Gospel Story Finder

Let me share a similar story:

More than a hundred years ago, a well-known Protestant preacher, Dwight L. Moody, shared a story of a ship trying to enter the Cleveland harbor on a very stormy night.

The ship’s captain could see the bright light of the Cleveland harbor lighthouse. However, the lower lights weren’t visible at all. The lower lights were the way that ships identified the centerline of the safe entry to a harbor.

Because the lower lights were not burning that night, the ship missed the entrance to the harbor and crashed into rocks. Many lives were lost.

At the end of his sermon, Moody said, “Brethren, the Master will take care of the great lighthouse; let us keep the lower lights burning.”27

It was Thanksgiving Day morning, and Elizabeth was looking out the window and wishing that the snow would stop. No longer could she see the mountains that rose behind her uncle’s farm. The snow swirled about and drifted against fences.
“Don’t worry,” said her cousin William. “Your parents will probably stay at the trading post until the storm stops. I don’t think anyone will try to get through Craggy Pass in this weather.”
“But if they left on time, they’ll be ahead of the storm,” countered Elizabeth, hopefully. “Father said that they would be back for Thanksgiving.”
Elizabeth turned to the window and flattened her nose against the glass, staring out at the dancing snowflakes.
William felt sorry for his cousin. Elizabeth and her parents had recently moved from Massachusetts, near Plymouth, and the girl was still homesick. She also missed her parents, who had been away for several days buying supplies and looking at land to purchase.
Elizabeth had told William about her old home and the small rolling hills and stone walls that defined the pastures. Her favorite spot had been on a high knoll where the pastureland overlooked the bay at Plymouth. She also spoke about the Pilgrims who had settled there. She made it sound so exciting that William almost felt as if he had been there himself. William had studied about Governor William Bradford, but it was more interesting to listen to Elizabeth tell about the feast at Plymouth in late July of 1621 when the Pilgrims had invited Chief Massasoit. He had come with a number of his Indian braves and had joined in the feasting and games of skill.
Elizabeth had described how pretty it must have been then—the clear blue waters of the bay and, on shore, splashes of colorful wildflowers—and how in this new land the Indians and Pilgrims had formed a fellowship.
“Tell me, Elizabeth, do you have snow back in Massachusetts at Thanksgiving time?” asked William, hoping to get her mind off her parents.
Elizabeth turned from the window. “Sometimes we do,” she said. “It looks strange when it falls on the beach.”
“I’ve never seen the ocean,” said William. “I hope that someday I will.”
“It’s lovely, like your mountains, but different,” said Elizabeth.
“Come on, Elizabeth, we better help my mother get the big dinner ready. It’s a tradition in our family to set a large table for our many friends who come. And each year Mother puts out her best hand-dipped candles.”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” said Elizabeth. “The snowflakes are making me dizzy.” But she couldn’t help remembering her own family tradition that had always been an important part of their Thanksgiving meal. And for the first time she would miss this annual custom.
Elizabeth and William set the table, and the candles looked lovely. “I like the special candles you use for Thanksgiving, Aunt Emily,” said Elizabeth.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” answered Aunt Emily. She looked at the sadness in the girl’s face. “Perhaps there is a family tradition you have that you can share with us?”
“Oh, there is,” said Elizabeth, “but Mother and Father are not here.”
“All the more reason for you to carry on your custom,” Aunt Emily gently encouraged.
“Oh, I’d like that,” said Elizabeth. “But I’ll need—”
“Hush!” said Aunt Emily with a smile. “Why don’t you surprise us with your family tradition?”
The idea delighted Elizabeth and she disappeared from the room. William and his mother were happy to see Elizabeth forget her troubles. But the storm still worried them. The wide open spaces of their western land could be very hard on travelers, especially newcomers such as Elizabeth’s parents.
Meanwhile Elizabeth was very busy. She took a clean sock and stepped into the pantry for a minute. When she came out she was smiling. “Before we sit down and say the blessing, I want to go to the table,” she explained. “And nobody may peek,” she added. Then she took from the sock a handful of corn and carefully placed five kernels by each plate.
In a short while, friends who lived nearby arrived. They came in, stamping snow off their feet and bringing dishes of hot food. Before he started to carve the turkey, her uncle said, “Well, Elizabeth, I’ve never seen kernels of corn at my place like this before. They must be part of the tradition that you wish to share with us.
“Yes, Uncle John,” said Elizabeth. “My father usually tells the story of the corn, but I’ll do it since he isn’t here.”
“Many years ago,” she began, “during one of the early winters, the Pilgrims had very little food. Because their corn supply was almost gone, each Pilgrim was given only five grains of corn to plant. The following years they had more corn. But the Pilgrims wanted their children to always remember the sacrifices and the hardships that made the survival of their small settlement possible. So each year when they celebrated Thanksgiving, they placed five grains of corn by each plate. My family still does it so we won’t forget those brave days either.”
“That’s a wonderful tradition you’ve shared with us,” Aunt Emily said, hugging Elizabeth. “I think we should all carry it on. It will give us strength for the days to come.”
Just then there was a banging on the door, and in burst Elizabeth’s parents covered with snow. Elizabeth raced into their arms. “I didn’t think you’d come!” she said. “But I prayed and prayed that you would.”
“Not be here for Thanksgiving!” exclaimed her father. “It would take more than a snowstorm to stop us.”
He strode to the table. His hand reached into the pocket of his coat and he started to take something out. But he put it back when he saw the grains of corn at each plate. His eyes met Elizabeth’s and a smile lighted up his face. “Elizabeth, you remembered. You did this, didn’t you!” he said.
“Yes, Father, just like we always did back home,” she replied softly.

