Gospel Story Finder

It sometimes seemed to Adam that not learning the piano was harder than learning it would be. But any struggle, no matter how difficult, would be worth the effort if it proved to his parents that piano lessons were a waste of time.
Now, martial arts lessons—those would be worthwhile. What if he was waylaid on the way home from school by bullies? What if he woke up one day to find himself trapped in some foul dungeon? How would he escape if he hadn’t learned tae kwon do*?
Or, if he had to learn an instrument, drums might possibly be cool enough. Instead he was subjected to Mrs. Turner’s endless urging to “make your fingers like tiny hammers.” Ugh!
So he purposely stumbled over the keys and acted as if he didn’t hear the jangling chords. He had to say one thing for Mrs. Turner—she was patient. She would pat her big white hair and attempt to smile. “That was a good try, dear.”
As for Mom and Dad, they were more determined than he had expected. He’d been taking unwanted lessons for two years. Weren’t they tired of hearing him pound away for half an hour every day but Sunday?
Tick-tick-tick sounded the clock. Three more minutes and practice time would be over.
His little sister, Sarah Kate, clumped her skates down on the bench next to him. “Will you roller-blade with me? Mom says I can’t go down the street by myself.”
“Nope,” Adam said. “I gotta finish practicing.” He brought his hands down with a crash.
“That sounds horrible!” Sarah Kate yelped.
Adam grinned. “Yeah.”
With a sigh, Sarah Kate left him.
Adam’s hands were in midair when the timer buzzed. He slammed down the lid of the piano and raced to the computer to play a game.
When he heard the missionaries’ voices, Adam deserted his game. He liked the elders. Sometimes they threw his football to him, or they played games with him and Sarah Kate. They were fun to tease too. Today, they were sitting at the table with Mom, helping her work on a Primary Sharing Time activity.
“Want to play ball?” Adam asked.
“Not now,” Elder Gilmore said. “Your mom needs us to cut out these circles.”
Adam tried to snatch Elder Presley’s name tag, but Elder Presley wasn’t in a teasing mood. He covered the tag with his hand, so Adam messed up his hair, instead. When that didn’t work, Adam plopped down into a chair. “I could cut some out too.”
Mom smiled. “Good! If you all do that, I can plan the music.” Mom was the Primary president, which in their tiny branch meant she was also the chorister, the secretary, and any teacher who didn’t show up.
Adam wrinkled his nose. “Primary music’s boring ’cause we always have to sing what’s on those tapes.”
Mom shook her head. “We’re lucky to have the tapes. Every day I pray that the elders will baptize someone who can play the piano.”
“We’ll work on it,” Elder Presley said. “You be on the lookout too.”
“I am,” Mom said. “I gave Adam’s piano teacher a Book of Mormon. She’s a wonderful woman, besides being musical. I invited her to church last week, but she didn’t come.”
Adam was unusually quiet as he cut out circles. When he finished, he agreed to skate with Sarah Kate. They skated a long way, but he hardly spoke a word. The rhythmic glide was good for thinking.
At his piano lesson the next week, he pulled out the Children’s Songbook. “Could you help me learn some of these?” he asked Mrs. Turner.
She flipped through the pages. “This is a wonderful book. Where did you get it?”
“It’s our church’s children’s songbook.”
“I don’t know about your learning these songs, though. I’m afraid they’re harder than the ones you’re already having trouble with.”
“I’ll learn them,” Adam said confidently. “I want to work on this one first.” He pointed to “Called to Serve.” It was one of his favorites.
Mrs. Turner shrugged. “All right. But you’ll really have to practice hard.”
“I will,” Adam said. “And can I do it here? Right after school? I kind of want to surprise my mom on Sunday.”
Mrs. Turner agreed, and all that week Adam practiced at her house. He worked on “Called to Serve” for an hour every day. Each night he prayed for help, and by Saturday the notes came fairly readily to his fingers.
On Sunday morning in Primary, Mom started to turn on the tape recorder. Adam stopped her. “I can play ‘Called to Serve’ on page 174.”
He sat down at the piano. There was a shivery feeling in his stomach. How had he thought he could play in front of everybody?
His eyes wandered over the children’s and teachers’ faces—and saw Mrs. Turner! She sat on the last row, a smile on her face!
He gave her a flickery grin and sent up a swift, silent prayer. He felt calmer as his fingers began to play the familiar notes.

