Gospel Story Finder

Fishing and hunting are big in Alabama. That’s how it happened that a group of young people from Dothan, Alabama, recently descended on Lake Eufala, which calls itself “the bass capitol of the world.” They hadn’t been there long when a boatload of youths from the local Eufala branch came lazying by, propelled by one paddle and one landing net. A little earlier a couple of young people had been out in the same boat with their dad, checking troutlines baited with chunks of soap.
The Dothan group wasn’t destined to take home many fish that day, but they got some good Alabama sunshine and proved once again that participating in Church activities is a lot of fun wherever you live.

Every Christmas Eve my wife serves my favorite dish, clam chowder. We added the chowder to our holiday traditions not only because we enjoy the taste, but because it reminds us of the Savior’s infinite love for us. After the last bite, we tell the clam chowder story, which happened years ago when our children were young.

It was a Monday evening, and I was on my way home from work, looking forward to a fun and relaxing family home evening with my wife and children. As I walked toward the back door, I anticipated the children playing nicely and dinner waiting on the table. Not so.

My wife, Joy, had arrived home just before I did. She had had a busy day, and now each of our children was trying to get her attention. As we began to sort out their needs, it seemed each had homework that had to be completed that evening. Joy was exhausted, we needed to prepare dinner, we needed to hold family home evening, and Joy had also committed to prepare clam chowder for 60 women who would attend the Relief Society luncheon the next day.

We divided up the tasks. Joy fixed dinner, I helped the children with their homework, and we held a short family home evening. I then put the children to bed while Joy started the clam chowder. The children were all tucked in bed by about 9:30. I walked into the kitchen, and Joy was busily preparing the ingredients for the clam chowder. The process is quite lengthy and somewhat tricky. The chowder must be constantly stirred at the right temperature, or it will burn.

Joy had to leave at 8:00 the next morning, so the chowder had to be finished that evening. I asked her if she would like me to help. She said she could handle it, so I went upstairs to work on my electronics course.

About 11:30 Joy came into the room with a small bowl of chowder. I was in the middle of soldering a part in a circuit board. When I looked up she was gone. There sat the steaming bowl of heavenly soup. I put a big spoonful in my mouth, expecting ecstasy. I was startled. I couldn’t believe what I was tasting. It was terrible! It tasted burned. Surely this couldn’t be. How could I tell my wife?

Gathering all my tact and courage, I went downstairs. She was sitting in the kitchen, looking forlorn and tired. I said as gently as I could, “Honey, there’s no way you can serve this. It’s burned.” She looked up and started to cry. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice. I was stirring and stirring, and all of a sudden I noticed black flecks coming to the top. I quickly took it off the stove and poured it into another pot, hoping I had caught it in time.” The tears flowed freely, and she looked hopeless. “I am so tired, it’s so late, and we don’t have any money to replace the ingredients. What are we going to do?”

I put my arms around her and told her she needed to go to bed. She said, “But I can’t. I still have carrots to peel and cut up.” I walked her to the bedroom. We had a prayer, and she got in bed. She was already asleep when I closed the door and headed for the kitchen, wondering what I could possibly do.

I grabbed the cookbook and looked for “burned milk products” in the index. Nothing. I even tried calling an all-night radio program that discussed all sorts of topics. I couldn’t get through, so I went back to the sink and peeled carrots. It was full panic time. I had done all I could do. Only one option left. I went into the dark living room and knelt down.

I felt a bit uncomfortable asking about such a trivial matter. But it was not trivial to Joy. “Heavenly Father,” I began, “I know there are many people with big problems. But I have no other place to go. I have done all I know how to do. This problem is very big to my wife, and that makes it important to me. She is faithful and tries to do all she is asked to do.” I took a deep breath. “Please, Father, take the burned taste out of the clam chowder before morning. Please forgive me for asking such a trivial thing, but please help my wife.” With that I went to bed.