“One, two, three, skip four, and five!” Diane chanted as she hopped and skipped down the hopscotch squares. Now that school was out, she could play outside every day with her friend Laura. Diane teetered on one foot, then giggled. As she regained her balance, she noticed a girl she had never seen before walking over from the house next door.
“My name’s Emma,” the girl said. “Can I play with you?”
“Sure!” Diane said. Laura grinned and nodded.
The three girls laughed and played all morning long. Emma was a lot of fun to be around! When she told Diane and Laura that she was visiting her grandparents for two weeks, the girls decided to play together every day.
But on Saturday, Emma told Diane and Laura that she wouldn’t be playing with them the next day.
“Why not?” Laura asked.
“I go to church every Sunday morning, then spend time with my family,” Emma explained. “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Diane frowned. “Can’t you miss church just this once?” she asked. They didn’t have many days left to play together.
“I don’t want to miss church,” Emma said. “I love going. We have a fun meeting called Primary that’s just for kids. We sing and listen to stories about Jesus and the prophets.”
Diane and Laura looked at her doubtfully. It sure didn’t sound as fun as hopscotch.
“You could both come with me, if you wanted,” Emma said.
“Um, no thanks,” Diane said.
“Nah,” Laura said.
But on Monday, Diane asked Emma to tell them more about her church. She and Laura both wondered how it could possibly be more fun than playing on Sunday.
“Yesterday I heard stories from the Book of Mormon.” Her friends looked puzzled. “It’s a book like the Bible and has lots of scriptures and stories about Jesus,” Emma explained. “When I pray about the stories, I feel happy and I know that Heavenly Father is telling me they’re true.”
For two weeks the girls played together almost every day. It felt like they had always been friends. The days passed quickly, and then it was time for Emma to go home. She was sad to leave, and Diane and Laura were sad to see her go. They watched and waved as Emma drove away with her family.
“I didn’t really understand everything she was telling us about her church,” Laura said.
“Me neither,” Diane said. “But I felt good when she was talking about it.”
“Yeah,” Laura said.

When I was a mission president, one of my responsibilities was to interview elders and sisters who had completed their missions and were returning home. I always asked what they were taking home as a result of their mission. I didn’t want to know what was inside their suitcases; I wanted to know what was inside of them.
One elder said, “I am going home liking myself.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
He said, “All my life I have wanted to be someone else. I was envious of the guy at high school who was popular with the girls. I wanted to be him. I was jealous of the guy who owned the red sports car. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the quarterback of the football team.
“And when I arrived in the mission field, I had the same problem. I wanted to be the assistant to the president or the elder who could always quote the right scripture at the right time. I was always wishing I could be somebody else.
“However, as I have served these two years, I have realized who I really am. I am a son of God. I have a good relationship with my Savior and my fellowmen. I have a greater love for my parents and my family. And I realize I have talents I can develop and share and that others have their talents. I’m grateful for what I’ve been given. I’m no longer envious of what others have that I may not have. I’m going home feeling good about myself.”
I too had a good feeling about this elder and what was inside of him. How happy I was that he had come to appreciate himself and make that appreciation part of his life’s philosophy. Over the years, it has been a joy to see how this young man has developed and matured by sharing himself and his talents with others.

