Gospel Story Finder

Usually Manuel liked market day in Manila. He liked the happy sounds of the market place. He liked the way the bright sun gleamed on the baskets of flowers, the shell jewelry, and the shoreline of the Manila Bay. But today he was not happy.
“Our neighbor, Aling [Mrs.] Sion, is ill and I must care for her,” his grandmother had said. “We need money for food, and so the flowers must be sold. I have no one but you, Manuel, to take them to market.”
Manuel had started early, so early that the sun was not yet peeking over the mountain tops. He trudged past the little lake, half hidden among dense trees. When he reached the dusty trail to Manila, he joined crowds of people carrying huge baskets of flowers.
Manuel grumbled to himself as he walked. “I hope Jose doesn’t see me.” Jose was a boy from Manuel’s village. Jose was a bully and lately he had chosen Manuel to pick on. Shaking his head as if to cast the thought from his mind, Manuel made his way to Grandmother’s usual place next to Aling Finay.
Aling Finay looked at him curiously. “You are the flower seller today?” she asked.
He explained politely, “Grandmother could not come.”
“You must arrange the flowers nicely,” said Aling Finay.
“Just as she would do,” Manuel agreed.
He set out the pink and yellow daisies, the beautiful red roses, and the big white lilies. Then he stepped back to admire his work. The arrangement wasn’t quite as good as he had hoped, but he didn’t know how to improve it. He was sure Aling Finay would have helped him if she had not already been busy with her customers. All Manuel could do was just wait and hope someone would buy from him.
When the first rays of the sun slanted over the palm-leaf roofs of the village, Manuel heard the clatter of horses hooves on the cobblestones. The men and boys were coming with coconuts, bananas and firewood. Jose will probably be with them! Manuel drew back into a corner, wishing he could hide and forget all about selling flowers.
Suddenly Aling Finay exclaimed, “See! There is Jose strutting into the square. He means trouble for somebody.”
Manuel’s heart seemed to turn upside down. He knew by the way Jose was grinning that he had already caught sight of him. Manuel scrambled to his feet. Only the thought of Grandmother’s disappointment if he came home empty-handed kept him from running away.
Jose stopped in front of him. “Ho!” he scoffed as he grabbed a handful of daisies, tore them to pieces, and threw them on the ground. “See Manuel selling weeds!”
Anger rose inside Manuel as he remembered how hard Grandmother had worked to make her flowers grow beautiful and strong. Forgetting to be afraid, he stepped close to Jose and shouted, “Stop!”
“Out of my way,” Jose ordered, giving him a fierce push.
Manuel sprawled headlong on the cobblestones. He heard Jose’s mocking laugh as the bully went on across the market place. Manuel picked himself up, rubbing his bruises.
That Jose is a bad one,” muttered Aling Finay, her dark eyes flashing. “Still you are fortunate. He might have done much worse.”
Manuel eyed his torn shirt sadly. “It is so. I hope he does not come back.”
The day passed and the shadows grew long. Finally the sun drew its light below the far horizon. Manuel’s heart was glad. He had sold all the flowers, and many coins jingled in his pockets.
Grandmother will be happy, he thought. But now I must hurry to get home before dark. Suddenly Manuel shuddered. Suppose Jose is lurking somewhere along the way!
But in spite of his misgivings, Manuel started up the dusty trail to his village. The breeze was cool after the heat of the day, and he could feel it through his torn shirt as he plodded along.
Manuel was passing the little lake among the trees when a cry nearby made him stop short. He stood still to listen. “Perhaps it was only the wind,” he said at last. “Or a late-singing bird.”
Then he heard the sound again.
“Help!”
Quickly Manuel ran to look between low-hanging branches. Several yards from the bank, he could see someone holding tight to a log and struggling wildly in the water.
“Jose!” Manuel gasped.
He hesitated for a moment. But no matter what Jose had done, Manuel knew he had to try and save him.
As he pulled off his shirt and trousers, Manuel called, “Hold on, I’m coming.”
The bigger boy was not easy for Manuel to help. Jose was strong, and now he was fighting in panic. Once he nearly pulled Manuel under the water.
It took all his strength, but slowly and deliberately Manuel worked his way to shore. When they finally reached it, he and Jose slumped down, exhausted and shivering.
When Jose found enough breath, he mumbled, “Many thanks to you, Manuel.”
“Why were you swimming, Jose?” Manuel asked. “It’s almost dark.”
Jose ran his fingers through his wet hair. “My feet were weary. I meant only to wade a few minutes, but I stepped into a deep hole.” Then he added embarrassed, “I cannot swim. Lucky for me that you can.”
“And that I came along at the right time,” Manuel agreed.
Jose hung his head. “I have often done wrong. There are many people who would have let me drown.”
“Had I done that, I too would have been doing wrong,” Manuel replied.
“I am ashamed I have been cruel. I am sorry I knocked you down,” Jose went on. “You are brave. I would like to be your friend.”
Manuel smiled and began pulling on his clothes. “Come then, friend,” he said, “it is not far to our homes. We will walk together.”