About 6:30 a.m. my wife sat up in bed and said, “What am I going to do?” I told her the carrots were done, and she needed to get dressed and go try the chowder. She dipped out a small amount into a pan and heated it. As she tasted it she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “There are no black flecks and no burned taste. What did you do?” I told her what I had done, and we both realized the blessing He had granted us. We knelt in prayer and thanked our Heavenly Father for His love and concern for us.

What process did the Lord use? I don’t know. Why did He grant this petition? I don’t know. All I know is that He said, “Ask, and it shall be given you” (Matt. 7:7), and I believed Him. And this time He granted the blessing.

Oh yes, the clam chowder was served to the sisters. They all commented on how delicious it was and asked for the recipe.

We find the Christmas season the best time of year to remind ourselves and our family of how much the Savior cares about us and that, to Him, even little things matter.

For my family and me, the cold winter of 1944 was a time of fear and uncertainty. With my father far away on the western front, my mother struggled to keep her four children fed and warm as war threatened our home in Czechoslovakia.
Each day the danger grew closer. Finally, my mother decided to flee to her parents’ home in eastern Germany. Somehow, she managed to get all of us on one of the last refugee trains heading west. Nearby explosions, worried faces, and empty stomachs reminded everyone on the train that we were traveling through a war zone.
One night after our train had stopped for supplies, my mother hurried off to search for food. When she returned, to her horror, the train carrying us children was gone!
Fraught with worry, she turned to God in desperate prayer and then frantically began searching the dark train station. She ran from track to track and from train to train. She knew that if her train departed before she found it, she might never see us again.
On a dark night in a grim railroad station many years ago, my mother faced a choice. She could sit and bemoan the tragedy of having lost her children, or she could put her faith and hope into action. I am grateful that her faith overcame her fear and that her hope overcame her despair.
Finally, in a remote area of the station, she found our train. There, at last, we were reunited. That night, and during many stormy days and nights to come, my mother’s example of putting faith into action sustained us as we hoped and worked for a brighter future.

As he passed his little garden, now covered with the white of winter, he remembered the first time he had met the missionaries almost two years ago. It was in the summer of 1893. They had come by and talked with him as he stood bent over, pruning bushes.
“Those missionaries planted a sweet seed in my heart that day. It all seemed sensible,” he remembered. As he walked slowly along he remembered other things, too. “The next day the minister came, and I told him what the missionaries had told me. He tore every word to pieces, and he filled me with his talk again. The next time the elders came, I told them what the minister told me. They taught me the gospel again and planted the seed again. It soon became obvious that I had to know for myself.”
The night was very dark. The children cuddled close to their parents. The hand of tiny Thorvald squeezed his father’s, and pretty little Astra clung to Ibine. Anthon looked down at Thor and remembered his own childhood. He remembered the cows he had herded, the wooden shoes he had worn in winter, his own sister who had died in a terrible blizzard too far from home to get help. He remembered the worried look of his father who couldn’t support his family of nine during the mid-1800s war with Germany. He remembered working from 2:00 in the morning until 11:00 at night on a farm in order to help. He remembered crying in bed at night. “I wondered what I was sent on this earth for. I couldn’t see what good I was doing. All I could see ahead was endless work to no real worthwhile end.”
The frigid cold gripped Anthon’s face, and he wondered if the children or Ibine were uncomfortable. The chilling breeze made him think of glacier ice, and he remembered learning that ice-age glaciers had left his Denmark an undulating flatland so suited to farming and agriculture. He was grateful that at least a few years of formal education were mandatory—that his country believed in the virtues of learning and working. He saw ships’ masts in the harbor poking above the fields.
He and his family were nearing the place where they would be baptized. A sick feeling of loneliness hit him in his stomach. “My homeland, my forefathers, all that has been good to me—am I giving up their trust in me for a far-fetched religion sprouted in a distant, upstart country?”
Then he and his little family turned the corner of the last block. They could see the ice-covered water clearly. Anthon felt the whitened wool next to his skin. He had been ordered to wear it constantly since his illness. His illness! Yes, he remembered the birth of his testimony. He had been healed after 12 months of life and death struggle with pneumonia. The elders had said that with faith and a special blessing called administration he could be healed. He had submitted to their counsel and believed. Shortly after Anthon had resolutely cleared away the dark clouds that had been gathering around his search for truth. He told the ministers of the other churches that he could not serve two masters. They had been good neighborhood friends, but with his decision to join the Mormons, that friendship ended—the ministers gave him up as a lost soul.
Every member of the Mormon church who lived in Aalborg was there on the seashore, some holding lanterns. It was a small but cheery group. They sang hymns and smiled. But Anthon was still quiet. He looked into the faces of his beautiful children and wondered if he was doing what was right for them. He knew he would have to find a private school for them because the prejudice in the public schools against the few Mormon children was too much for such young children to bear.
The singing was over. A prayer was given to open the meeting. The missionaries asked a blessing on Brother and Sister Jensen that as they were baptized they would not fall ill from the freezing temperatures. A hole was chopped in the ice. The sacred ordinance was performed for both Anthon and his wife, Ibine. The two new members were welcomed with hugs and handshakes and sent quickly home to a warm fireplace. It was then that Anthon noticed something special—something unexpected. On their way home he found himself walking, almost skipping, with lightened step—his wife and children smiling at him all the way. The heavy burdens of worry had been lifted. He knew he had done the right thing, and above all he knew now that there was something important for him to do in life.
“I went to my former friend and minister the next day to bear him my testimony. I was so happy that I felt I could convert the whole world, and I wanted to,” he later recorded. “I wanted everyone to feel the peace and the joy that came with my baptism. And the most wonderful thing of all, I had an assurance that greater joys and greater knowledge were yet in store—not only for me but for my beautiful family.”

