liahona, Oct. 2003, 32–37; Ensign, Oct. 2003, 22–27), and at her funeral services she was eulogized as “charity personified.”
As evidence of the countless lives she touched, thousands attended a public viewing, some of them standing in line outside on a blustery spring day for more than three hours. Thousands attended the funeral held in the Tabernacle on 10 April, and tens of thousands more watched on television and by satellite broadcast.
“She conversed with kings and queens. She loved little children,” President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, said of Sister Hinckley’s ability to relate to people from all walks of life. “There was no flaw in her character. … Like the Master, Marjorie went about doing good.”
“She had such a good life,” said President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “All of us would benefit from following her faith, commitment, and devotion.”
During the funeral services, the Hinckleys’ five children—Kathleen, Richard, Virginia, Clark, and Jane—shared quotes from Sister Hinckley and gave expressions of gratitude to their mother. Clark Hinckley read a letter written by President Hinckley to his wife after nearly 60 years of marriage. “My darling, … I have known you for a long time … and it has turned out as I had hoped it would. … Now we have grown old together. … And when in some future day the hand of death gently touches one or the other of us, there will be tears, yes, but there will also be a quiet and certain assurance of reunion and eternal companionship.”
Sheri L. Dew, former member of the Relief Society general presidency and biographer of President Hinckley, said that while 12 million members together cannot take Sister Hinckley’s place, each would be praying that President Hinckley would have the strength to carry on. She said that each member would try a little harder in order to ease the prophet’s burden.

Do you see her yet, Okorie?” The eight-year-old boy strained to see as far down the road as he could, hoping for the telltale cloud of dust that would signal the approach of their mother’s car. No sound of a motor could be heard over the rustling of palm trees and the calls of birds in the Nigerian rain forest.
“No, Bernice. Nothing yet.” Okorie sat next to his little sister in the shade of the school compound. “I’m sure everything is all right. Maybe she is just busy with baby Ikechi.”
Bernice nodded, unconcerned. “Or maybe she went to the market to buy food. I hope she brings home lots of yams again. They’re my favorite.”
Okorie’s stomach growled at the thought of the orange-colored sweet potatoes. He did hope Mum would hurry—it wasn’t like her to be this late picking them up after school. Everyone else had gone home long ago. The school was many kilometers from Owerri, the nearest village, and Okorie was starting to feel a little scared.
“Okorie! Look what I found!” Bernice held up a worn leather soccer ball that had rolled under a nearby bush.
Okorie grinned broadly. Here was one way to make the minutes fly by! Eagerly he joined his sister in kicking the ball around the yard.
They were having so much fun that they didn’t notice the box-shaped car until Mum pulled up in it. She parked it and turned off the engine.
“Okorie! Bernice! I am sorry that you had to wait for me such a long time!” Mum hugged them. “I was trying to do too many things in one day, and the time slipped away from me. Hurry now! I’ve left Ikechi with Sister Anya’s daughter much longer than I planned. Ijeoma is only eleven. It probably is hard for her to watch a baby so long by herself.”
The brother and sister jumped into the backseat of the old car. “Look at all those yams!” Bernice squealed, peering into Mum’s shopping basket.
Mum smiled. “If we hurry, we can have dinner ready before your father comes home.” She turned the key to start the engine.
Click.
Mum’s smile turned upside down. She tried turning the key again. Once more, there was only a click instead of the familiar noisy roar of the engine. Mum tried for several minutes to get the car to start, but it didn’t.
“What’s wrong with it, Mum?” Bernice asked. “Are we out of fuel?”
“No, no—I filled the tank only an hour ago.” There was concern in Mum’s voice. “But I did drive many kilometers today. Perhaps the engine just needs to rest a few minutes.”
Okorie and Bernice looked at each other and giggled. They had never heard of a car needing a nap before!
“What should we do while we’re waiting, Mum?” Okorie asked.
“Well, I have my Book of Mormon. Should we read our scriptures now instead of after dinner?”