Last semester a coworker and I met with a cherished friend of ours. During this meeting with this friend we hoped to discuss ways on how we can improve a particular area in BYUHSA. Ways of improvement were discussed but the agenda soon changed when personal concerns of this individual came up. With tears and sadness she began telling us of how she was bullied in High School because she was different. She was excited to come here to BYU-Hawaii to seek refuge. Tears began streaming even quicker as she said that the bullying behaviors followed her but in a lesser extreme. She even went on to say that she might not return. She was comforted and reassured of the importance of her in our lives. That day she became our little sister.

A few years ago, the Campbells lived on Chestnut Street in town. Their home was spacious and it had a swimming pool. The Campbells had two sons, but were told by doctors that because of medical complications it was unlikely Sister Campbell would have any more children. So the parents decided to continue their family anyway—by adopting.

“We feel as though we’ve always been a family,” Phil said. “Some of us just took a little longer to get here. First came Mike (who is 19 and currently serving in the Washington Seattle Mission), then myself. Then we adopted Lynn. Then we decided Lynn needed a sister, and Julie was adopted. Then the agency called and asked if we would like another girl, and Christine joined us. Then we wanted Jabez (“J.J.”) to even up the boy-girl ratio.

“Dad and mom prayed and prayed about having another child of their own but had nearly abandoned hope, even though they felt the Lord would bless them. Then miraculously Sam was born without any problems. It surprised everyone, since we had figured J. J. was the caboose! Then when Joe (“Little Bear”) was adopted, he filled in the space between Christine and Lynn. Then we wanted another girl, but Monty Jr. (“June Bug”) needed a home, and we all fell in love with him.

“We thought that was it, but then the agency called and asked mom and dad if they wanted two more!” So Nicholas and Doug joined the family. Now the roll call at the dinner table reads like this: Mike (he’s always remembered, and sometimes his letters are read aloud), Phillip, Christine, Joe, Lynn, Julie, Jabez, Nicholas, Sammy (5), Doug (4), and Monty Jr. (2). “That makes 11,” Sister Campbell said, smiling. “And now we figure one more would be perfect.”

Sister Campbell explained that she and her husband are the only Indians listed with the adoption agency, and that because they have such a positive record, the local magistrate (himself one of 11 children) is eager to help. “It’s our experience in family court that we don’t find too many happy occasions such as this,” Judge Victor E. Manz said. “At a time when people say the family is falling apart, this family is a true inspiration.” Although the children come from various tribes, they are all adopted into the Cayuga tribe when they join the family.

On one occasion, a missionary in the final week of his mission reminded me that I had given him clearance two years previously to serve a mission. The clearance had been extended with some reservations on my part because he had indulged in a number of transgressions before his mission. He said: “Elder Asay, you allowed me to go into the field after due repentance and after I promised that I would be strictly obedient and would work diligently. I can assure you that I have worked hard and have obeyed every rule.” Then he said something very significant. “I feel that my sins have been forgiven. I feel perfectly clean.” He had been cleansed through selfless service and by developing a close association with the Holy Spirit. He had been through the refiner’s fire, and impurities had been burned away.

