Gospel Story Finder

One day when I was in the first grade, I started to feel sick. I remember limping as I walked home from Primary. Before long, my head began to ache terribly and my throat hurt, as well.
At first, the doctor thought that I had strep throat, but even though I took medicine, I continued to get worse. Finally my parents took me to another doctor. He told them that I needed to go to the hospital in Salt Lake City right away.
I was frightened. I thought that I might have polio. Everyone knew about polio in those days. Many people died from it. Other people were crippled for life. Every parent and child feared it.
We arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night. A nurse met us at the door and whisked me away from my parents. She took me into a room where they did a lot of medical procedures; some of them were very painful. Finally they put me into a large crib in an isolation ward. I did have polio, and nobody, not even my parents, was allowed to see me. I was all alone and very frightened.
The only thing I had to rely on was my faith in Heavenly Father. I remember kneeling in that crib and praying to Him, asking for healing and comfort. My parents had taught me at a young age to pray, and I knew that He would hear me. I also thought often of the priesthood blessing my father and my grandfather had given me before leaving home. I knew that my family would be praying for me every morning and every night, and that gave me comfort and peace as well.
I was in the hospital for two very long weeks and had months of therapy, but I was healed. To this day, I think back on that time and feel strong gratitude and love for Heavenly Father, who I know blessed me.

Every Friday my class has “Food Fun Friday” when someone brings in a special snack that goes with our reading story. One Friday I was offered tea to drink. I asked, “Do I have to drink this?” My teacher said, “You can at least try it.” But I didn’t drink it.
A few days later my dad e-mailed my teacher explaining that we are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we don’t drink tea or coffee. My teacher e-mailed my dad saying she was glad I stood up for myself. I am glad I am striving to follow God’s plan.

I was baptized about two years ago in New Zealand. I had lived in the United States all of my life until I became an exchange student. I believe the Lord knew I would have difficulty accepting the gospel at home in Hutboro, Pennsylvania. There were too many influences that had swayed me far from the truth. Friends, family, and my own closed mind would have kept me from seeing the truth.
For two years I had wanted to become an exchange student. I was really happy when I was accepted and told I would be going to New Zealand for the summer.
In New Zealand I found I had to accept new customs, people, and life-styles. Because I had to accept new ideas, I also found I could change some of my old ones.
At first I noticed the missionaries riding around on bicycles and I asked people who they were. I was surprised; I had thought that Mormons lived only in Utah. I had no idea what the Latter-day Saint Church was about, so I started asking people; but I made the mistake of asking nonmembers. I got all sorts of crazy ideas from these people. My curiosity was compounded by the fact that the exchange student who had been in my area in New Zealand before me was a Mormon from Utah. People still talked about and admired her even though she had left a year before I came.
One day I was walking home from high school with four friends. Somehow I managed to stick my foot in my mouth by saying something negative about Mormons. To my surprise three of these four were members of the Church. Very briefly they told me something about their religion, and they really seemed sincere about their religious beliefs.
One of the girls, Paula, was in several of my classes. She was becoming my best friend, and I began to bombard her with questions about the Church. She invited me along to some Church activities that I really loved. My questions were becoming more and more complex. I tried to prove the religion wrong, but to do this I had to read the scriptures. As I read I began to realize that the things Paula was telling me made sense. I was also coming to know the Strother family. There were 14 of them, and they were a really great family and a good example of the Church. One day I asked Bishop Strother a question. He talked to me for about an hour. The things that he said really awakened some spiritual senses.
I started praying, studying the gospel, and having lessons from the missionaries. Slowly I began to recognize the truth. No longer could I drink, smoke, or break any of the commandments without feeling guilty. The missionaries were very important to me. They were Americans, yet I had to come to New Zealand to meet them. The Lord was also helping me. He answered my prayers. Something inside me would not let me forget the Church. My doubts about its truthfulness left me; I wanted to be a member. My happiness depended on it. Soon I wrote home and told my parents that I wanted to join the Church. They said it was my decision and that I could join.
I believe that if I had not been given the gift of the Holy Ghost while I was in New Zealand, I never would have made it. Without the Holy Ghost the challenge of an unfamiliar ward and association with my nonbelieving friends and family would have caused me to give up my faith when I returned home. The Holy Ghost has been with me as a constant reminder of truth, good, and evil.
When I arrived back in the U.S., I found that the ward I was to attend, the Jarrettown Pennsylvania Ward, was less than five miles away. At first I was somewhat uneasy, but soon I felt as if I had known the people in the ward for years. I found out that it does not matter where you are—the Lord’s true church is the same.
I do have a strong testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I believe in all that is taught us as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. For me there is great happiness, pride, and joy in being a member. It has made a big difference in my life, and I thank my Eternal Father that I was able to accept the gospel.