Elsewhere two families in a small rural ward began feuding years ago. Although the exact circumstances are difficult for anyone to remember, it had something to do with a remark made by one father to another. The original observation was innocent, but it was misunderstood, and within days several variations of the story had spread. Feelings were hurt, sides were taken, and for years bitter feelings have chased the Spirit from them at activities and gatherings. Local leaders have tried to provide counsel and encouragement. Often those actions have been misunderstood as well. Today members of an entire family, including children and grandchildren, refuse to attend church largely because a simple observation blew up into a fire of faultfinding and criticism.

I had occasion the other evening to do a little research on the Willie and Martin handcart companies of 1856. There were more than a thousand in those companies, converts to the Church from Scandinavia and the British Isles. They were late in arriving in the States, and dangerously late in leaving Iowa City to begin the long walk to this valley. They became trapped in the snows of Wyoming. Fortunately they were passed on the way by several missionaries who were returning from England and who, when they saw the plight of the handcart Saints, pushed on to this valley and reported to President Brigham Young. That was on the Saturday of the October conference of 1856. The next morning, Sunday, he stood before the people in the old tabernacle that stood on this square, and said in the morning session:

“I will now give this people the subject and the text for the Elders who may speak to-day and during the conference,” he announced. “It is this. … Many of our brethren and sister are on the plains with handcarts, and probably many are now seven hundred miles from this place, and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. The text will be, ‘to get them here.’ …

“That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess. It is to save the people.”

He called for teams and wagons and drivers, and then said:

“I want the sisters to have the privilege of fetching in blankets, skirts, stockings, shoes, etc. for the men, women and children that are in those hand-cart companies … hoods, winter bonnets, stockings, skirts, garments, and almost any description of clothing.”

That was on Sunday. On Tuesday morning, two days later, sixteen wagonloads of food and supplies began moving out of this city drawn by sixteen strong four-mule teams, handled by twenty-seven young men.

This was the beginning, and other wagonloads followed as the men responded with their teams and wagons, and the women from their own meager stores gathered in food, clothing, blankets, and other necessities. (See LeRoy R. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, Glendale, California: Arthur H. Clark Company, 1960, pp. 119–26.)

There is no more heroic episode in all of our history. As these poor people, many of them with badly frozen hands and feet, some of them nearer death than life, arrived in the valley, the women who were here opened their homes to them, nurtured them, dressed their wounds, fed them and encouraged and blessed them through that long, bitter winter.

Armstrong Central Junior High School is one Apple computer richer thanks to Jared Tolman, of the Freeport Ward, Pittsburgh East Stake. The seventh grader won the computer for his school by placing first in the Best Overall category at the annual computer competition held at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.
This was no small feat, since the contest included 6th–12th graders. Jared’s entry, entitled “Calcu-Draw,” allows the user to draw shapes and select colors by giving a few simple directions.
Working with computers is not the only focus in Jared’s life. He also likes serving as a deacon, playing soccer and Nintendo, Scouting, and collecting rocks.

As a full-time missionary I have the opportunity to read the Liahona (Spanish) and to share copies with others.
One time, my companion and I were approached by a young man who asked if we would give him any copies of the Liahona we had finished reading. He explained that he likes to read the Liahona because he learns much from the experiences and counsel published in the magazine.
As we left to get him a copy, we asked him which ward he belonged to. He replied that he was not a member of the Church but had been reading the Liahona for quite some time because members of the local branch had shared it with him. We asked if he wanted to know more about the Church, and eventually, after hearing the missionary discussions, he was baptized.
This new convert continues to read the Liahona because, as he says, the words of the prophets “really apply to our lives.” The messages in the Liahona are not just for members; they are for everyone.
Elder Moctezuma Meza,México Guadalajara Mission