Gary loved to visit Grandpa and Grandma McGregor on their farm near Cardston, Canada. It had been nearly four years since the family had made the long trip there from their home in Quebec. But at last they had reached the farm, and Dad stopped the car by the back gate.
Everything was quiet as they opened the doors. Suddenly Mother whispered, “Sh-h! Don’t move—listen!”
Gary and Dad listened carefully. “What’s the matter, Mom?” Gary asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s a swarm of bees” Mother answered, “and it’s close by.” She looked around and then pointed toward the lilac bush by the door. “There it is. Look, Gary!”
Gary could hardly believe what he saw. There were bees flying around the lilac bush—more bees than he had ever seen before.
“What are they doing?” Gary almost shouted. “There are thousands of them. Where did they come from?”
“They’re swarming, Gary. Every spring some of the bees leave a hive with a queen,” Mother explained. “We mustn’t get too close to them or they’ll chase and sting us, but I want to show you something special. Do you see that large brownish clump on the underside of the limb?”
Gary looked at the lilac bush. “You mean that big thing hanging down? The bees are flying around it.”
“That’s the swarm of bees. The queen is inside the swarm,” Mother answered.
“You mean that big clump is solid bees?” Gary asked.
“Yes,” Mother replied, “and I haven’t seen one for years.” Then she smiled as she reminisced. “One time a swarm landed on the bottom of Grandpa’s tractor seat, and he couldn’t go to work until he’d put them in a hive. They were hanging almost to the ground. Another time they were so high in the quaking aspen that Grandpa couldn’t get to them. A bad wind came up and the bees blew about so much that part of the swarm broke off and fell to the ground.”
“Can Grandpa get all of these bees out of the lilac tree?” Gary asked. “Where is he, anyway?”
Just then they saw Grandpa coming from the field. Gary ran to meet him. “Oh, Grandpa,” he said, “I just love being back on the farm, even with the bees.”
Grandpa McGregor laughed. “Well, we’ll take care of the bees later, when they’ve settled down a bit. I’ll show you how to handle them so no one will be stung.”
Gary watched the bees from the back porch. He was fascinated by the funnel shape clinging to the branch. Only a bee or two hadn’t settled down with the others. Gary wondered how they could hang on like that and why they didn’t break off and fall to the ground.
When Grandmother called Gary to eat, he was afraid the bees might disappear while he was in the house. Grandpa assured him they would still be in the lilac bush. “Sometimes they’ll stay like that for a day or two. Then if someone doesn’t put them in a hive of their own, they’ll leave.”
“Where would they go?” Gary asked.
“Sometimes they find an old hollow tree and make their home inside it,” Grandpa explained.
“Will you give the bees a hive of their own so they won’t fly away?” Gary wondered.
Grandpa smiled. “After dessert I’ll show you what we’ll do.”
When everyone had finished with supper, Grandpa pushed back his chair and said, “I’d better put on my bee clothes. That’s a large swarm, and I don’t want to lose any bees. They make a lot of honey for us.”
Gary saw Grandpa open the cupboard on the back porch and take out some strange-looking clothes. He watched Grandpa put on the clothes. Grandma tied his gloves at the wrists. “So the bees can’t crawl up his arms,” she explained. Grandma also tied his pants tightly at the ankles over some high boots. But when Grandpa put a big covering over his head, Gary could hardly believe what he saw! A net covered Grandpa’s hat and was tied tightly around his neck. It made him look like a man from outer space.
Grandpa made a little fire in an odd-shaped can. He put some oily rags in the can, touched a lighted match to the rags, and put the lid on. When Grandpa squeezed the handle, smoke came out of the spout on the can.
“What’s that for, Grandpa?” Gary cried.
“Bees don’t like smoke, Gary. If some get angry while I’m working, the smoke will keep them from stinging me.”
Then Grandpa went out to the shed and carried out an empty beehive. Gary watched from the back porch as Grandpa set the beehive directly under the big clump of bees. He removed the lid from the hive, and with a quick movement he shook the limb of the lilac bush. The large cluster of bees fell into the hive. Some of the bees were angry at being disturbed. They began buzzing around Grandpa’s head, but he aimed the smoking can at the bees and puffed some smoke at them. A few bees flew away, but some of them still buzzed around.
When the bees were in the hive, Grandpa put the lid on and carried the beehive out behind the bunkhouse with the others. “That’s one place I’ve never explored,” Gary said to himself.
“I’d like to go out there when the bees are asleep and take a look.”
The next morning after breakfast Gary headed straight for the bunkhouse. Gary looked at the first hive. He thought it was the one Grandpa had put out last night, but then all the beehives looked alike.
Quickly Gary lifted the lid to take a little peek. As if they were waiting for him, the bees swarmed up into the sunlight! Gary turned and ran for the house, but it was too late. The bees were after him. One flew down his shirt. Others flew around his head and hands.
When they heard Gary’s cries, Grandma and Mother came running. They helped chase the bees away, and Grandma put mud on the bee stings. Gary’s face was so swollen, he didn’t look like himself. And his arms and hands were swollen too.
“You know, Grandma,” Gary admitted, “I didn’t want to steal their honey, but I guess the bees didn’t know that. Next time I’ll go with Grandpa and wear bee clothes.”
Then Gary was quiet. He was thinking about the report he’d have for school next fall after learning all about bees. He thought he might leave the bee stings out of the report—but he’d have all summer to decide about that!