Everyone can enjoy participating in this read-aloud story. Whenever the reader mentions any of the words in italics, the listeners make the appropriate sounds:
Sean O’Riley—Hooray!
Leopold the Leprechaun or the leprechaun—clap hands
Shamrocks—Ahhh!
Pot of gold—clink, clink, clink
Trip the Trolla, or Trip—Boo! or Hiss!
Peat bog—squish, squish, squish
Sean O’Riley was walking through the forest near the little town of Clonkinny when he saw Leopold the Leprechaun sitting on a log. Big tears trickled down the leprechaun’s cheeks and splashed into a soft bed of shamrocks.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you!” Sean O’Riley called. “Why are you cryin’ on such a beautiful mornin’ with St. Patrick’s Day comin’ tomorra?”
Leopold the Leprechaun sniffled and wiped his eyes on a bright green handkerchief. “It’ll be a sad St. Pat’s Day this year, lad. Not more than an hour ago someone stole my pot of gold!”
Sean O’Riley gasped. “’Tis a terrible thing! Who do ye suppose it was?”
“It’s in my mind that Trip the Troll has sneaked up from the peat bog,” Leopold the Leprechaun answered, “for I saw his footprints among these very shamrocks.”
“Cryin’ won’t help,” said Sean O’Riley, patting the little leprechaun’s shoulder. “Trip the Troll hasn’t had time to go far with your heavy pot of gold.”
“True, true, but what’s to be done?”
Sean O’Riley thought hard for a few minutes. “I’ve heard tell that trolls are afraid of bright, glitterin’ lights. Is it true?”
“For a fact, they are. But the only bright light today is the sun, and Trip has no fear a’that.” Leopold the Leprechaun sighed. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll have to run back to Clonkinny and ask all the children to help,” Sean O’Riley said. “Ay, ’tis a sure thing that Trip the Troll will take your pot of gold to the peat bog, so this is what we’ll do.”
Leopold the Leprechaun giggled and snickered after his friend unfolded a plan. He did an Irish jig over the shamrocks. “That’s a fine idea! I’ll meet ye at the peat bog.”
When Sean O’Riley explained the leprechaun’s problem all the children of Clonkinny wanted to help. They hurried to the edge of the peat bog to lie in wait for the wicked troll.
It wasn’t long before they heard him coming. Trip the Troll grunted and groaned as he shuffled along, lugging the heavy pot of gold.
“Now!” Sean O’Riley called.
The children stood up holding mirrors into the sun, and sharp, glittering shafts of bright light flickered on the troll’s face. Frightened, the wicked troll dropped the pot of gold and ran across the peat bog until he disappeared from sight.
“Sure ’tis goin’ to be a fine St. Patrick’s Day tomorra! And there’ll be a surprise for each of ye,” Leopold the Leprechaun promised as the children helped him pick up the coins that had spilled from the pot of gold.
When Sean awoke on St. Patrick’s Day, there on his pillow was a shiny golden coin and a shamrock from Leopold the Leprechaun—just as there was on the pillow of each child in Clonkinny!

Hi! My name is Brady. I live in California, USA. I shine my light by helping other kids.
My friend Ryder wanted to earn money to buy toys for children who need extra love and help. I wanted to do something to help too. I decided to make cards. I could sell them to friends, neighbors, and even people I didn’t know.
My whole family helped me with the cards. My mom has cancer, but she still helped a lot. My brothers helped make new designs. My favorite cards had ghosts on them for Halloween.
With the help of my family and friends, I raised a lot of money! I gave most of it to help foster kids. Then I heard about some refugees. They had to leave their countries to find safety. My family and I bought art supplies, water bottles, balls, and other things for them.
We got to meet some of the refugee children. They showed us on a map where they were from. Many even had to leave their families! It made me feel thankful for my blessings.