And now, my brothers and sisters, I share with you the rest of this account. I delivered my message on April 6, 1969. Again, I had little or no hope that Mrs. Patton would actually hear the talk. I had no reason to think she would listen to general conference. As I have mentioned, she was not a member of the Church. And then I learned that something akin to a miracle had taken place. Having no idea whatsoever who would be speaking at conference or what subjects they might speak about, Latter-day Saint neighbors of Mrs. Terese Patton in California, where she had moved, invited her to their home to listen to a session of conference with them. She accepted their invitation and thus was listening to the very session where I directed my remarks to her personally.
During the first week of May 1969, to my astonishment and joy, I received a letter postmarked Pomona, California, and dated April 29, 1969. It was from Mrs. Terese Patton. I share with you a part of that letter:
“Dear Tommy,
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Tommy, as I always think of you that way. I don’t know how to thank you for the comforting talk you gave.
“Arthur was 15 years old when he enlisted in the navy. He was killed one month before his 19th birthday on July 5, 1944.
“It was wonderful of you to think of us. I don’t know how to thank you for your comforting words, both when Arthur died and again in your talk. I have had many questions over the years, and you have answered them. I am now at peace concerning Arthur. … God bless and keep you always.
“Love,
“Terese Patton”
My brothers and sisters, I do not believe it was a coincidence that I was impressed to give that particular message at the April 1969 general conference. Nor do I believe it was a coincidence that Mrs. Terese Patton was invited by neighbors to join them in their home for that particular session of conference. I am certain our Heavenly Father was mindful of her needs and wanted her to hear the comforting truths of the gospel.