The large, three-story building did not seem very promising. Nevertheless, Elder Brian McGavin stepped up and knocked on the drab, red double doors. While tracting, he had learned to be very thorough. Almost immediately he and his companion, Elder David Birrell, were greeted by a cheerful young student and ushered into a guest room. They had discovered the Po Ai orphanage.
Although the elders’ apartment in Taipei, Taiwan, was near the orphanage, they had never before found it among the winding streets, crowded with brick huts and foliage. The facilities of the orphanage were scant—two large bedrooms crammed with bunk beds, a kitchen, classroom, and the guest room.
The director of the orphanage, Mrs. Wu Mei-hen, entered the room with several members of her staff and listened politely to the missionaries’ message. After a short “What now?” pause, the missionaries began explaining the Family Home Evening Program.
Mrs. Wu and her staff responded with unexpected enthusiasm, and the next Monday was set for a trial family home evening.
How do you hold a family home evening for 30 orphans, ranging in age from 2 to 18? The elders weren’t quite sure, but they forged ahead anyway. The children were all given name tags and a short lesson was delivered. Just before the closing prayer everyone sang “There Is Beauty All Around” in Mandarin. Soon the evenings at the orphanage became a district project, and other missionaries helped with the Monday family home evenings.
After one of these evenings Elder McGavin wrote his mother about the success they were having teaching the children about the Church in spite of the poor conditions of the orphanage. Sister McGavin, the Laurel adviser in the Holladay 24th Ward, Salt Lake City, happened to be with some of her girls when she read the letter from her son. Immediately they began discussing ways they could help the Po Ai orphans.
After talking with the Explorers, the Laurels planned a bake sale to raise money for shoes and desks for the orphanage. The girls went to work baking cakes, pies, and cookies, while the Explorers put together a band to provide entertainment for the sale.
By coincidence a member of the ward, Sister Ann Burchett, was planning a trip to Taiwan. She was quickly drafted by the youth to present the money they had earned to the orphanage.
The day Sister Burchett arrived at the orphanage, the students planned a special family home evening. They greeted Sister Burchett by singing “There ls Beauty All Around” and presented other skits and songs. Mrs. Wu accepted the money from Sister Burchett and announced it would be taken directly to a carpenter so desks could be built.
A local newspaper, the China Post, wrote an article about the family home evenings, the efforts of the young people in Salt Lake, and the visit of Sister Burchett to the orphanage. The article quoted Confucius, “There is nothing to compare with the happiness of welcoming a friend from afar.” Because of their concern the LDS youth from Holladay were indeed friends from afar.

William Clayton was the official camp historian. To help direct those who would follow, he and others kept careful records of the camp’s travel. In order to calculate the distance traveled each day, he tied a piece of red flannel to a wagon-wheel spoke and walked beside the wagon, counting the times the wheel turned. This was a tiresome task, and he proposed the idea for a mile counter. Orson Pratt suggested a design for the machine, and William Clayton and Appleton Harmon constructed it. This device, called an odometer, counted 10 miles, then started over. This made William’s job much easier.

Let me share with you one of those lighter moments I think you can relate to. A couple of years ago, while visiting the southern islands of Mindanao for the purpose of organizing a stake from a district in General Santos, Sue and I had the following experience that I will never forget. On Sunday morning, while showering in preparation for our meetings, the water went off. I called to Sue and said, “Sue, the water has just gone off in the shower. Is there any water in the sink?” She checked and said that there was a slight dribble. I said, “Quick, put the dipper under and get me some water so I can get the soap off of me.”

As she did, she said, “The water has stopped in the sink also.”

So I proceeded to take the towel to wipe off all of the soap. After getting out of the shower, I turned to Sue and said, “What am I going to do? I haven’t shaved yet, and I didn’t bring my electric razor. I can’t go to Church without shaving.”

She looked at me and said, “Well, there’s still some water in the toilet. I guess you’ll just have to shave in the toilet.”

I said, “You’re kidding!”

She said, “What choice do you have?”

So there I was kneeling on the floor and shaving in the toilet. Her final remarks to me were, “I wish I had a camera to take a picture of this.”