Last year the children in Clara’s grade-four class were assigned to give four-to-five-minute speeches. Clara chose to give a speech on the Holocaust, which she presented as if she were a girl in a concentration camp. When she first rehearsed her speech, it took eight minutes and 40 seconds to give because many of the words were hard to say. She practiced it over and over. The speech slowly grew shorter as she learned to say the words fluently. She finally presented the speech in four minutes and 40 seconds, and her classmates chose her to represent them in front of the whole school. When she did, the entire student body broke into wild applause. Many of them had known Clara since grade one, and her progress seemed miraculous. “The principal was crying,” Clara’s mom recalls. “Clara’s grade-two teacher was crying. Her grade-four teacher was cheering. It was such a victory—one of the greatest moments of my life!”
What did Clara learn from the experience? “Keep trying,” she counsels children everywhere. “Never give up.”
Of course, prayer was also a vital part of Clara’s triumph. She has great faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Primary, home evenings, scripture study, and her parents’ teachings have helped. Her older sisters have made a difference too, both through their good examples and their reading materials. As soon as Carly, 18, and Josie, 15, turned 12 in their turn, they began putting New Era Posters on their mirrors. Clara has also memorized seminary scripture mastery scriptures and learned President Hinckley’s six B’s with her sisters.

When you think of Argentina, you might picture cattle ranches and cowboys. But Hugo Lopez lives in the city. He lives in Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina—one of the largest cities in South America. Hugo is a member of the Palermo Ward, Buenos Aires Argentina Belgrano Stake, which covers a large section of downtown Buenos Aires. This means that his home, his school, and his ward meetinghouse are all located among the skyscrapers and busy traffic of this city of nearly 14,000,000 people.
Hugo, age 10, was born in Buenos Aires, but he also lived in Santiago, Chile, for two years. He is the youngest child in the family and has an older brother and sister. His sister is married and has two children. Hugo is very proud to be an uncle so young!
Hugo is in the fifth grade. He walks to his school, which is not too far from his apartment. From the street, the school looks like many of the other big buildings in the city, but hidden behind the tall double doors are classrooms that fill two stories and surround an outdoor courtyard and recreation area in the center of the building. When school is dismissed each day, hundreds of students with uniform white jackets swarm through the halls and out into the street. It is sometimes difficult to tell the teachers from the students, as they also wear the same white-jacket uniforms.
Because he wants to be a good student, Hugo works very hard at his schoolwork, and his studies keep him busy every day. He tries very hard to do the things he knows are right and to be a good example. He is the only member of the Church in his school, and he has learned it can be difficult to be the only one in a group who wants to choose the right. When his friends use bad language, for example, Hugo tries to show them a better way to talk. “It makes me feel sad when they won’t listen,” he says, “but I still try to choose the right way.”
Each week, Hugo looks forward to Wednesday and Friday afternoons. “After school on these days, I go to the Conservatorio de Música, a special music school,” Hugo says. “I am learning to play the flute, and I sing in the choir!” His eyes sparkle with excitement when he talks about music and what he is learning at the music school. He will study the flute for two years, and if he studies seven more years, he can become a teacher. Or he may specialize in a mechanics course in high school so he can earn money to fulfill his dream of going on a mission.
Actually, Hugo is working very hard right now to prepare for a mission. Bishop Sergio Lohrmann, of the Palermo Ward, says: “Hugo has a great knowledge of the gospel. He bears his testimony every month—and when he does, it strengthens the testimonies of the members of our ward as he tells of his love for Jesus Christ and for the gospel.”
When Hugo bears his testimony, he always thanks his mother and the teachers who have taught him to come to church, where he can learn. And he tells of a special prayer in his heart that his father will someday listen to the missionaries and come to church, where he can feel the love of all the ward members. Hugo feels very sad that his father and his brother are not interested in learning about the Church right now. He says: “My brother thinks that coming to church is a waste of time. But it’s not a waste of time—it is gaining eternal life!”
Hugo tries to set a good example at home, as well as at school. “I have a good relationship with my Dad. I know he has very sensitive feelings, and I try not to do anything to make him feel left out,” he says. “We sometimes go on walks together and just talk—these are our special times together.”
And, as a good missionary should, Hugo studies his scriptures. When asked about his favorite scripture, Hugo quickly turns to Joseph Smith—History 1:52–53 [JS—H 1:52–53] and begins reading aloud about the Prophet Joseph’s first experience seeing the gold plates. “I love the Joseph Smith story,” he says when he completes those verses. But one look at the pages of his scriptures shows that this is only one of his favorites. His scriptures look like a missionary’s—many important verses are marked clearly in bright colors, and he knows them well.
Each day brings opportunities for Hugo to be a missionary. Whether he is studying his scriptures, setting a good example for his friends at school, or going on long walks with his father, he tries to always do and say the things he has been taught.
So each Sunday, Hugo and his mother will walk again through the busy streets of Buenos Aires to attend their Church meetings and to learn more about the gospel. And—if it happens to be a fast Sunday—Hugo will bear his testimony!