“Many summers my family went to Cedar City and stayed on my uncle’s farm. There was no electricity or water in the house, so we carried buckets of water into the house from outside. I experienced farm life as it really was in those days. Now my assignment is with the people in that very same area. It is special to go there—it’s like going home. Some of the people there remember my uncle and aunt and other families I knew.

“I was born and grew up in the community of Tooele, Utah, where my father managed a newspaper. As a youth, I worked at the newspaper office and also helped take care of the family cows. My brother, Joel, and I had the responsibility of not only taking care of our cows but, during the summer, also gathering our neighbor’s cows and taking them to the fields on the edge of town to graze on the grass. This is how I made my first money. Later, my brother and I worked on a eight-hectare farm on the edge of town which the family owned. We were teenagers and my father wanted to keep us busy.
“One day a neighbor came to Father carrying a list of things we were doing wrong on the farm. After the neighbor finished reading the list aloud, Father sat back in his chair, looked at him, and said, ‘Well, Jim, you don’t understand. I’m raising boys and not cows.’”

Friends come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. I learned that as a young boy. I knew that after my daily chores were done, I had a friend next door ready to play—not to run in the fields, ride horses, or swim in the pond, but to sit and have a good game of checkers. For many of the boys my age in our community, Elmer Sessions didn’t seem like a very good prospect as a friend. He was old, especially in the eyes of a 10-year-old boy. He was crippled and could be a little disagreeable at times. But Elmer liked me and I liked him.
Elmer was a good checkers player, and I would patiently watch him plan and execute his moves. He taught me by example how to play checkers. I don’t know who was more excited, Elmer or me, the first time I beat him at his own game.
There was a determination about Elmer that I came to admire. He had an appreciation for nature and beauty and loved to see things grow. Every morning you could see him heading out to work in his garden. With the aid of an old walking stick, Elmer would drag his crippled leg behind him. The walk itself was difficult, and keeping the weeds out of his large garden seemed to me to be a monumental task. It wasn’t easy, but he took pride in the beautiful produce that grew there. I would help him when I could. I enjoyed our conversations. He was full of interesting facts that he was willing to share with a listening boy.
He liked to grow unusual things in his garden, and one spring day I remember asking him what he was planting. He replied, “Goober peas.” When I told him I had never heard of goober peas, he gave me some and told me to go home and plant them in our garden. I did, and I watched them carefully as they grew. When I expressed my concern that I couldn’t see any fruit on the vine, he told me to be patient. The day came when it was time to harvest the goober peas. Elmer showed me how to dig around the plants, and was I surprised and delighted to find that under the ground were mounds of peanuts just waiting to be roasted—Elmer’s goober peas.
Over the years I learned many things from Elmer Sessions—lessons about patience, determination, endurance, and long-suffering. I learned that friends can come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. That an old man and a young boy can be friends. Friendships can easily span years when two people are willing to listen and care and reach out to each other.

Many years ago Sister Uchtdorf and I were traveling through southern Germany. It was just before Easter, and we invited a good friend, who was not a member of the Church, to join us in our Sunday worship service. We loved this dear friend, so it was normal and natural to share with her how we felt about the Savior and His Church and to invite her to come and see! She accepted the invitation and joined us at the meetings of a nearby branch.
If you have ever brought a friend to church for the first time, you can probably relate to the way I felt that Sunday morning. I wanted everything to go perfectly. Our friend was a highly educated, spiritual person. I earnestly hoped the meetings of this branch would make a good impression on her and represent the Church well.
The branch met in some rented rooms on the second floor of a grocery store. To get there, we had to take the stairs at the back of the building, passing the strong aromas from goods stored there.
As the sacrament meeting began, I thought about my friend experiencing this for the first time, and I couldn’t help but notice things that made me cringe a little. The singing, for example, didn’t exactly sound like the Tabernacle Choir. Restless, noisy children could be heard during the sacrament. The speakers did their best, but they were not skilled at public speaking. I sat uncomfortably through the meeting, hoping that maybe Sunday School would be better.
It wasn’t.
All morning I worried about what our friend must think of this church we had taken her to.
Afterward, as we drove home, I turned to talk to our friend. I wanted to explain that this was just one small branch and it didn’t really represent the Church as a whole. But before I could say a word, she spoke up.
“That was beautiful,” she said.
I was speechless.
She continued, “I’m so impressed with how people treat each other in your church. They all seem to come from different backgrounds, and yet it’s clear that they genuinely love each other. This is what I imagine Christ wanted His Church to be like.”
Well, I quickly repented of my judgmental attitude. I had wanted picture-perfect meetings to impress my friend. But what the members of this branch had achieved was a heart-perfect spirit of love, kindness, patience, and compassion.
As I learned from my friend in Germany, our love for God and His children is a powerful testimony to the world that this is truly the Savior’s Church.