The prayers of one missionary’s parents were answered by the personal ministry of another. A missionary arrived in a foreign mission and was struggling with discouragement. He said he couldn’t take it and wanted to come home. His parents and others tried to encourage him but to no avail. At a reception during a training session, this distraught father mentioned his son’s struggle to a priesthood leader.
The following week an envelope arrived at the parents’ home. Inside was a copy of a letter that had been sent to their son. The letter had been typed on a typewriter and very tenderly addressed to the discouraged elder. It was several pages long, full of encouragement and the writer’s own missionary experiences about faith and sticking to it. The letter was warm, loving, thoughtful, personal, and signed, “Sincerely, your brother, President Gordon B. Hinckley.” Shortly after this, the elder wrote his parents to say he was staying. He became a mighty power for good among the people of his mission.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
By November 1833 most of the Latter-day Saints in Jackson County, Missouri, had been persecuted and driven from their homes.
In 1834 the Lord commanded Joseph Smith to organize a group of Latter-day Saints to march from Kirtland, Ohio, to Jackson County, Missouri. The group was called Zion’s Camp.
I need as many men as will come. We’ll march to Jackson County and recover the land that was taken from us.
Over 200 people walked more than 900 miles (1,450 km). They often didn’t have enough food or water. Some men chose to quarrel and criticize the Prophet.
I’m tired of marching so far. We deserve better food.
I didn’t think this would be so hard.
I miss my wife and children.
One day, when crossing a swamp, one of the wagons got stuck.
It won’t move.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m going home.
Don’t give up, men. Grab this rope and pull.
Some days later, after the men were weary from ferrying a stream, they found a nice place to camp. They felt happy for the first time in a long time.
Men, I feel impressed to travel on a little farther. Follow me.
We have been traveling all day and are hungry and tired.
You can go on, but we’ll stay here.
Joseph and a faithful group of men traveled on about seven more miles (11 km).
I’ll follow where you lead, Joseph.
Thank you, Brigham.
Maybe we should follow Joseph.
All right. Let’s go.
Later, the men of Zion’s Camp received a report.
There was a mob of men organized to come upon us that night, right where we had decided to camp the first time.
How grateful I am for a prophet.

A classic experiment in social psychology conducted at the Princeton Theological Seminary in the early 70’s illustrates the natural tendency to choose selfish priorities over others’ urgent needs. Seminary students were to prepare a sermon on the “Good Samaritan” and then told to go to another building on campus to have their sermon recorded. Unbeknownst to the seminary students, a man was placed on the route between the two buildings, slumping in a door-way—looking to be in obvious need of help. What would you guess was the crucial variable that predicted how likely a seminary student, ready to preach about the “Good Samaritan” was to stop and help a person in distress? The deciding variable was neither their age, nor how “religious” the student was, as rated by classmates. Instead it was how much of a hurry the student was in. The students had been divided into three categories. The first group was told they were late for the recording session and would need to hurry to make it. The second group was told they had just enough time to make the recording session; and the third group was told that they had a few moments to spare. The study found that the students who had time to spare were most likely to help the man in distress. Of those in a hurry, only 10% stopped to help the man in need. Those who were hurrying to make their recording session were 6 times less likely to stop and help. Even with the lesson of the Good Samaritan freshly on their minds, the students were in too much of a rush to help someone in need. Sadly, I’m not sure I would do much better in those circumstances.

A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.

One of Lucy’s most poignant memories is her distress when she realized that they were going to lose the home that had been designed by her beloved Alvin for the express purpose of seeing that she and Joseph Sr. would be comfortable in their old age. “I was overcome and fell back into a chair almost deprived of sensibility,” she wrote. She asked Hyrum: “What can this mean? … How … is [it] that all which we have earned in the last 10 years is taken away from us in one instant?” Her feelings were natural, but when they had to move from the home three years later, she told Oliver Cowdery, who was boarding with them: “I now look around me upon all these things that have been gathered together for my happiness which have cost the toil of years. … I now give it all up for the sake of Christ and salvation, and I pray God to help me to do so without one murmur or a tear. … I will not cast one longing look upon anything which I leave behind me.”