Melissa decided to try one more time to save her marriage, which seemed distant and disconnected. That’s when her husband, Cameron, told her honestly about his pornography use. At her urging, he agreed to tell the bishop, and eventually they both talked to their parents. But, as he explains, it “took two years to finally see that there was more to repentance than telling a few people and saying a prayer.” He had to learn that not looking at pornography wasn’t enough. To truly be in a state of recovery, he had to turn to God and find healthy ways to deal with the stress, fear, shame, and anxiety that triggered his craving to look at pornography.
After a relapse, Cameron agreed to attend an addiction recovery program and, over time, has come to understand that the Savior does not give up on us as soon as we make a mistake.
Through also attending a 12-step program, Melissa feels that her family finally has the tools to move forward. She remembers how difficult the 12-step meetings were in the beginning, but she was motivated by a facilitator who suggested that Melissa “try us for 90 days. If you don’t like us, we’ll refund your misery.” Melissa eventually realized that just as she felt hope from others’ stories, maybe she could help others feel hope by sharing her experiences.
Melissa used to believe that if she stayed married, she would only pretend to be happy. Her perspective changed when she realized that the Savior saw potential in her, in Cameron, and in all of Father in Heaven’s children. He put all He is—the Light and the Life of the World—into saving us and giving us another chance. Because of the Savior, Melissa says, she can now smile in a genuine, I’m-happy-to-be-alive way.
Melissa and Cameron remain married and work to live in recovery.

I am not easy to wake up in the morning. My mum used to declare that she needed a crane to wake me up for early-morning seminary. So it came as no surprise that in my first year at university, I was one of the few who didn’t wake up to the fire alarm practice. Luckily, I had friends who came to my room and collected me.
Later that day we were discussing the morning’s events and laughing about what had happened, when another girl asked what I would do if the fire alarm went off for real. I was taken aback by the question but soon realized the gravity of the situation. One of my friends replied that she would come and warn me, and other friends assured me that they would check if I had left the building before they did. They would do this because they loved me.
That night I thought of the Lord’s commandment recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 88:81: “Behold, I sent you out to testify and warn the people, and it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.”
I realized that just as being warned of potential fires is important for my temporal welfare, so my sharing the gospel message is important for my friends’ spiritual lives. Just as they loved me enough to warn me of dangers, I realized that I loved them enough to share my knowledge of the gospel with them. That night I recommitted myself to obeying the commandment of the Lord by testifying of Jesus Christ and warning my neighbor.