The time had finally come. My family was about to take our annual trip to Bear Lake, Utah, and the excitement was as apparent as a flash of lightning. My brother, Mike, and I were more ecstatic than anyone else. We had talked our parents into letting us invite our next-door neighbor Kevin to come along. He had just received a two-man raft for his birthday, and we couldn’t wait to get that raft out on the lake.
As we all traveled to Bear Lake in our big, red van, Kevin, Mike, and I talked about all the things we would conquer in our “ship.” We were going to cruise from one side of the lake to the other. We were going to catch the biggest fish ever. And, best of all, we were going to wipe out all the evil pirates and their ships that might be lurking on the lake’s uncharted waters.
We arrived at Bear Lake in the early evening, and to our disappointment, it was too late to go to the beach. Although our spirits drooped a bit, we decided that it would be best if we had a good night’s rest before starting our adventures on the lake, anyway.
The next morning, Mike, Kevin, and I awoke before the sun had even taken its first peek at the northern part of Utah. We knew we couldn’t wake anyone else up, so we just whispered quietly about what the day would hold. After breakfast, we hurried to Rendezvous Beach. It was a beautiful day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was just right. As we got our first glimpse of the deep, blue water, we knew that “magic” was in the air.
We took turns pumping up the inflatable raft and were disappointed in its smallness. Sure, the raft was called a two-man raft, but we hadn’t believed that only two people would really fit in it. We’d thought all three of us could be out on the water together. However, we weren’t going to let this setback ruin our entire trip. We would just have to take turns. Since the raft was Kevin’s, he was the designated captain, and Mike and I took turns rafting with him. Mike went first. Their journey went as planned, and I couldn’t wait for mine.
After lunch, Kevin and I got in the raft and pushed off from shore. We were having the time of our lives. We took turns rowing; the person not rowing looked for a ship to attack. As time went on, we kept getting farther and farther from the beach. Before we knew it, my family looked like miniature figures who could fit into a dollhouse.
Kevin decided that we should start back. Before long, we realized that we weren’t making any progress. The wind had suddenly started blowing, and instead of getting closer to the shore where my family was, we were being blown farther away. Kevin and I were scared. We no longer felt as if we ruled the lake. We just wanted to be back with my family.
Kevin suggested that one of us get out of the raft and pull it back to shore while swimming. How could he even suggest such a thing? Everyone knows that the Bear Lake Monster isn’t real, but neither of us wanted to prove it! We started to panic. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. The sun was starting to go down, and the temperature was going down with it. I looked at Kevin, and instead of seeing the “mighty captain” he was supposed to be, I saw a nine-year-old boy, a boy one year younger than me, shivering from both fright and the cold.
I was just as scared as Kevin. I started feeling the effects of being sopping wet, windblown, and cold. My “thinking wheels” started spinning, but I couldn’t come up with any plan. Hot tears formed a waterfall on my face, and I knew that this was one problem I wasn’t going to solve on my own.
I suggested that we say a prayer, and Kevin agreed. It was a short prayer and to the point. We told Heavenly Father that we needed His help and asked Him to please return us safely to the shore and to my family.
In less than a minute, three men in a motorboat were at our side to help us. Heavenly Father had sent them. When we arrived safely back on shore, we received a warm welcome from my family.
The rest of the week at Bear Lake was full of fun and excitement. However, our conversations were no longer centered on the lake we would rule and conquer in the raft. Instead, we talked about the small miracle we received because of our short, sincere prayer.