Fifty Primary children from the Littleton Colorado Stake, Colorado, USA, helped sort donations after a flood in Colorado. The children wore Mormon Helping Hands vests and loaded clothes, toys, furniture, household items, and diapers into a large truck. One child said, “It felt good doing something for someone else.” Another said, “It makes me happy and proud because this will make a difference in their lives.”

In the end my parents passed the baton to us of the next generation. And in our final days and hours together they provided a capstone on all of their sermons on love in two simple experiences.

The day before Dad died, we invited each person in the family to have a walk-through visit with him, quick and tender. He was in so much pain. But he hid that from view, as he focused on each individual and expressed his love and admiration and hopes for them, as he had always done. The power of that visit has lingered in the hearts of his posterity. Then as I sat by his side the next day, his final, silent message to me was a hand-squeeze, not powerful physically, but a squeeze that spoke of a perfect love that will endure forever.

It was the last day of school. The sun was shining. The temperature was perfect. Everyone had fun playing softball, running races, and eating hamburgers. But now it was time to go home, and for Jena, it wasn’t fun anymore.
This was her last day at Buckingham Elementary. This was her last day to see her teacher, Miss Wilson. This was her last day to be a fifth-grader and have recess. This was her last day to see many of her friends. Most of them were going to Pilot Butte Middle School next year. She was going to High Desert Middle School.
Jena cried when it was time to get on the school bus. All her friends cried, too. They hugged each other over and over. The deep noise of the bus engine started up, but the driver waited patiently. Finally, after more tears and hugs, she and her friend Randy boarded the bus. Jena lowered the bus window and yelled, “I’ll call you this sum—”
Jena never finished her sentence. She remembered that she couldn’t call anyone this summer. She was going to live with Grandma Hunt while her parents took summer classes at the university.
“This is going to be the worst year of my life,” Randy choked out. And even though everyone else on the bus seemed happy and excited, she slumped down in her seat and cried. “We probably won’t get to see our friends from Buckingham any more, and we won’t even see each other all summer.”
Jena wanted to say something to make Randy feel better, but she didn’t know what to say. She knew that if she tried to talk, she’d cry, too.
Just before the bus came to her stop, Jena turned to Randy and gave her a hug. “Write me,” she said. “I’ll write back. I promise.”
The first night at Grandma Hunt’s, Jena thought about Randy. She wondered if Randy was as lonely as she was.
“How about a good game of Irritation?” Grandma Hunt asked as she got out the board game.
Normally, it was Jena’s favorite game. But she didn’t feel like playing this time.
“You really miss your family, don’t you?” Grandma asked.
“Yes. I can’t quit thinking about them and my friends back home. Most of my friends are going to a different school next year. It won’t be any fun without them.”
“It’s true that we have some friends for just a short time and some of them longer. But they each make a difference in our lives forever. So each friend is to be treasured. And new experiences should be fun because they give us a chance to meet new friends.”
“If you say so, Grandma,” Jena faltered.
“Jesus Christ was the perfect example of a good friend. He served His friends. He fed the people, He visited them when they were sick, and He shared the gospel with them. He did things for all of us that we can’t do for ourselves.”
“Their lives were happier because He was their friend,” Jena said.
“That’s right. Their lives were different, better, because of what He did. Our lives are better because of what He did for us. You should look forward to going to your new school and meeting new friends. Be excited about it. You will have experiences you’ve never even dreamed of, experiences that can make you a better person. Just make certain that the friends you choose are trying to do what is right. Now, let’s play this game!” Grandma declared. “In the morning I’ll take you to visit one of my very good friends. I treasure her friendship. I hope you will, too, even though you’ll probably know her for only one summer.”
“Could we take the Irritation game with us and ask her to play?” Jena asked.
“She’d like that.”
The next morning, Jena and her grandma stopped at a store and purchased four large red marbles and four large yellow marbles.
“June B., that’s my friend, just got out of the hospital. She was in a terrible car accident and broke about all her bones, it seems to me,” Grandma explained. “She’s also partially blind from the accident, so these large, bright marbles might be easier for her to use.”
When they got to the house, June B. was sitting in a wheelchair. Her left arm was in a cast, and her right leg was in a cast. Her head was bandaged, and so was her nose.
“Come in, come in,” she called. “It’s so nice of you to come.”
“I brought my granddaughter, June B.,” Grandma said. “This is Jena.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Jena. Thank you for coming.”
“I brought a game.”
“I love games! Sit right here and we’ll play it.”
Jena played three games of Irritation with June B. while her grandmother cleaned the house and prepared some lunch. The games took time because June B. had to bend way over the board to see where each of the marbles was and make a decision where to move.
“There you go,” June B. said when she won the third game in a row. “You’re nice to let a blind lady win.”
“But I didn’t let you win.”
“I know—I’m just more ‘irritating’ than you. Would you help me take a bath now?”
“Well, I, ah …”
“There’s a bucket in the bathroom. Fill it half full of warm water and bring me a washcloth and the soap. I sit right here and scrub most of me. I only need help with my back and feet.”
Jena helped her grandma in the kitchen while June B. bathed. When she needed help, she called to them.
Grandma Hunt gently washed June B.’s back. “Would you like to bathe her feet?” Grandma asked.
“Well, I, ah … sure.”
Jena couldn’t believe her feelings as she knelt and gently lifted June B.’s left foot into the bucket. Ever so carefully she rubbed soap onto her hands and then rubbed the lady’s foot and toes. She lowered the foot into the water again and rinsed it carefully. Then she dried it with a towel.
Before Jena was halfway through, she started crying softly. Now she knew what Jesus Christ must have felt like when He helped others. And now she understood that Heavenly Father wanted her to meet many new friends. She could help them. And they could help her.
“Can I come and play a game with you tomorrow?” Jena asked softly.
“I’d love that!” June B. said. “And I promise, I won’t be so ‘irritating’ tomorrow.”