While serving on the planning committee for my stake’s Young Women camp, we decided to make stuffed bears to donate for our camp service project. After getting approval from our camp director, I contacted the local hospital about our idea, gathered all the supplies we needed to make the bears, and cut out 517 11x13 squares from donated material. We ended up making 289 bears for the hospital.
This service project gave the girls at our Young Women camp a chance to serve, and I saw how thrilled and excited they were to be able to do some good for the community. It is so amazing to see the good that service can do. This project showed me that service benefits those who do it as much as those who receive it and helped my testimony to grow. I will never forget this experience.
Cassie T., Texas, USA

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.

My family has a big raspberry bush in our backyard that always produces more berries than we can eat, so every year my dad and I would take a bowl of raspberries to a widow in our ward, Sister Hair.
I would always complain when my dad made me go with him because I was afraid Sister Hair would kiss me on the cheek, as she usually did. In fact, one time I took my nephew along so she would kiss him instead.
This went on every year until Sister Hair went to live in a rest home. Some time later, the young women in my ward went to visit her for an activity. We introduced ourselves when we walked in, but she didn’t remember any of the young women except me. She repeated my last name and said, “That’s right, she used to bring me raspberries every year.” She told us how much she had enjoyed the company and the raspberries.
As part of our visit, we sang some hymns for her. One hymn struck me in particular. As we sang, “Because I have been given much, I too must give,” (Hymns, no. 219), I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been more willing to share my friendship along with the raspberries. Sister Hair passed away shortly after our visit, but I will never forget the lesson I learned from her: that we should show gratitude for what we have by sharing it with others.

When I was a boy of eleven, I used to go over to the old Richards Ward every Tuesday night. The Scouts would be having their troop meeting. I would lie on the ground and watch through the basement window. The Scouts would have patrol contests, build a fire using flint and steel, practice first aid, drill, and play games. I could hardly wait to become a deacon and a Scout.
When I was ordained a deacon I also registered in Scouting. Bruford Reynolds was the deacons quorum adviser for a period of time and also was the Scoutmaster.
Two months after I joined the troop I went to Brother Reynolds’s home to pass off the Second Class requirements. When I had done this, Bruford Reynolds said to me: “Vaughn, you have a lot of leadership ability, but we cannot use you because you are rowdy in troop meeting. When you get squared away, we need you.”
Having come from a large inactive family that was poor, I had little personal attention. My father had never told me that I could be anything. I gave a great deal of thought to my conduct. I decided to change. The following Tuesday I hardly moved an eyeball. I was as near perfect as I knew how to be.
Bruford Reynolds was true to his word. I became an assistant patrol leader, a patrol leader, assistant senior patrol leader, then senior patrol leader. He believed in me and had a profound impact on my life.