The children agreed. Okorie loved listening to Mum’s voice as she read the scriptures. If he listened very carefully and tried to understand what the words meant, he always felt warm and happy inside. Sometimes the words puzzled him, but he still had that happy feeling. Mum said that that feeling was the Holy Ghost and that if he always tried to do what Jesus Christ would have him do, he could have that feeling all the time.
They started reading in the book of Ether, chapter twelve. It talked about several different prophets who were able to do wonderful things because of their faith in Jesus Christ. It talked about Alma and Amulek, Nephi and Lehi, and Ammon and his brothers. Okorie remembered most of those names from his Primary class. One story—about the brother of Jared—especially caught his attention.
“Mum, did the brother of Jared really make a mountain move?” Okorie asked curiously.
“It was not the brother of Jared who moved the mountain, my son, but Heavenly Father. I am certain that the brother of Jared had a good reason to move the mountain. He knew he couldn’t do it himself, so he prayed to Heavenly Father. Heavenly Father knew that what the brother of Jared was asking was good and that he truly believed Heavenly Father would help him. So Heavenly Father answered his prayer and moved the mountain for him.” Okorie thought about that as Mum finished reading the chapter.
“It’s been a really long time,” Bernice said then. “Should we try the engine again?”
Everyone held their breath while Mum again turned the key. When the engine failed to start, she put her head in her hands.
“What are we going to do?” Bernice asked quietly.
Mum shook her head. “I don’t want to leave you two here alone, but there is no one to help us for many kilometers, and it’s too far for you children to walk. It would take hours to walk there and return with help. Poor little Ijeoma—I have left her so long by herself with the baby!” Tears began to trickle down Mum’s cheeks.
Bernice and Okorie glanced at each other with wide eyes. They had not realized the seriousness of their situation before. What could they do?
“Mum,” Okorie said quietly, “I know what we should do.”
“What?”
“Let us say a prayer! I am sure Heavenly Father will make the car start—just like when He moved a mountain for the brother of Jared!”
“Prayers aren’t always answered right away, Okorie,” Mum sighed. “Someone will still need to look at the engine and fix what is wrong before it will work again.”
“No, no, Mum! If Heavenly Father can move something as big as a mountain, don’t you think He can make our little car work?”
Mum looked at Okorie’s shining eyes. She could see that he was very serious. “All right, my son, we will pray. Which of you wants to offer the prayer?”
While Okorie and Bernice decided which of them would say the prayer, Okorie saw his mother bow her head and close her eyes, as if she were saying her own private prayer. When Mum opened her eyes, the two children told her that they had decided to both say a prayer.
Bernice went first. “Heavenly Father, we are stuck out here all alone because of our broken car. Please bless Ikechi to be safe until we get back. And please help Ijeoma know how to take care of her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Now it was Okorie’s turn. “Heavenly Father,” he began, “please bless the car to start. We know that Thou canst do it. Everybody else has gone home—there is no one else to help us. Please, Heavenly Father, help us start the car and get home safely so that Mum can take care of us and the baby. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” Mama said. She put her hand on the key one more time. “Here is the big test.”
Rrrruuuummmm! The engine sprang to life and hummed happily, as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. Bernice and Okorie jumped up and down for joy.
“Okorie! You did it!” Bernice exclaimed.
Okorie stopped jumping long enough to solemnly shake his head. “No, I didn’t do it. Heavenly Father did it.”
Mum hugged both of her children tightly. “Yes, Heavenly Father did it. But I think it was your faith that really pulled us through, Okorie. You never doubted for a second. You are an example to me. Both of you children have made me a very happy mother.”
They all said a quick prayer of thanks, then drove home, singing all the way.

Who would ever think that a valuable lesson could be learned from a bottle? Certainly not me, until one memorable spring. That particular spring was special to me because if all went according to schedule I would soon reach a goal for which I had been striving for almost three years—receiving my Eagle Scout badge.