Nearly a year after I returned home, I met my wife. When I first met her, it was love at first sight. That first introduction was magical. We were at church, and she was in the ward that met after mine, I was a primary teacher and she had just returned home from school at BYU Provo. A mutual friend introduced us and we only exchanged about 20 words. And yet I went home and told my roommate I had just met my wife. We still dated a while before getting married, and we took time to learn relationship skills through things like marriage prep classes. But, throughout the last 11 years, my wife and I have thrived on teamwork, and friendship. We've been companions and co-partners in all of our duties, primarily working together in our key job of parenting. It's nice to have a fellow believer to work side by side with on numerous assignments in this life.

Over the years, she has proved to be the adventurous one. For example, with her encouragement, we decided to leave our comfort zone in Hawaii to go to graduate school in California. We attended graduate school together at UC-Santa Barbara, her in Anthropology and me in History. Despite the fact that we had two kids, part time teaching jobs, and graduate seminars to attend, those years were happy, meaningful, and memorable. So, thank you, Rebekah for riding this wave of life with me.

Last year I was noticing how I didn’t have any “real” talents. Then I received my patriarchal blessing. It said, “You have a special gift to work with people.” When I heard that, I knew what my talent was and decided to do whatever I could to pursue that talent. I was called as the Beehive president and have been striving to do what I can to be a good leader for the Beehives of my ward.
Sherry Olson, 14Sonora, California

Years ago, one of our sons, who was in fourth grade at the time, came home from school and asked me, “Dad, how much money do you make?”

I replied, “That’s a very personal question. Your mom didn’t ask me that until the third date.” (I’m kidding of course. She asked me lots of questions, but not that one.)

I asked him, “Why do you want to know?”

He explained, “At school today, we learned about income. So what is yours?”

I said, “I tell you what. I will give you one guess, and I will tell you if my income is higher or lower than your guess.”

Without hesitation, he quickly responded, “OK, $47,000.”

I responded, “That’s a pretty specific guess. Why did you guess $47,000.”

He said, “Well, we learned that the average income is $45,000 . . . and I thought you were a little above average.”

There are times that I feel I do not even measure up to average, much less a little above average. Most of us experience, at some point, what could be called the Ds of the devil: doubt, discouragement, despair, despondency. If you ever feel those Ds of the devil, go to the temple. In the temple, we can be reminded of who we are, that we are children of a loving God. We are also taught that He has a plan of happiness for us. I find that the temple does not take away my challenges or feelings of inadequacy, but the sweet whisperings of the Spirit felt in the temple remind me that I am not alone and that God is anxious to bless me.

Luke E., 17, and his younger companion approached the home of their assigned family to visit. A small cross hung on the front door. “With that cross on the door, I knew they were probably a pretty faithful family,” Luke says.
Inside the home they had a great spiritual discussion with the family. Luke and his companion shared their testimony and thoughts based on Christ’s words in the Bible, “If ye love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).
As the conversation unfolded, the couple asked a question that Luke and his younger companion hadn’t expected.
“What is the Book of Mormon?” they asked.
The adult leaders in the room remained silent in order to allow the youth to answer.
“I took this one,” Luke says. In a few minutes he explained the meaning of the title and subtitle (“Another Testament of Jesus Christ”) of the Book of Mormon, as well as a basic overview of the contents inside. He shared with them how Jesus visited and taught other nations after His Resurrection. Luke also bore testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and left them a copy.
When Luke finished answering the question, the couple was touched. They thanked everyone for coming and said, “We are grateful for young people in the world who believe something so passionately.”
For Luke, the experience was a huge boost in confidence for sharing the gospel.
“Sometimes in high school you clam up and stay quiet about spiritual things, and then you lose your confidence,” Luke says. “That day was very strengthening for me as a young man preparing to serve a mission.”