Tyler loved tomatoes. He loved their bright red color and smooth skin. He loved the way their seeds spurted out when he bit into them. He loved to dip tiny tomatoes into salt, and he loved the big ones sliced thin in sandwiches.
“Let’s grow some tomatoes in our yard,” Tyler’s dad suggested one day.
“Could we?” Tyler was surprised. He’d never thought of growing tomatoes at home. He thought it would be wonderful to have his very own supply of tasty tomatoes ready to pick whenever he felt like it.
Tyler and his dad chose a sunny spot to plant the tomatoes. Then they dug and prepared the soil until it was loose and fine. While they were working, Mr. Bradley leaned over the back fence. “Going to have some pretty flowers?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bradley. This is for my tomatoes,” Tyler told him.
“Humph!” Mr. Bradley growled, frowning. “I’ve never had any luck growing tomatoes here.”
“Dad says we can,” Tyler answered, and he kept raking the ground to make it smooth.
The next morning Tyler and his dad planted six tiny green tomato plants. Tyler watered them carefully. In just a few days they looked bigger. “See, Mr. Bradley,” Tyler said, pointing proudly to his plants, “they’re growing.”
“Just wait, Tyler, just wait,” Mr. Bradley replied smugly.
In several weeks Tyler’s tomato plants blossomed with dozens of star-shaped yellow flowers. “I’m going to have hundreds of tomatoes,” he predicted.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Mr. Bradley told him.
Soon tiny, hard green tomatoes replaced the yellow blossoms. Tyler’s mouth watered as he watched them grow into large tomatoes. Morning and night he checked the plants, hoping to find a ripe tomato. One morning he thought one of the plants seemed smaller. The next day he was sure it had lost some leaves. And the following day it looked scraggly and thin. Tyler noticed some small black droppings under the plant too.
He knelt on the ground and examined all of his plants, leaf by leaf. He studied the shriveled one very carefully. Suddenly he jumped up and hollered, “Wow! Dad, Dad, come quick! There’s a dragon out here.”
A large green worm the size of a thick, round pea pod was greedily munching the leaves of Tyler’s wilted tomato plant. It really did look like a miniature dragon as it inched its fat, segmented body along the stem of the plant, waving the little “horns” on the top of its head from side to side as it moved. It seemed to eat as much as a dragon, too, devouring every leaf in its path.
“How did you ever find it, Tyler?” Dad asked. “That worm is so well camouflaged that it looks just like part of the stem. Only really sharp eyes could have seen it.”
Mr. Bradley leaned over the fence to see what all the excitement was about. “Better spray,” he advised. “The pests get all the prizes, I always say. Give ’em a shot of bug spray—that’s what they deserve.”
“I think we’ll try the old-fashioned method first,” Dad said. He carefully picked the worm off the tomato plant. “Now, Tyler, you check the plants every day, and if you notice any other worms, take them off and kill them. They should be easier to spot now that you know what to look for. Be careful, though—their bite might not be dangerous, but it could sure hurt.”
“Found any more dragons?” Mr. Bradley asked the next time Tyler was out watering.
“Nope,” Tyler answered, “but the tomatoes are finally turning red. Look!” The plants sagged under the weight of the plump tomatoes—some still green, some pale yellow, and some a promising orange.
Finally the day came. “This one is ready, isn’t it, Dad?” Tyler asked as they inspected a big red tomato.
“You bet, and it’s all yours. You grew it, and you get to eat it.”
Tyler gently twisted the tomato from its stem and washed it carefully with water from the hose. Then he sat down on the lawn and took a big bite. Still warm from the sun, the tomato burst in his mouth, spurting juice and seeds down his chin and onto his jeans. Tyler grinned with pleasure.
“Ummm! It’s so good!” he exclaimed, wiping his chin between bites. “Next week, after I eat a few more myself, I’ll pick some for Mr. Bradley. Maybe next year he’ll want to grow tomatoes too.”

Several years ago a boy was electrocuted while retrieving his brother’s kite which had become impaled on a tree. The young man had climbed a 25-foot metal ladder and accidentally grabbed a power line. He fell to the ground lifeless, a hole blasted through his leg where the electricity had escaped. Two young men, defying all of the concerns and pressures of society, ran to the body. They had not yet served missions, but were soon to receive the Melchizedek priesthood. They placed their hands upon the head of the boy, called the others who were not witnesses to the event to kneel around in prayer, and they uttered a blessing. The Spirit was called upon and their faith utilized. Other blessings were given I’m sure. Within a week he was attending school again, slightly scarred with pink tissue, but alive as a reminder of two young men’s courage. Those two young men are here tonight.

In September 1948, two friends told 16-year-old Jirí about hearing a lecture given by Mormon missionaries. He went with them to the next meeting. “The missionaries were young, friendly, and full of optimism,” he says. “I felt an immediate desire to know more about the Church. Reassured by the lectures I heard at the meeting, I decided to study diligently in my mind and heart the doctrines they were preaching.”

Seven months later, early on the morning of his 17th birthday, Sunday, 24 April 1949, Jirí and his two friends—along with four missionaries and two local members—took a streetcar to the end of the line in Lochotín and then walked for 45 minutes to Kamenicky Pond.