When Dad was called as bishop, he reminded the stake president that he was 70 years old. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” he had said.
“How old do you think the Brethren are up in Salt Lake City?” the stake president had asked in reply. “You weren’t our first pick. You weren’t even our second pick. You were the Lord’s pick.”
Dad knew that he had been called of God, and he became a good bishop. There was nothing flashy about him. He was not an expert on the scriptures. He was just a down-to-earth man who showed a lot of empathy for ward members.
While Dad served as bishop, I served as a counselor in another bishopric in our stake. As we attended leadership meetings together, our relationship became focused on Christ, and I got to know his spiritual side.
When Dad was called as bishop in 1994, he was suffering from health problems. “Does this calling guarantee me five more years of life?” he jokingly asked the stake president. Two years after Dad was released, he passed away.

Sometimes making a difference is as easy as saying one sentence. A couple of years ago, before the beginning of the girls’ basketball season, Sue said, “Let’s say a prayer.” They followed her suggestion before that first game, and it became a habit. “I always said the prayer before every game. Sometimes I would say, ‘Doesn’t someone else want to offer the prayer today?’ And a couple of times someone else would. But most of the time, the team would all be standing around waiting for me, calling, ‘Sue, come and say the prayer.’”

Sister Rhonda Patten Grow experienced the gift of tongues in a way familiar to many missionaries. When her husband was called from the United States to be a mission president in Uruguay, she was afraid she couldn’t learn to speak Spanish. But gradually, with the help of members, she finally learned to bear her testimony in Spanish. She was amazed, however, at how much more she could say when under the influence of the Spirit. “In fact, the Spirit helped me so much when I spoke in meetings that the members usually assumed my Spanish was much better than it actually was.”
At one meeting, Sister Grow noticed a young woman signing for a sister who was deaf. When Sister Grow stood to speak, “it seemed as if the Spirit gave me utterance beyond my own abilities. I was filled with feelings of love for the people, and I especially noticed the smiling face of the young deaf woman looking up at me.”
Sister Grow learned later that when she began to speak, the deaf woman communicated that she no longer needed signing interpretation. She could understand Sister Grow’s message without it.

A year before the experience related above took place, before he had even heard of the Latter-day Saints, Parley was newly married, had a fifty-acre farm, comfortable house, productive orchard, and beautiful garden. But he sensed something lacking. He studied the Bible and wanted to know more; there must be a restoration of the gospel, he believed. He did not know that it had already occurred but decided to leave his farm and his home to search for the true Church. His older brother William remonstrated with him. “How will you live?” he asked. Parley said he had enough bank notes to sustain himself and his family. These notes, he said, were “founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.” His brother asked to see them. Parley records:
“I then unlocked my treasury and drew from thence a large pocket book, full of promissory notes like the following: ‘Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sister, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.’ ‘If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, you shall ask what you will in my name and I will give it you.’ ‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’”9
Parley then asked his brother if these were genuine notes, if the “signer” of the notes, the Lord Jesus Christ, was able and willing to meet his promises. “Yes” was the only reply William could give. So in August of 1830 Parley settled his affairs, and with ten dollars in his pocket, took his wife and set out in search of the kingdom of God.
He discovered, as all missionaries can, that the Lord does pay off his notes.

I often remember the feeling of sadness and frustration that came when I learned that not far from Church headquarters in Salt Lake City an elderly lady, active in serving others all of her life, was eating cornflakes every meal because she could not shop or cook for herself and had no one to help her. In that same neighborhood and ward family there were able, intelligent young people who were attending classes and Church meetings and planning and pursuing parties and service projects with no knowledge of the needs of others in their ward family. When the facts were brought to their attention, they immediately did something about the situation. Her life and theirs became immediately more happy and harmonious even though she, and some of them, were not living in the ideal family home circumstances they would have wished.