Illustrations by Elise Black
Kate jumped out of bed.
“Good morning!” Mom said. “Today is a special Sunday.”
“Why?” Kate said.
“We’re blessing your baby sister today.”
“Is Susie sick?” Kate asked.
“No,” Mom said. “This is a different kind of blessing. It’s for babies after they’re born. When you were a baby, Daddy gave you a special blessing too.”
Kate didn’t understand. She thought blessings were just for people who were sick. She ate breakfast and got dressed. Then it was time to go.
Kate looked at her baby sister in the car. She was in a beautiful white dress.
When Kate got to church, Grandma and Grandpa were there! So were Aunt Mindy and Uncle Tim. And Kate’s cousins!
Kate was happy to see her family. She usually only saw them on holidays. This must be a special day!
The meeting began. “Today we’re going to bless a baby,” the bishop said.
Kate watched Dad, Grandpa, Uncle Tim, and the bishop go to the front of the chapel. They stood in a circle, holding baby Susie. Everyone else folded their arms and bowed their heads. Kate listened carefully and heard her dad’s voice.
Dad blessed Susie to know that her family loved her. He blessed her to have faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. He blessed her that she would be baptized. And he blessed her that someday she could get married in the temple and have her own family.
“In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Dad said. Kate opened her eyes. She watched Dad hold Susie up for everyone to see.
“That was special,” Kate whispered to Mom.
“You’re right,” Mom said.
“I’m glad Susie could have a blessing,” Kate said.

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was fifteen years old. I had developed a serious ear infection, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors say that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my sense of balance.

My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for anointing the sick.

My mother was influenced by the Holy Ghost to place my name on the prayer roll of the temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.

Amidst the terrible hostilities in Missouri that would put the Prophet in Liberty Jail and see thousands of Latter-day Saints driven from their homes, Sister Drusilla Hendricks and her invalid husband, James, … arrived with their children at a hastily shaped dugout in Quincy, Illinois, to live out the spring of that … year [of great suffering].
Within two weeks the Hendrickses were on the verge of starvation, having only one spoonful of sugar and a saucerful of cornmeal remaining in their possession. In the great tradition of LDS women, Drusilla made mush out of it for James and the children, thus stretching its contents as far as she could make it go. When that small offering was [eaten by them], she washed everything, cleaned their little dugout as thoroughly as she could, and quietly waited to die.
Not long thereafter the sound of a wagon brought Drusilla to her feet. It was their neighbor Reuben Allred. He said he had a feeling they were out of food, so on his way into town he’d had a sack of grain ground into meal for them.
Shortly thereafter Alexander Williams arrived with two bushels of meal on his shoulder. He told Drusilla that he’d been extremely busy but the Spirit had whispered to him that “Brother Hendricks’ family is suffering, so I dropped everything and came [running].”

I have a hero. She does not know that I think of her as a hero. I have met her only once, but the impression she left on me was lasting. After meeting her I inquired about her of the missionaries, her stake president, and the mission president, and I found even more reasons to respect her. She is Sister Ye Hui Hua of the Tainan Taiwan Stake. I met her when I was visiting Tainan for a stake conference. She was tending the grounds of the meetinghouse. I was drawn to the obvious happiness that enveloped her as she worked. As we spoke she shared her testimony and her gratitude for her many blessings. I left our only encounter carrying the radiance of her joyful spirit and pondering my relative ingratitude for my blessings. She obviously did not have much in the way of material things, but she was as peaceful and cheerful as anyone I had ever met. When I asked others about her, I found out the rest of her story.
As a young adult she had a great desire to attend university but knew the financial burden would be too heavy for her parents. Instead she worked and gave her income to her father, whom she dearly loved and who was a good and righteous man. After she married and in answer to her prayers, the missionaries visited her and her family and they joined the Church. Her husband, however, suffered from lingering health problems and passed away, leaving Sister Ye with three children and little means of support. Following her husband’s death, Sister Ye had to work several jobs to support her family. She managed to save a little every day so her children could serve missions. All three of her children have now served missions; two served in Taiwan and one in the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission. After returning from his mission, one of her sons became ill and passed away.
As missionaries spoke with Sister Ye at my request, she commented: “I can’t think of any reason why I would have these trials, but I have faith that it is according to God’s great wisdom. I have come to have a very deep appreciation and understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation. I believe that only when we keep God’s commandments can we understand His will for us. I thank God daily for allowing me to be here. When I have trials, I remember the pain of others. If someone is sick or has a need, I pray about what I can do to help, and the Lord leads me to know what I can do.”
The missionaries often see Sister Ye—“Ye Mama,” as they fondly call her—trimming the bushes or cleaning around the meetinghouse. They say that she is every missionary’s “second mother” and that she is as thoughtful of them as if they were her own children.
I will long carry a mental picture of a beaming Sister Ye on the grounds of the Tainan meetinghouse, garden tools in hand, sharing with me her gratitude for her blessings—Sister Ye, who has lost opportunities for education and material benefits, who has suffered the loss of those close to her, and who has repeatedly sacrificed for her children and others. What principles of faith separate Sister Ye from those who, when met with the trials of this life, “curse God, and die” (Job 2:9)?