In addition to the joy inherent in this event, even more happiness would result because I would be able to receive the award with my best friend. We had grown up together almost from infanthood and were like brothers. Our experience in the Scouting program was no different. We had advanced from the rank of Tenderfoot more or less simultaneously and looked forward to culminating our efforts at the same Eagle court of honor.
Only one thing stood between us and this great event—our Eagle boards of review. We would be interviewed individually by a board of two or three men chosen from the leadership of our Scout district. These men were to evaluate us on our attitudes about such things as the rank of Eagle, the Scouting program in general, our country, and our Eagle Scout service projects. The service project was to be an extraordinary act of service to our community and was the final requirement in the difficult climb to the rank of Eagle. To ensure that my project would be accepted by my review board, I presented it to a few of the district leaders before going ahead with it. They assured me that it would be fine.
Finally the long-awaited night came when my friend and I were to go before our boards of review. The wait to be called into one of the interview rooms seemed endless. All I could think about was how hard I had worked for my Eagle and the fact that, in only a few moments, I would know the result of my painstaking efforts—success or failure.
At last, after an eternity of ten minutes, I was called in. My friend followed shortly after me into a nearby room. After talking for a few minutes, the board asked me about my service project. We discussed it in detail, and I then was asked to step out while they deliberated. The wait to go into the interview was nothing compared to this.
The heavy silence in the hallway was finally shattered by the opening of the interview room door. I was asked, along with my parents and Scoutmaster, to come back into the room. The leader of the board began by praising me for reaching this most advanced step in the Scouting program. Now all of this praise was fine, but in the back of my mind I kept imagining him saying, “But …” or “However. …” Little did I realize that this nightmare would actually come to pass. After a few minutes of polite admiration, the board leader said, “However, we don’t feel your service project was quite involved enough to merit awarding you the Eagle badge.” Never before had I felt slammed so low so fast. I was deflated. I have no idea what they said from that point on. I felt nothing, thought nothing. I do remember, however, being very self-conscious as I burst into tears in front of Eagle candidates as I passed the room in which I had so anxiously waited earlier. I also remember hearing that my close friend, with whom I had worked side by side for three long years, passed his board of review with flying colors. He would be receiving his Eagle badge at the upcoming Eagle court of honor—without me. The feeling of depression and humiliation that I experienced cannot be expressed in words. What I had considered to be a very small step in the staircase toward the rank of Eagle, indeed, a step that I had taken for granted, turned out to be the one that kept me from reaching my goal. Would I be able to bounce back from this seemingly insurmountable failure? Well, if my dad had anything to say about it, yes.
A couple of days later, my dad asked me if I wanted to go for a ride with him in the car. At the time, I had nothing better to do so I decided “Why not?” I had no idea where we were going, but this information was soon revealed to me. As we came closer to the nearby bottling plant, I realized that this, for some strange reason, was to be our destination. We entered the building at the head of the bottle-making process. Dad pointed out to me the huge stores of sand from which the glass was made. We were fascinated as we watched the large drops of white-hot, liquid glass fall into the bottle molds.
He took me through the entire process, explaining what each piece of machinery did to the bottles as they progressed toward completion. Near the end of the process, Dad pointed out to me a machine that performed a task called “annealing.” The annealer was a device that applied tremendous pressure to each bottle to determine if it was strong enough to be deemed “safe for public use.” Many bottles broke under the pressure. Dad suggested that I might want to take one of the discarded bottles as a reminder of the trip. I remember thinking, “Dad, this has been a very interesting excursion, but is it really necessary for me to carry a bottle around for the rest of my life to remind me of it?”
Little did I realize the significance that this bottle would come to hold. On the way home Dad turned to me and said, “Craig, what you have just gone through with your Eagle board of review is like your annealing process. You have been put under extra pressure like the bottles. What comes of this experience is up to you. You can either break because of this pressure, or you can withstand it and bounce back. If you do bounce back, you will have not only caught up with your friend, but later in life, because of the extra strength you will acquire as you overcome this additional obstacle, you will probably even surpass him.”