“It was several degrees below freezing,” he remembers, “and the grass and trees were covered with frost. We walked bravely to the pond, surrounded by magnificent nature, to enter into covenants with the Lord.” They were baptized, then confirmed at the waters’ edge. “It was for all of us one of the most beautiful moments in our lives.”

I’d like to begin by sharing a story that touches my heart.
One evening a man called his five sheep to come into the shelter for the night. His family watched with great interest as he simply called, “Come on,” and immediately all five heads lifted and turned in his direction. Four sheep broke into a run toward him. With loving-kindness he gently patted each of the four on the head. The sheep knew his voice and loved him.
But the fifth sheep didn’t come running. She was a large ewe that a few weeks earlier had been given away by her owner, who reported that she was wild, wayward, and always leading the other sheep astray. The new owner accepted the sheep and staked her in his own field for a few days so she would learn to stay put. He patiently taught her to love him and the other sheep until eventually she had only a short rope around her neck but was no longer staked down.
That evening as his family watched, the man approached the ewe, which stood at the edge of the field, and again he gently said, “Come on. You aren’t tied down anymore. You are free.” Then lovingly he reached out, placed his hand on her head, and walked back with her and the other sheep toward the shelter.

Once upon a time there was a flabby heart. It sat all inflated and bunchy in the chest cavity of an inert teenager. Rather pressed for space by over-sized and flabby organs like the stomach (a terrible space hog!), the head was always elbowing the ribs for more room.
All day long this flaccid pump would heave blood through the circulatory system—lub dub, lub dub, obviously with little relish for its job. Life did have its rewards for the heart though. Between a lub and a dub it would pause for a minute to nibble on a few of the fatty acids the stomach was processing. (For all the crowding the over-sized stomach caused, the heart certainly enjoyed all the goodies it put out. Why only today the stomach had processed four milk shakes and three orders of French fries.)
The flabby heart led a rather peaceful, routine existence and was fairly happy. It could shove the blood around pretty well most of the time, and it had the body it ran well disciplined. When the heart shook with fear at the sight of a long flight of stairs, it could usually talk the person into taking the elevator. If subjected to a short run on the way to the refrigerator from the TV, it would simply pound ferociously against the chest and scream, “Stop this instant!” Usually the person stopped running immediately. And when it was once again in front of the TV munching on those delicious fatty acids, life for the heart seemed just wonderful.
Resting there in front of the TV, the heart was blissfully unaware it was part of a growing problem. For out there in front of thousands of other TV sets were many more flabby hearts, victims of a lack of exercise and physical conditioning common in today’s convenient society. Even with (and possibly because of) the currently faddish “no sweat” conditioning programs and “30 second” fitness apparatus, America’s, and the world’s, hearts continue to get flabbier and flabbier.
The flabby heart had obviously never heard of a cardiovascular endurance program; it was too busy resting. Then one day the person visited his doctor. The doctor gave him a complete physical and delivered a short but firm lecture on the dangers of being physically unfit. All the talk disturbed the heart, and as the steely cold stethoscope pressed against it, the heart somehow knew its days of delicious fatty acids and complete inactivity were drawing to a close. Resigning itself to this horrible fate, the heart heaved another batch of blood on by and considered resigning, retiring, or just plain going on strike. But instead, it began running.
The flabby heart got busy working toward physical fitness the very next morning after seeing the doctor. And at the beginning it wasn’t too enthusiastic.
The first time the person ran around the block, the flabby heart decided he’d teach the person a good lesson. He pounded and thumped as hard as he could, making only the required efforts at supplying oxygen, until the person was out of breath, red in the face, and sweating profusely. Thinking the person would forever give up such activity after such abuse, the heart was surprised to be subjected to the same treatment the next day. The person was determined to make his conditioning program successful.
Oh, and if you are wondering what happened to the flabby heart, the person kept on running. Day after day, week after week. It took quite a while for the heart to get used to all that extra work, but soon it found it could really throw the blood around through the arteries. The stomach got smaller, and the heart found it had more room to work in. After several months it was beating more slowly and efficiently and didn’t miss the excess fatty acids at all.
That was one heart that did live happily ever after.