In 1986, I was invited to give a special lecture at a university in Accra, Ghana. There I met a number of dignitaries, including an African tribal king. As we visited prior to the lecture, the king spoke to me only through his linguist, who then translated for me. I responded to the linguist, and the linguist then translated my responses to the king.
After my lecture, the king made his way directly to me, but this time without his linguist. To my surprise, he spoke in perfect English—the Queen’s English, I might add!
The king seemed puzzled. “Just who are you?” he asked.
I replied, “I am an ordained Apostle of Jesus Christ.”
The king asked, “What can you teach me about Jesus Christ?”
I responded with a question: “May I ask what you already know about Him?”
The king’s response revealed he was a serious student of the Bible and one who loved the Lord.
I then asked if he knew about the ministry of Jesus Christ to the people of ancient America.
As I expected, he did not.
I explained that after the Savior’s Crucifixion and Resurrection, He came to the people of ancient America, where He taught His gospel. He organized His Church and asked His disciples to keep a record of His ministry among them.
“That record,” I continued, “is what we know as the Book of Mormon. It is another testament of Jesus Christ. It is a companion scripture to the Holy Bible.”
At this point, the king became very interested. I turned to the mission president accompanying me and asked if he had an extra copy of the Book of Mormon with him. He pulled one from his briefcase.
I opened it to 3 Nephi chapter 11, and together the king and I read the Savior’s sermon to the Nephites. I then presented the copy of the Book of Mormon to him. His response lodged in my mind and heart forever: “You could have given me diamonds or rubies, but nothing is more precious to me than this additional knowledge about the Lord Jesus Christ.”
After experiencing the power of the Savior’s words in 3 Nephi, the king proclaimed, “If I am converted and join the Church, I will bring my whole tribe with me.”
“Oh, King,” I said, “it doesn’t work that way. Conversion is an individual matter. The Savior ministered to the Nephites one by one. Each individual receives a witness and testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”1

David looks down and sees Sister Logan smiling up at him from where she’s sitting with her husband and two children. She wants to take David in as a foster child. “You’re only 14,” she told him the other day when he dropped in after school for some snickerdoodles and a glass of milk. David has stayed with Sister Logan and her family off and on for days at a time, when his mother has had to go to the hospital for treatment for her depression. Even when he’s not crashing on the Logans’ sofa, David likes to drop in every now and again.

But the other day, while he was munching his snickerdoodle and sipping his milk, Sister Logan had stood over him, her face a tight mask of concern. She had jiggled her baby on her hip and she said, “That neighborhood of yours …”

She had let her voice trail off, but David knew what she was thinking. She was scared David would never have a chance.

What Sister Logan doesn’t know is how very much David would like to be her foster son. He can picture himself tromping home from school in the afternoon and pushing open the slick glass doors of her building’s lobby. He’d stop and visit with the doorman for a while, then zip up to the 12th floor, where he’d sit at the spotless Formica table in Brother and Sister Logan’s white kitchen. He’d work on his math problems until it was time to help with dinner.

But this, David knows, is only a dream. It is like the dream he used to have about his father coming back to live with him and his mom. It is like the dream that one morning he will wake up and his mother will have stopped drinking. She will be standing in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of blueberry waffles and telling him it’s time to get ready for school. It is only a dream.