After my dad told me this, I thanked him. I was truly grateful that he had given me something to ease the pain. But it wasn’t until several years later that I came to appreciate all that this experience meant. I realized that my father was special, very special. He was not only willing to take the time to show me through the bottling plant, but it took a good deal of creative thinking to come up with the idea. There are some fathers who, under the same circumstances, would simply have said, “That’s too bad son. I really thought you’d get it” or, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to give it another try. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my golf game.”
The lesson I was taught at the bottling plant was, and still is, very valuable. Because of it, I went on to get my Eagle badge, and the discarded bottle I picked up that day has become one of my most treasured possessions. But more important is the lesson my dad showed me in simply noticing that his son had a problem and then setting out to help him solve it. And what a creative way of doing it! Because of the unusual, yet very effective method he used to teach me the lesson, I have remembered it for over nine years. I only hope that when I have children, I will be able to follow the example of my father and make the time to put first things first.

Lester and his mother were in their backyard, raking leaves. Actually, Lester’s mother was raking leaves. Lester was leaning on his rake.
“Lester,” Mother said as she continued to add leaves to her large leaf pile, “when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother.” Lester loved to tease his mother. “When you were a little girl, you didn’t have three maple trees in your backyard—you had three thousand, so there were zillions of leaves all over the place. But you never stopped raking. Not even for a minute. Not even if it started to rain. Nope, you didn’t stop until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “Three thousand maple trees! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up in the woods! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love jumping into leaf piles.”
“What? Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
“Well, I suppose it did,” Mother said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Was this the same mother who ordered him to stay away from mud puddles and who wouldn’t let him bring worms into the house? Was she teasing him?
“Yes, fun. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“All right.” Lester shrugged, trotted over to his mother’s leaf pile, and took a half-hearted leap.
Scrunch! Crackle! Crunch! The leaf pile had become a king-size, autumn-scented pillow!
Lester giggled. His mother was right. Jumping into leaf piles was a lot of fun. In fact, it was so much fun that Lester kept jumping, and jumping, and jumping, until Mother, who’d jumped in a couple of times herself, stopped and said, “Say, Lester, when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, the instant your mother told you to stop jumping into the leaf pile, you picked up your rake and started raking all over again. And you never stopped. Not even for a second. Not even when a hurricane blew through and you had to chase your leaves all over town. Nope, you didn’t stop until you were absolutely sure that every single one of those leaves was in your pile.”
Lester’s mother smiled. “A hurricane! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up on the coast! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl, I used to love making leaf houses.”
“What?” Lester scratched his head. “Didn’t that mess the leaf piles up?”
Lester’s mother laughed. “Well, I suppose it did,” she said. “But it was sure a lot of fun!”
“Fun?” Where in the world was the mother who scolded him for playing with his food, the one who nearly hit the ceiling the last time he tried out one of his original cake recipes? Why, she hadn’t even let him put his mustard-marshmallow delight into the oven! She must be teasing him!
“Yes, fun. Watch.”
Then, as Lester looked on in amazement, Mother began to rearrange her leaf pile. Before he knew it, the leaf pile had completely vanished, and his mother was standing in the center of four leaf-walls. Oh, the walls were no more than a foot high and a foot wide, but Mother seemed satisfied. “Well, Lester,” she asked, “what do you think of the house?”
“Hmmmm,” Lester said. “I’ve never seen a leaf house before, so I suppose it’s OK. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Why, how thoughtless of me!” Mother quickly raked an opening in the wall closest to Lester. “I thought someone was at the front door,” she declared, smiling. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Lester entered the leaf house.
“Could I offer you something to drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Lester said. “I’d love a chocolate milk shake. But where are you going to make it? I don’t see a kitchen.”
“A kitchen!” Mother said. “Why, Lester, you’re absolutely right. I don’t have a kitchen. Would you like to help me make one?”
Lester raced out the front door of the leaf house and grabbed his rake. Then he and Mother began to add on to the leaf house. They raked a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a front porch, and a back door.