The following is a true story. For my eighth birthday I wanted to have a party. My parents agreed, and so a week before my birthday, I took the invitations to school.
On the school bus, I kept thinking about Alice.* I was hoping that she wouldn’t be there that day. Then my parents couldn’t blame me for not inviting her. You see, Alice’s clothes were old and worn, her hair was seldom combed, and she was very quiet. She always played by herself at recess, and as far as I could see, she had no friends. In other words, I didn’t see why I needed to invite her to my party.
When I got to school, much to my dismay, Alice was there. I handed out the invitations, and everyone was very excited.
The morning of my birthday party, my parents asked, “Will Alice be coming?” I was surprised! I didn’t think that they even knew Alice.
“I don’t know if she’s coming,” I answered. My father suggested that we take a ride over to her house to see. My father is a very kind man, but he is also very firm. If he suggests that we do something, we do it.
Alice’s mother answered the door, and my father told her why we were there. “She won’t be coming,” Alice’s mother said. “She doesn’t have a present for your daughter. You see, my husband lost his job and …”
My father gestured that he understood, then said, “We would still like Alice to come. It doesn’t matter if she has a present or not.”
No present? I thought. What kind of a birthday party is that? But, of course, I just stood there and smiled.
When we were in the car again, my father told me that after he took me home he was coming back to take Alice to the store to buy a present for her to give to me.
This isn’t turning out so bad after all! I thought.
I can’t remember what presents I got that day, but I do remember that Alice seemed to laugh a lot and was actually quite fun to be with. When it was time to take her home, I got in the front seat and she got in the backseat. I turned around to tell her something, and next to her was the prettiest doll I had ever seen. In my eight-year-old mind, I knew that my father had bought that doll for Alice. I felt like my heart grew two sizes that day.
My father is not a rocket scientist. He has never invented anything or found a cure for a disease. But that day he did something just as important—he showed charity to a little girl. And to another little girl, he showed what it means to be Christlike.