It may look like the youth from the Big Cottonwood Stake are simply using ropes and boards to walk together. But actually they are learning about temple work—and how it’s a team effort.
The youth chose “Aspire Higher” as the theme for their youth conference and learned to work together and set goals for celestial living.
Receiving a temple recommend may seem as far in the future as marriage and mortgages, but the youth in this Salt Lake City stake took on the responsibility of becoming temple worthy by the time they held their youth conference.
Six months before the conference, the youth began preparing to attend the temple to do baptisms for the dead and understand the work that goes on there. They were divided into groups, and each was assigned to learn about one of the temples around the world.
Their two-day youth conference included a trip to the Salt Lake Temple.
Mike Harrington, a priest from the Cottonwood 12th Ward, provided the music in their temple devotional.
“I gained a testimony of what goes on in the temple,” Mike says. “I am really excited to get to go there.”
Youth in the Pinedale Ward, Rock Springs Wyoming Stake, spent several activity nights learning more about the temple and how to be prepared to enter it. As a culmination of their activities, they each sanded and finished a large pine picture frame and put their favorite picture of a temple inside. The youth now have a special reminder of the temple and what it means to them.

One summer my father said that he had a big job for me and my brother, Clay, to do. Pointing to a nearby field with a bunch of lambs in it, Dad said that he’d share any money that we made from raising and selling them.
We were excited. There were about 350 lambs, and all we had to do was feed them. However, none of the lambs had mothers. To feed one or two baby lambs is easy, but to feed 350 of them was a real job. We made some long, V-shaped troughs out of boards, then got a tin washtub, ground up some grain, put it into the tub, and added milk to make a thin mash.
When we herded the lambs to the troughs, they just stood there looking at us. We tried pushing their noses down into the milky mash, and we tried wriggling our fingers in the mixture to get them to suck our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were starving to death. The only way that we could be sure they were eating was to pick them up and feed them.
At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill and howl. The next morning we’d see the results of their night’s work, and we’d bury two or three more lambs.
Clay and I soon forgot about becoming rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. It really wasn’t too bad until I made a pet of one of the lambs and gave it a name. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved that lamb. One morning it didn’t come when I called it. Later that day I found it under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at Dad, I said, “Isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, a long, time ago, Someone Else said almost those same words: ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–16.)
Many years later, while pondering Moses 1:39—“For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind]”—I remembered the summer of the lambs, and I sensed how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that He needed my help.