Early one December afternoon my husband baptized our youngest son. My heart was full as I saw my son’s sweet face reflecting his feelings about this important day. That evening we attended our ward Christmas program and left for home filled with a special Christmas spirit. It had been a wonderful day.
But our feelings of joy were replaced with confusion and anger as we pulled into our driveway and noticed that the glass in the lamp outside our front door had been broken. The lightbulb was smashed, and the rod that earlier had held a bright Christmas bow lay broken on the ground. Along the front of our house hung dripping masses of raw eggs. Bright yellow egg yolk clung to the windows, the eaves, and the siding and smeared the woodwork of our front door. Some of the mess had already solidified in the freezing temperatures. This was not the first time we had been the object of minor vandalism, but it was definitely the worst.
My husband and I hurried our children into the house as they questioned, “Mom, why would anyone do that to us? Don’t they like us?” We calmed the children down, put them to bed, and headed out into the frigid night air to begin the task of scraping and scrubbing off the mess. We knew that if we left it until morning, the paint would be ruined. With frozen hands and angry tempers, we came inside an hour and a half later.
I suddenly remembered that the next day, Sunday, I was supposed to talk to the Primary children about the Savior and his love for us. We were going to discuss ways we could show love to him and our fellowman. I wondered how I could honestly express feelings of love when anger and resentment were racing through my heart. We went to bed that night exhausted and disappointed that such a wonderful day had ended so miserably.
The next morning someone told us who the culprits were. Friends urged us to call the police and report the two boys involved, but my husband and I searched for a better way to handle the situation. We knelt together and asked Heavenly Father to help us do what was best—not just for us, but also for the boys involved. Suddenly, the answer came rushing to us, and a sweet peace replaced our feelings of anger. I was able to go to Primary that day and share with the children my love for the Savior and his guiding influence in our life.
That evening my husband and I piled two plates full of cookies and headed out to talk with the boys and their parents. The first family was new in our neighborhood. We gave the cookies to the boy and told him that we felt this was a better thing to do with eggs. “The next time you get the urge to use some eggs,” we said, “bring them down to our house, and we’ll all make cookies together.”
Sadly, the boy’s father was not receptive to our attempt at reconciliation and told us to take the cookies and go. We left the cookies anyway. As we walked to our car, I started to lose all of my resolve about going to the next house. Frankly, I was a little frightened and very disappointed. I had been so convinced that we were doing the right thing, but now I wasn’t so sure.
However, my husband’s encouragement kept us going. Fortunately, our experience at the next house was somewhat better. This time the boy’s parents expressed appreciation that we had dealt with the problem so understandingly. But the boy flatly denied any part in the egg incident.
We went home, glad of what we had done, but unsure of the result.
One hour later, the second boy, accompanied by his father, knocked on the door and quietly confessed that he and the other boy had been involved. To make up for the mess they had caused, he said he would come to our house the next day after school and clean off any remnants of the eggs he could find.
No apology or attempt at restitution came from the other boy. However, one month later, as Relief Society president, I received the name of a family whose records had just been sent to our ward—it was this boy’s family. I had always made a point of visiting each new sister in our ward as soon as I knew she was here. But this time I was in no hurry to go. “How would she feel about my coming?” I worried. “Would she even let me in?” After procrastinating for a few days, I finally resolved to visit her. With knees shaking and a prayer in my heart, I knocked at her door.
She invited me in, and through the course of our visit we shared our feelings about that night. “You know,” she said, “I almost asked you that night what church you belonged to because I know that’s the way the Lord would have us do things.”
Oh, the joy I felt at that moment. What if we had called the police and had handled the situation in anger? What would this sister’s feelings have been then? How grateful I was that we had listened to and followed the guidance of the Spirit, especially during this season of the Savior’s birth.