David returns Sister Logan’s smile.

During their early years in the Church, Jorge and Zorka faced serious economic challenges. On one occasion they desperately needed money to buy shoes and other essentials for their four children. But the only money they had was what they had set aside as tithing. Should they “borrow” that money temporarily to buy the shoes? Sister Leaño expressed her deep feelings that the money was not theirs to borrow and that they should quickly pay their tithing rather than be tempted to use the money for something else.

Brother Leaño immediately sought out branch leaders and gave them the tithing. On the way home, he wondered, Now what will we do? Where will we get the money we need? Arriving home, Jorge learned to his surprise and gratitude that his children had discovered a 100-boliviano bill inside a small plastic flower vase they had found. The money was sufficient to buy the much-needed shoes. Since that day, Brother Leaño has eagerly borne his testimony of the law of tithing.

One night in early 1908, passersby in Colchester, Essex, England, must have rubbed their eyes and looked again. Among the dim splashes of lamplight, a short, broad-shouldered man with three heads and six legs came striding up North Hill through a heavy rain. He walked boldly up on High Street, down Culver, and stepped into a doorway. Inside he shed his dripping raincoat and, without so much as a flourish, turned into three boys. From the right arm of the coat stepped Arthur Sadler, from the left arm his brother Stanley, and from between them their brother Herbert.
Standing unconsciously at attention, Arthur spoke to the man at the desk. “We’ve come to join the troop, sir.”
The man was friendly but non-commital. “You’re soaked,” he said. “How far have you come?”
“We live on Baker’s Lane.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s two miles from here, and we’re looking for boys who can guarantee 100 percent attendance. With this Colchester weather I’m afraid we couldn’t count on you.”
Arthur wiped the rain from his forehead. “Try us a month, sir. If you find you can’t trust us, drop us.”
So, with only one raincoat among them, the three already-Scouts set off to become a part of it all.
The man at the desk was dubious, but something about the three boys impressed him. Maybe it was just that they had walked two miles in the rain to join, or perhaps it was the understanding of the Scouting program that they had gained in their own patrol. Whatever it was, Arthur and his brothers got their month’s trial period, and for as long as they belonged to the troop none of the three ever missed a meeting, although it often meant two miles of rain or snow coming and going. They believed in the simple advice their father had once given them: “If you give your word, keep it!”

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.”

“Class, please pass your papers to the front.” Heidi reached behind her to pick up Molly’s paper. She loved to look at Molly’s beautiful writing before she passed it forward. Her letters seemed to flow together perfectly. Heidi looked at her own paper and was embarrassed for anyone to see the poor handwriting. She slid her paper under Molly’s and passed it forward.
“Mom, will you write my homework for me?” Heidi asked as she walked in the door. Her mother had beautiful handwriting too. Maybe if her mother wrote her homework, she wouldn’t feel so embarrassed.
“Why do you want me to write your homework? Are your arms broken?” her mom teased.
Heidi told her mother about Molly’s beautiful writing. “I wish I had practiced my handwriting more last year.” Heidi sat down at the table and plopped her face in her hands.
“You know, Heidi,” her mom said, “if you work hard enough at it, your handwriting can be as good as anyone’s. You just have to put your mind to it.”
Heidi wasn’t so sure. She pictured Molly’s writing and thought there was no way hers would ever look like Molly’s.
“Do you remember the prophet Heber J. Grant?” Mom asked.
Heidi looked up. “Yes. We learned about him in Primary.”
“He had bad handwriting when he was young. He really wanted to improve, so he practiced and practiced until his handwriting was so good that he received an award for his penmanship.”
Heidi was amazed! She looked up to the prophets, but she had never realized they had problems just like hers when they were young. She decided that if Heber J. Grant could work to improve his handwriting, so could she.
The next day at school Heidi worked hard on her handwriting. It was difficult at first. She had to stay late to finish writing her assignments, but the story of President Heber J. Grant motivated her to continue.
It was weeks before Heidi began to notice any improvement. It still took her a long time to do her assignments, but her writing was getting better.
One day Molly noticed. “Heidi, you have really nice handwriting,” she said.
“Thanks.” Heidi blushed. She couldn’t help but let a smile creep across her face.
That night Heidi left a note on the refrigerator for her mother. It was in beautiful handwriting.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for telling me the story of Heber J. Grant. I probably won’t win any awards, but I finally feel like I have nice handwriting. Following the prophet wasn’t as hard as I thought!
Love,
Heidi