Prison warden Kenyon J. Scudder has related this experience: A friend of his happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the man revealed that he was a paroled convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame to his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.
To make it easy for them, however, he had written them to put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him, they were to put a white ribbon in the big apple tree which stood near the tracks. If they didn’t want him to return, they were to do nothing, and he would remain on the train as it traveled west.
As the train neared his home town, the suspense became so great he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. He exclaimed, “In just five minutes the engineer will sound the whistle, indicating our approach to the long bend which opens into the valley I know as home. Will you watch for the apple tree at the side of the track?” His companion changed places with him and said he would. The minutes seemed like hours, but then there came the shrill sound of the train whistle. The young man asked, “Can you see the tree? Is there a white ribbon?”
Came the reply: “I see the tree. I see not one white ribbon, but many. There must be a white ribbon on every branch. Son, someone surely does love you.”
In that instant he stood cleansed by Christ.
His friend said, “I felt as if I had witnessed a miracle.”

When we put the Lord first in our home, it becomes a place where our spirits can be renewed and strengthened. Sister Margaret Murdock of Salt Lake City was asked to teach a Relief Society lesson about the scriptures. As she prepared her lesson, she began to realize that she had never studied the scriptures enough to make them part of her everyday thinking. As a single mother of five with a responsible job, she knew she needed more guidance.

Now Sister Murdock studies the scriptures for a half hour each morning and also at night. And for the first time, she is finding that the Lord’s words come to mind when she has problems at work or with her children. “Now I see the people I deal with at work as children of our Heavenly Father, whether they are religious or not,” says Sister Murdock. One of her co-workers is rude and hard to work with. “He’s a child of God, too,” says sister Murdock. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” Because she is taking the time for the Lord at home, Sister Murdock is feeling greater peace—whatever difficulties may arise.