I grew up in Redondo Beach, California, and had two older brothers, Bill and Dave, and a younger brother, John. The four of us hung around with each other a lot, and because we stuck together, there wasn’t much for us to be afraid of—except the crawl space beneath the house.
In southern California, houses do not have basements; they just have crawl spaces, a two-foot high area under the house where repairmen can crawl if they have to fix the plumbing or something. The four of us tried to make a hideout there once, but it was dark, damp, and dirty. There were big rusty nails sticking down and huge spiders in every corner. Our hideout lasted about ten minutes. From then on, if we were playing ball and the ball accidentally rolled into the crawl space, it was history. No one dared go in to retrieve it.
One day Dad brought home a surprise, the cutest little wavy-haired puppy we’d ever seen. He was mostly white, with a little black spot on his tail, as though someone had dipped the tip of it in black paint. Because of that, we named him Tippy.
Tippy was a boy’s dream dog. He was small, but he always managed to follow us and keep up with us wherever we’d go. He was always waiting for us when we got home from school. When we were lucky enough to get a snack after school, we’d sit on the back porch and eat while Tippy would face us, cocking his head first to one side, then to the other, patiently waiting to see which of us would share first. He didn’t really belong to any of us in particular. He was just everyone’s pal, the family dog.
Then one day a pack of big dogs came to the neighborhood. These were big dogs, the kind made mostly of teeth and meanness. As soon as they saw Tippy, they went after him. They chased him across the street and into our backyard, where he escaped into the crawl space. The big dogs didn’t follow him in, but they spent a few minutes barking and growling in front of the opening. They eventually left, but the experience frightened Tippy so much he lay curled up and shivering in the far corner of the crawl space, afraid to come out.
We spent the rest of the afternoon at the opening of the crawl space telling him the big dogs had gone, but Tippy wouldn’t move. We tried everything to coax him out—we even held out one of Mom’s cookies—but nothing worked. At times he even seemed afraid of us and would move farther away. After a time, we thought if we left him alone he might come out on his own. But the next day when we came home from school he still hadn’t moved.
Suddenly John did the bravest thing I’ve ever seen a kid do. He crawled right into the crawl space, the most terrifying place on earth! He slowly made his way to Tippy, talking very softly and calmly. When he finally got close enough, he took hold of Tippy. He held him close with one arm and carefully crawled back to safety.
When they finally came out into the light, John dusted the cobwebs and dirt from his clothes and hair. Tippy was overjoyed and showed his appreciation by licking John’s face and furiously wagging his tail.
From that time on, Tippy was no longer our dog, he was John’s dog. John had made a sacrifice worthy of declaring ownership. We knew it, and so did Tippy. Tippy was devoted to John. He followed him no matter where he went and slept at the foot of his bed. John took responsibility for Tippy’s care and feeding.

Robert’s memory lived on when the Special Olympics became a great thing for a group of Latter-day Saint teenagers, too—including Lee.
During the summer of 1995, leaders of three stakes in the United States—in Connecticut and Rhode Island—were planning to combine three youth conferences into one. “The stake leaders were interested in youth conference ideas, and they asked kids what they felt like doing,” recalls Lee, 15, a teacher in the New Haven Stake’s Newtown Ward. “We talked about doing community service—you know, gardening and stuff like that.”
Then came the suggestion to help at the Ninth Special Olympic World Games, to be held in and around New Haven, Connecticut. The idea was met with great enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before more than 400 Latter-day Saint youth from the three stakes were signed up as volunteers.
The youth conference theme was “Ye Are the Light of the World.” And the LDS teens were just that. They served in a wide range of ways—from cheerleading to working in concession stands. “We really felt that we were like a candle and we could pass that light on to each other through caring about and serving these athletes. You really can do that by just being a great example,” says Lee, who couldn’t have asked for a better way to serve. The competitions were in his home state, and if there’s one thing Lee knows, it’s the Special Olympics.
Because of all the time he spent when his brother Robert was competing, and then in 1994 when Lee was a Special Olympics volunteer for Connecticut’s state games, Lee understood what volunteering at the World Games would involve. And he was able to watch other youth his age learn how much fun they could have through helping and serving special-needs athletes.
“I was really happy to see that all the kids were totally involved. They went up to the athletes and gave them hugs, high-fives, or whatever they needed,” says Lee.
Ben Johansen agrees. “We had a lot of fun. We wanted to serve, and everything was totally focused on serving. These athletes do their best with the abilities they’ve been given. I’ve learned that the winners in this life are the ones who do the most with what they have, not who crosses the finish line first.”
The first International Special Olympics was held in July 1968 in Chicago, Illinois. It involved 1,000 Special Olympians from Canada and the United States. It has grown to include more than 7,000 athletes from about 140 countries and to involve 45,000 volunteers. In 1993, for the first time, the winter Special Olympics were held outside North America, in Austria. European summer Special Olympics have been held in Belgium and Scotland.
At 1995’s track-and-field venue in Connecticut, the LDS youths gathered near where the athletes entered the track and shook hands, gave pats on the back, and offered encouragement. The athletes’ smiles got even bigger when their LDS helpers asked for their autographs.
“They are really happy when you smile or say congratulations to them. As soon as you start talking to them, they become cheerful and talkative,” says Stephanie Perry.
That attitude rubbed off on the LDS volunteers, too.
“At other youth conferences I’ve been to, we do service, and then one of our leaders gets a letter of thanks. Half the people who worked on the project don’t even realize what we did was appreciated. It’s so much better being interactive,” says Merilee Hales. “You could see the excitement these kids had when we would shake their hands and give high-fives.”
Says Ben Stratford, “The best thing about it was the time we spent with the Special Olympians and the example they provided for me.”
On a brutally hot day in New Haven, many of the young men and young women gathered in Yale University’s football stadium with brooms in hand. Their job was to sweep up debris in preparation for the Games’ closing ceremonies. While Lee swept piles of garbage into bags, he stopped to consider what they had been doing during their three days of service.
“Sweeping is just manual work. After you’re done sweeping, the stadium is not going to remember you sweeping it,” he says. “But these athletes will remember you. They’ll remember us. That’s what really means a lot to me. And I will remember them.”
When Lee was interacting with the Special Olympians, he had seen real joy and happiness, especially when the athletes would smile at him.
And as Lee smiled back, he couldn’t help but think of his brother Robert.