The crisp, unmistakable clopping of horse hooves echoed in the still morning air, and I stopped weeding to listen. “Kirby!” I yelled toward the elm tree. “A horse is coming!” His face appeared amid the budding leaves for a second; then I heard the wild rustling of branches as he scrambled downward.
I sprang to my feet and ran to stand on the flat brown rock. Craning my neck to see around the long-stemmed hollyhocks, I watched the bend in the lane. Soon I saw sunlight shine on silken red hair and glisten on a polished leather bridle. My heart pounded against my chest as I skipped to the middle of the lane to get a closer look.
The horse’s mane was rusty brown, and his eyes shone like lustrous coals. His hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground as it pranced toward me. Then I felt Kirby’s hand on my arm as he jumped up and down excitedly. “Settle down,” I cautioned. “You’ll scare him.”
“Do you think Marilyn will stop and let us pet him, Cathy?”
“I doubt it,” I said as horse and rider drew closer, “but you never know.”
Kirby danced to the side of the lane and fidgeted on the flat brown rock. I kept my eyes on the approaching horse as I moved out of his path. As horse and rider passed, the horse bobbed his head and looked at us out of the corner of his eyes. Marilyn nodded and smiled but did not stop, even though we tagged along until they reached the next bend in the road.
As we walked back home, Kirby scuffed the dust with his worn shoes. “She could have stopped!”
“It certainly wouldn’t have killed her!” I agreed.
When Dad pulled into the driveway at noon, he slowed enough for me to jump onto the running board of the car and ride it to the side of the house. Climbing out of the car, he gave me a quick hug. “Have you been helping your mother this morning?” he asked as we walked hand in hand toward the house.
“I weeded the flowers and thinned the radishes.”
“And Grandma?”
“I’m going to help her stretch curtains this afternoon.”
“Good girl.” He held the screen door open for me, then entered the kitchen and gave Mom and Grandma each a hug and a kiss. Kirby raced in, and Dad picked him up and slung him over his shoulder, laughing.
During lunch, I cleared my throat. “Mom, Dad?” I hesitated, then blurted out, “Marilyn went by on her horse again today. Why can’t I … we have one?”
Mother smiled patiently. “Cathy, your father has explained that we can’t afford—”
“We could keep it in the garage,” I interrupted. “And it could eat grass. Kirby and I would comb it and keep the garage clean, honest!”
Dad wiped his mouth with his napkin and frowned. “Your mother is right, honey. It’s too big an expense and a responsibility. But beyond that, horses are sensitive animals. There’s a lot more to having one than just keeping it in the garage and feeding it.”
After lunch I helped Grandma. The sharp needles of the curtain stretcher pricked my finger, and I rammed it into my mouth and scowled.
“You’ll feel like a pincushion if you’re not careful, child,” Grandma cautioned.
I examined my finger, then attached another loop of curtain. “Did you ever want anything really bad, Grandma?”
“Oh, my, yes!”
“What’d you do when your parents said no?”
“I prayed about it,” Grandma told me, “and I always got an answer—one way or another.”
That night as I said my prayers, I added, “Heavenly Father, I am grateful for all Your blessings. Mom and Dad say we can’t afford a horse, but if there is any way, please make it possible for me to have one. Thank you. In Jesus Christ’s name, amen.”
The next several days were filled with chores, tree climbing, berry picking, and hiking in the woods with Kirby. Each night I repeated my plea for a horse as I tried to wait patiently for an answer.
Then one bright sunny afternoon I heard a welcome sound and looked up to see a horse galloping through the fields toward our place. His mane flowed wildly, and his tail waved proudly. I sprang to my feet and raced through the high weeds to meet it. My prayer was being answered!
“Cathy,” Kirby shouted from behind me, “I brought a rope!”
I grabbed the rope he offered and smiled. “Good thinking,” I said breathlessly. “We’ll lead him to the garage. Mom and Dad will have to let us keep him because they’ll see that Heavenly Father sent him to us.”
When the horse was really close, he suddenly stopped and pawed the ground. His head bobbed up and down, and he snorted loudly. Then, slowly, he moved toward us, stretched his neck toward my trembling hand, and let me stroke his velvet nose. A long strap hung from his bridle, and I clicked my tongue as I slowly grasped the strap and looped the rope through a metal ring. I was filled with joy as he watched trustingly.
“Yahoo! You got him!” Kirby shouted.
Instantly the huge horse shied and raced off, with me still holding the rope. I bumped along the crop-stubbled field for a few yards, then lost my grip and clutched desperately to regain the rope.
“Are you OK?” Kirby hurried over and sank beside me in the dust, his face furrowed with concern as he looked at my skinned knees and rope-burned hands. “I scared him, didn’t I? I’m awfully sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I told him. “For a little while we had a horse, didn’t we?”
Kirby’s face lit up instantly. “Yeah,” he agreed happily.
We watched two men catch the horse and lead him away. He could never have been ours, I thought.
I stopped praying for a horse—not because I no longer wanted one, but because I finally knew what Mom and Dad had known all along. A horse would be too big a responsibility for us—now, anyway. Heavenly Father had known it, too, and He let me find out for myself. I had my answer, and I was content.
Kirby and I still rush to the side of the lane each time we hear a horse coming. And sometimes Marilyn stops and lets us pet her horse or give him a carrot. For now, that’s enough.

When I first graduated from college, I got a job as a math teacher and a coach in a local high school. Since my college sports were water polo and swimming, I became the coach of those two programs in a high school that had a history of excellence in both sports. The youngest and smallest of the athletes worked out before school. One of the smallest was a boy named Chris. When these athletes first entered the pool, I was pretty sure I was going to have to go in after Chris. In fact, I slipped into the office, took off my shoes, and put my ­wallet on the desk before going back on the deck.

Somehow Chris got through that first practice, although it certainly seemed to me that he spent the majority of the time underwater. When we finally finished that workout, I was sure Chris would never be back, but his words to me as he left the pool deck were “See you tomorrow, Coach.” And sure enough, he came back the next day, spent most of it underwater, and then left with the same words: “See you tomorrow, Coach.” He came back the next day and the next day and the next day. He just kept coming back.

I learned so much from this very small young man who had so little talent. Chris taught me that hard work and consistency are powerfully important values. He became an important member of our program because he was a constant reminder of the benefit of hard work. I have heard people say, “Work smarter, not harder,” and I admit I don’t believe it. If you want to be successful at something, show up and work hard.