Anne had lived in Japan only about a year. Today she was excited about going to her first Tanabata (Star Festival) party at the home of Masanari.
It was a rainy afternoon and Anne held up her umbrella as she walked along through the puddles on the narrow lane. The tiny trinket shop was selling gilded paper comets and streamers for Tanabata. Down the passageways between houses were bamboo branches decorated for the Star Festival.
Masanari’s mother slid open the door of their house when Anne arrived.
“Irasshaimase, Anne-chan (Welcome, little Anne),” she said.
Anne sat down on a step in the entryway and pulled off her boots before entering the house.
Then she put on some tiny, pink slippers and hurried down the hall. Her friends from school were all there. Keiko, Jiro, and Masanari sat on the woven tatami (straw) mat floor in the middle of a rainbow of colored papers making origami (paper folding) decorations for Tanabata. Some of the other mothers, who had been invited, were busy making decorations too.
“Come, we’ll show you how, Anne-chan,” said Jiro’s mother as she finished folding a tiny red crab. First, she showed them how to make two familiar animals. (See last page of this story.)
1. Take a square of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold one corner down.
3. Fold the other corner down.
4. Fold the bottom and the top back.
5. Draw a few pencil lines for the face.
1. Take a square of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold tips down.
3. Fold one corner up.
4. Fold the other corner up.
5. Turn the paper over and draw a face.
The children folded red dogs and purple cats and blue dogs and orange cats. They drew happy faces on some and fierce faces on others.
“Have you sometimes heard insects singing in the trees?” asked Jiro’s mother. “Those are cicadas. We can make origami cicadas too.”
1. Take a square piece of paper and fold the corners together.
2. Fold up the top flap first.
3. Then fold up the bottom flap.
4. Now it looks like this.
5. Turn it over and fold back the two sides.
“Watch me fold an elephant,” said Jiro.
1. Fold two corners of a square of paper so that they meet in the center to form a kite shape.
2. Fold the kite shape in half down the center.
3. Fold the longest tip forward.
4. Then fold it back to the left.
5. Open out the inside corner of the top flap and spread it back.
6. Fold the top half down behind the figure.
7. Open out the tip of the elephant’s trunk and tuck it down inside itself.
8. Cut out the legs and tail and draw on tusks and eyes.
“Look at my lantern,” said Keiko.
1. Fold two sides of an oblong piece of paper in until they meet at the center.
2. Fold each corner forward to the center.
3. Fold the tips back.
4. Fold each corner forward again and then turn the paper over.
5. Gently push the top tip up and the bottom tip down and open them out.
“The most famous of all is the sacred crane,” said Jiro’s mother as she took a square of metallic gold paper. “The crane is a beautiful white bird with red-tipped head and black-edged wings. It comes every summer to our islands. To the Japanese it means long life and happiness.”
Her skillful fingers moved so quickly that Anne could not see how she made the tiny, complicated folds. A delicate creature with graceful spreading wings was soon completed.
She set the lovely bird on the palm of her hand and held it out to Anne. “This is the orizuru or folded crane,” she said. Keiko, too, worked very fast and knew how to make many folds. Soon she had a great pile of origami figures spilling over her lap.
“Here, Anne-chan, take some of mine,” she said.
Origami cranes and turtles and canoes and frogs and lanterns covered the floor. Masanari’s mother entered with bamboo branches and helped the children tie their bright origami creations to the boughs.
“They are truly beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it fun to have Tanabata to celebrate every year?” Then, Masanari’s mother told them a legend of the stars.
“Up in the sky there are two sad stars who love each other very much, but they are separated by the heavenly river, the Milky Way. Only on this one night of all the year can they cross the Milky Way and meet.
“However, if it rains, then the Milky Way will be flooded, and the poor, lonely stars will not be able to meet after all,” she said as she bowed her head sadly.
Anne listened quietly to the story. She remembered the puddles in the lane and her wet umbrella drying in the entryway.
“I think it’s raining,” she said somberly.
“But we can hope it will stop, can’t we?” said Jiro’s mother as she ushered everyone in to dinner.
They sat on cushions on the tatami-covered floor around a low-legged lacquer table. For the mothers there were hashi (chopsticks) to eat with. For the children there were hashi and spoons.
They were served bowls filled with haddock and rice, fish soup, tofu (soy bean curd), sashimi (raw tuna), and little pickled salads. Gelatin from the sea and crushed pineapple and handsful of rice candy were served for dessert.
It was dark now, and as the children ran out of the house, Masanari shouted, “It’s stopped raining! It’s stopped raining!”
“Now the stars can meet after all!” cried Keiko.
There were green and blue and white sparklers for everyone. With the mothers’ help, the children lit the sparklers and swung them in the darkness, making circles and spirals while they laughed and talked.
When the sparklers were gone they picked up their Tanabata branches. Holding them above their heads, they waved them slowly against the night sky as they sang a farewell song.
“The party is over. Our Star Festival is ended,” said Masanari’s mother.
Masanari could not let the evening end just yet. “Let’s walk with everyone on their way home, Mama-san,” he begged.
When they reached Anne’s apartment, everyone bowed and said, “Oyasuminasai” (Good night. Please rest).
Note: Although origami figures are ideally folded of special origami paper that is colored on one side and plain on the other, they can also be made of any lightweight paper. Follow the illustrations carefully; the dotted lines show where the folds should be made.

I thought of the little boy, born in Sharon in December of 1805, given his father’s name. I reflected on that terrifying period of sickness when typhus fever struck the family and osteomyelitis, with great pain and debilitating infection, settled in Joseph’s leg. That was while the family lived in Lebanon, New Hampshire; and how remarkable it was that only a few miles away, at the academy in Hanover, was Dr. Nathan Smith, perhaps then the only surgeon in the United States—if not in the world—who had developed a procedure by which that infected leg might be saved.

But it was not to be accomplished without terrible suffering. In fact, today it is difficult to conceive of how the little boy stood it as his father held him in his arms and his mother walked and prayed among the trees of the farm to escape his screams while the surgeon made the long incision and with forceps broke off the portions of infected bone without benefit of anesthesia of any kind. Perhaps remembrance of that intense suffering made a little more bearable for Joseph Smith the later tarring and feathering at Kirtland, the foul jail at Liberty, and the shots of the mob at Carthage.