Covey: I was in one Afrikaans area for a long time, an area I had heard was “tracted out.” I was with a South African companion when we knocked on the door of this lady whose husband had died just a few days before. She was very religious; in fact she was baking a cake for a bazaar in her church. After one month she and her daughter were baptized, and a few months later she was called to be the Relief Society president. She helped bring many people into the Church. All in an area that was supposedly “tracted out.”

Jed, who is 13, hasn’t started seminary yet, but the example of his older brothers and sister has inspired him to read the Book of Mormon each morning before school with his mother. They read one chapter a day, and they have already read through the book three times. Because of this experience, Jed is sure he’ll have no trouble getting up for seminary when the time comes. As the youngest of this clan he has probably benefited the most from the 3F formula because it was well established by the time he came along. “I think all of these big brothers are great—I get to wear all of their old clothes!” he laughs. You don’t have to ask Jed twice if he thinks the 3F formula works. He has learned its power through example, and it’s not a lesson he’s likely to forget.

“And what do Mormons believe about marriage?” my high school Spanish teacher asked me.
All of my classmates turned in their seats, listening for my answer. I gulped as I wondered how our class discussion had wandered from Don Quixote and Dulcinea to dating and marriage.
There wasn’t another member of the Church in the class. What should I say? How much detail should I give? Would everyone make fun of me if I talked about eternal marriage?
“We, uh … ,” I stammered, still uncertain what to say.
Just then, my friend Denise came to my rescue. “Mormons have a beautiful view of marriage,” she said. “They believe that marriages performed in their temples can last forever.”
“That is beautiful,” our teacher replied. Even my classmates seemed satisfied.
With that, class resumed and I was left wondering why I had been sweating over a question that my nonmember friend answered so easily.

1. Anna sat with her CTR 6 class in the Primary room. Sister Howe told the class,
Today we are going to talk about Christmas gifts. I would like you to think about what you can give to Jesus.
What gift could I give to Jesus? I don’t have very much money.
These gifts don’t cost money. They come from the heart. Who can name a gift you could give to Jesus?
2. Christina and Mason said,
I can be reverent in church.
I can be nice to my little brother.
3. Sister Howe handed a paper angel to each child.
You can write a gift you want to give to Jesus on your paper angel. Then the Primary president will put the angels on a tree.
4. Anna wrote, “I will say my prayers every day.”
5. The next Sunday, Anna saw the angel tree at church. She looked for her angel and saw it on a branch in the middle.
I love Christmas, Mom. And this year will be the best Christmas of all.
Why is that?
Because I’m giving a gift to Jesus.

I learned to swim in the swift currents of Utah’s beautiful Provo River. The “old swimming hole” was in a deep portion of the river, dangerous with its depth of 16 feet, its current, which moved swiftly against a large rock, and the sucking action of the whirlpools below the rock. It was not a place for an inexperienced swimmer.
One warm summer afternoon when I was about 12, I took a large, inflated inner tube from a tractor tire, slung it over my shoulder, and walked barefoot up the railroad track which followed the course of the river. I entered the water about a mile above the swimming hole and enjoyed a leisurely float down the river. The river held no fear for me, for I knew its secrets.
That day the Greek-speaking people in Utah held a reunion at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, as they did every year. Native food, games, and dances were the order of the day. But some left the party to try swimming in the river. When they arrived at the swimming hole, it was deserted, for afternoon shadows were beginning to envelop it.
I was about to enter the swiftest portion of the river, just at the head of the swimming hole, when I heard frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young lady swimmer, accustomed to the still waters of a gymnasium swimming pool, had fallen from the rock into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the party could swim to save her. I saw the top of her head disappearing under the water for the third time, there to descend to a watery grave. I stretched forth my hand, grasped her hair, and lifted her over the side of the tube and into my arms. At the pool’s lower end, the water was slower as I paddled the tube, with my precious cargo, to her waiting relatives and friends.
They threw their arms around her and kissed her, crying, “Thank God! Thank God you are safe!” Then they hugged and kissed me. I was embarrassed and quickly returned to the tube and continued my float down to the Vivian Park bridge. The water was frigid, but I was not cold, for I was filled with a warm feeling. I realized that I had participated in the saving of a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her,” and permitted me, a deacon, to float by at precisely the time I was needed. That day I learned that the sweetest feeling in mortality is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and generously permits us to see and to share His divine power to save.