My father was an educated man and had many talents. He also had positive feelings about our Lord Jesus Christ. But from the time of my childhood, my father drank so much it seemed to me he was never sober. I remember that he had lost his regular job and would only work at temporary jobs a few days at a time, just enough to earn money for his liquor. His drinking affected me deeply, and I often prayed he would find the strength to quit.
And one day, four months before his death, he did. He stopped drinking completely and tried to start a new life. He was even going to get his job back. One night, several months after his death, I dreamed that my father was sitting on some kind of platform. He looked at me and smiled; his countenance shone, and he seemed to be very happy. With him were several others dressed in white whom I did not recognize. The dream impressed me, and I asked myself how my father could be in a state of peace and happiness when he had lived so irresponsibly on earth. He had left my mother with six small children and had done nothing to provide for us. When people would ask me about him, I would reply that he had been a bad father.
Then one night I had another dream in which I saw myself on the doorstep of our home talking to my father. He was drunk, seemed very pale, and was dressed in filthy clothes. I was screaming at him, asking him why he drank so much. I yelled at him to go away and leave us alone. All of a sudden I saw another man coming toward me. This man was also my father, but this time he was neatly dressed, his face was shining, and the look in his eyes was one of peace. Pointing to the other man he said, “That’s the man I once was; this is the way I am now.”
My joy at that moment was indescribable, for I knew this dream was the answer to my first dream—my father really had changed his ways before he died. He had won the battle he had been fighting with alcohol. He had repented
Since then, I have often rejoiced in the knowledge that my father is at peace and that he is progressing. I have also rejoiced in the knowledge that the way to true happiness for each of us is through faith and repentance. No matter how mired in sin and unhappiness, we truly can change our lives. The Savior’s atonement made that possible.

As I progressed through high school, the first section was my norm. So I became a little lazy and didn’t practice any harder than I needed to in order to stay in a top spot.
Each year there was an All-State band event where every school selected the best player of each section to be a part of a large multi-school band. It was an honor to be selected, but I forgot that fact. I took it for granted when I was selected and showed up one year on performance day having only glanced at the music. I’d had the ability to master the music, but it would have actually taken some work—work that I hadn’t put in.
I knew I couldn’t play the music very well this year, but I’d been to All-State in previous years and knew how it worked: because I came from the first chair section in my school I would be placed in the first chair section in the All-State band. I wouldn’t be much good to the band this year, but I could fake my way through the day and have fun.
The air was abuzz with excitement as the band students gathered. Then the room grew quiet as the band director stepped onto the podium. What he said next concerned me.
“Instead of grouping everyone based on your position at school, you will try out for the seat in your section. You will play the music you have prepared for a judge, and he or she will place you in your appropriate seat. You do not have to try out, but if you do not, you will automatically be placed at the bottom of the last section.”
My lack of preparation landed on my chest like a pallet of bricks. The music was hard this year, and I had not practiced. I knew how awful I would sound in front of the other first chair section members if I chose to try out. But if I didn’t try out, I would be placed at the bottom of the last section. In all fairness, I can now admit that I deserved to be at the bottom of the last section. However, at that time I was prideful and could not bear to be in the last section. Even if I hadn’t practiced, I knew I was first section material and decided that I would be in that section no matter what.
At the last moment, as the first section clarinets were going to the tryout room, I hurried to join them. One by one, each clarinetist played. My heart sank when it became clear they’d all practiced. Then it was my turn.
In my pride, I put the clarinet to my mouth and proceeded to embarrass myself as I played. I did not have to imagine the amused looks of my fellow clarinetists and the rather horrified look of the judge when I finished. The judge kindly said nothing, but his thoughts were clear enough when he placed me in the last chair in my section.
My stubbornness had kept me in the section I thought I deserved, but it was no victory. I couldn’t hold my head up or participate freely in the other students’ excited conversations during the breaks. I was a fake among the genuine. There was no way I could convince them that I actually belonged with them. They had heard me play.
“I’m really quite good,” I wanted to say. “It’s just that I didn’t practice.” But I never said it because I knew what their response would have been: “You should have practiced like we did.”
I knew that when it came right down to the performance, my potential didn’t matter—only the current skill that I’d developed did.
The saving grace of the day was that I learned clearly and deeply the meaning of hard work and preparation. I saw a connection to the parable of the ten virgins. I had arrived at All-State without oil, so to speak. I could not borrow from the skills of the other clarinetists. I now know that each minute of every day is the time to prepare—especially in the aspects of life that really matter.