The Young Men and Young Women of the Peoria Second Ward, Peoria Arizona Stake, combined a service project with learning a new skill. They accepted the challenge to install and plant ten weed-free gardens for people in their ward. The idea of a garden without weeds was appealing to them after remembering long hours in the hot sun weeding.
The homeowners supplied the money for the black plastic and the plants. The youth provided the muscle.
To add to the challenge, the group decided to prepare and plant all the gardens in one hour. Since they planned the project for their weekday activity night, they needed to complete the garden within an hour because darkness could hamper the work. This meant they had to do some careful planning and divide the group up into smaller groups.
Each group with adult leaders was assigned a garden spot. They cleared the rocks and grass, turned over the soil, mixed in the fertilizer, spread the plastic, cut the holes, and planted the plants. They succeeded in putting in each garden in the hour time limit. They earned a few blisters but were pleased with the result.

“I feel afraid sometimes, too,” Papa said.
Surprised, Maria looked up into her father’s eyes. “I didn’t think papas ever felt afraid.”
“Yes, we do. Today I felt afraid when the other doctors at the hospital were explaining some very technical procedures and I did not understand all their words.”
Maria asked, “What did you do?”
“I talked to my special friend,” Papa said.
“I didn’t know you had a friend here, Papa.”
“He was my special friend in Mexico, too,” her father replied.
Maria was puzzled.
Papa smiled and said, “My special friend, Maria, is Padre Celestial (Heavenly Father).”
“You knelt at the hospital and prayed to Heavenly Father?”
“We cannot always kneel when we need Heavenly Father’s help, but He hears prayers offered from our hearts too.”
“How did Heavenly Father help you today?” Maria asked.
“He sent peace to my heart so that there was no room left for fear. Then I could concentrate on what was being said instead of my fear. That helped me to understand what the doctors were saying.”

I really wanted to have an effective family home evening lesson each week, but figuring out a topic and preparing a lesson were always challenges for me.
One Monday I realized that I had forgotten to prepare a lesson. But then I realized a hidden blessing of being a Primary teacher. I had recently been called to teach the five-year-olds and had just taught a lesson the day before. I decided to use an abbreviated (and age-appropriate) version of what I taught on Sunday for FHE. That Monday night we talked about obedience, and I retold three stories I had shared the previous day in Primary.
Adapting my Primary lesson to my family has been a great way for me to accomplish my goal of having a well-prepared and effective family home evening lesson each week.
Christina Sherwood, Arizona, USA

One day many years ago I was fighting a personal battle in trying to be popular with everybody. In the midst of my distress, a thought came to me: Most people in this world do not care what happens to you. Only you will remember this unhappy experience a few months, weeks, days, or even hours from now. Furthermore, the people you respect are also unpopular with those who point the finger of scorn at you.

That event marked a turning point for me. I realized that we simply must not be afraid to stand, even quietly, in defense of virtue. We must understand that there really are two forces warring for humankind and that we cannot be in both camps. We cannot be popular with everybody.

Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store.
While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me.
My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, “What have I done to deserve this?” Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton.1 He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back.
Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back.
The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.
That was a simple experience, but it demonstrated that in most encounters we can determine the kind of experience we are going to have by how we respond. I was grateful that I chose to act in a friendly way rather than react to my young friend’s childish behavior. In doing so I avoided the negative feelings I would have felt had I followed my natural instinct.