The leaf house sprawled across the entire backyard. Lester had never raked so hard or so long in his life. “This is really some kind of place!” he said as he drank his imaginary milk shake. “Don’t you think so, Mother?”
“Lester, Lester,” replied his mother, who was leaning on her rake, “did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl—”
“I know, I know—don’t tell me, Mother. When you were a little girl, right after you finished building your leaf house, you started tearing it down. You had to, because in your heart you knew that those leaves didn’t belong all over your yard. They belonged in a nice, neat pile. So once again you began to rake. And you raked, and you raked, and you raked. You never stopped. Not even when it was after midnight and the worst blizzard of all time howled into your town, and two hundred polar bears wandered into your backyard and started fooling around with your leaves and you had to tell them to cut it out, because there was no way you were going to let perfect strangers mess things up, and the polar bears started blubbering, but you didn’t give a hoot, you just told them to scram and kept right on raking until every single leaf was in your pile.”
Lester was out of breath.
Mother smiled. “Two hundred polar bears! Goodness, Lester, I didn’t grow up that close to the North Pole! No, what I was going to tell you was that when I was a little girl and it started to get dark and I started to get hungry, I’d rake shut the front door of my leaf house and head for the backdoor of my brick house.”
“You’d just leave your leaf house?” Lester said, his eyes as big as full moons.
“Yes—I always liked to play in my leaf house the next day.”
“Wow!”
“Well, of course,” Mother said, “there was that one year when the strongest winds ever to blow across the face of the earth carried off one of my leaf houses while I was sound asleep. I couldn’t find a trace of it the next morning, even though I looked everywhere. But,” she chuckled, “other than that time, I always enjoyed playing in my leaf house the following day.”
Lester grinned. “You know, Mother, I think that I might have liked playing with you when you were little.”
“Why, thank you, Lester.”
Lester and Mother shut the front door of their leaf house, put their rakes away, and walked in the back door of their other house, where their dinner just happened to be in the oven.

For example, a sister missionary recently wrote to me: “My companion and I saw a man sitting on a bench in the town square eating his lunch. As we drew near, he looked up and saw our missionary name tags. With a terrible look in his eye, he jumped up and raised his hand to hit me. I ducked just in time, only to have him spit his food all over me and start swearing the most horrible things at us. We walked away saying nothing. I tried to wipe the food off of my face, only to feel a clump of mashed potato hit me in the back of the head. Sometimes it is hard being a missionary because right then I wanted to go back, grab that little man, and say, ‘EXCUSE ME!’ But I didn’t.”

Recently my sister, who is on a mission, sent a letter home that had a hint of discouragement in it. As I wrote back to her, I made sure I left a large part of the last page free so that I could fill it in with words of advice and encouragement.
After all, I had been there and understood what she was feeling. Surely I could come up with something profound on the subject. For a long time I thought about what I could say and, after drawing on my vast experience, finally sat down to finish the letter.
“Hang in there,” I wrote. “I love you.”

“You both know Elder Kempter, don’t you?” I asked. “I received a letter from him a little while ago, and among other things he said, ‘Have I got a story for you.’ It went something like this:
“‘Last night after holding a family home evening, we were getting ready to leave when this one girl came out to the truck and asked me if I wanted a goat. I told her it was probably too small to eat and I didn’t have any place to keep it. Now, I don’t know if you are aware of what offering a goat means, but afterwards I found out. Offering a goat is a way of proposing marriage for a young lady! I almost fell over with surprise when I found that out—but don’t worry, President, there is no attraction on my part!’

Just three months after James Boyd Martino joined the Church in 1968, a friend invited him to meet with a minister of another faith. The minister bombarded him with questions, only a few of which he could answer.
Although the experience shook him, 17-year-old James didn’t let the minister deter him—or his commitment to the Church. Rather, he says, “my testimony then was like a prescription medicine that has to be shaken to be effective. The experience motivated me to study the gospel and grow in my faith.”
Elder Martino, recently called as a member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy, says that studying the gospel has blessed him ever since that time.