When I came home for a quick weekend visit, I asked Todd about his adventure. He was kind of quiet until he started talking about his mission and the money he’d saved. When I asked him about his job, I was surprised at his answer.

“The fun house? Oh, I quit that.”

I felt a little let down. So much for the new-and-improved Todd who was sticking to hard jobs.

“How come?” I asked.

“Well, I was working a lot of Sundays, and I realized my priorities were out of whack. I mean, Jolene only ever looked at me like I was a reflection of one of those fun house mirrors, you know, with eight-foot legs and no body or a giant forehead and hardly any face. And I was like that. I was only thinking about entertaining myself, not about anyone else.”

I smiled. It was the new-and-improved Todd.

“I guess my nursery kids taught me about being concerned about others and sharing. I should have figured this out years ago. Guess I’m a slow learner,” he said, grinning at me.

I said, only half sarcastically, “Todd, who knew you were such a lovely human being?” I punched him in the shoulder.

Apparently the Lord tried to make his presentation as memorable as possible, which recalls the story of the chief engineer of a certain company whose services had been dispensed with. He asked the president why he had been dismissed. The president said, “You let us make a mistake which cost us a lot of money.” The engineer replied, “But certainly you must remember that I specifically advised you not to do that.” The president replied, “Yes, I remember that you advised us not to do it, but you didn’t pound the table when you advised us.”

A violent wind pulled at my hair and hurled me towards the automatic doors. “I hate hospitals,” I murmured to myself as I entered. “Why do I always have to be sick?” I was at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for yet another round of tests, which would later reveal that I had epilepsy. I felt as if all I ever did was spend time in the hospital.
On this autumn day, I was feeling particularly unpleasant and detested the fact that at 14, I was still forced to stay at a hospital that I thought was just for babies. It just wasn’t fair! How could all my other friends live in one big whirlwind of teenage fun while I was forced to bear such a heavy burden?
In the midst of my self-pity, my eyes were drawn to a boy who was about five or six years old, sitting in a wheelchair in the gift shop with his mother.
“Please, Momma,” he said softly, holding up a toy, “please can I get this?”
His mother looked at the toy, then at the little boy and said, “No, sweetheart, we can’t afford that.”
Although I was sure he was disappointed, the little boy’s reaction surprised me. He smiled and set the toy back on the shelf.
As his mother wheeled him back down the hall, I picked up the toy, paid for it, and rushed out of the gift shop. When I caught up with them, I handed the little boy the toy and said, “This toy wants to go home with you!”
The little boy’s face turned serious, and he said, “You got this for me?”
I smiled and looked at his mother, who had tears coming down her cheeks, but she was smiling.
I turned to walk away, and as I turned the corner down the hall, I heard the little boy say, “I know who that was, Mommy. That was an angel.” His mother laughed quietly and said, “I know.”
Giving him a small gift seemed to make a big difference, not only for him but for me too. At that moment, I forgot to be selfish, and despite the fact that my problems didn’t magically disappear, I suddenly felt a whole lot better.

When heavy rains in southern Germany caused flooding so severe that many homes were underwater up to their rooftops, the Latter-day Saint youth in the area knew exactly what to do: they rolled up their sleeves and got to work. There certainly was plenty of work to go around.
Some youth helped directly with the aftermath of the flood. They swept away mud and helped clean out homes and gardens. Others worked to sort and distribute toys that had been donated for children affected by the flood.
The youth worked side-by-side with members of other faiths throughout the cleanup. “I felt the Spirit’s presence as we were serving,” says Nathaniel S., a young man who participated. “I know the reason the Spirit was there was because we were all unified as children of God helping each other.”