Gospel Story Finder

One day I was playing with two friends. One of them was not a member of the Church. He kept saying the Lord’s name in vain. It made me uncomfortable, but I was afraid to tell him to stop. I thought he might just laugh at me. But I kept having a bad feeling, and finally my friend and I told him we couldn’t play with him if he said that word. He promised that he would try not to say it around us.Tanner Peterson, age 11

The message of the parable is clear: when we serve others, we serve God; when we don’t, we disappoint. He expects us to use our gifts, talents, and abilities to bless the lives of Heavenly Father’s children. The divine impulse to serve others is illustrated in a poem written in the 19th century by the Finnish poet Johan Ludvig Runeberg. My siblings and I repeatedly heard the poem “Farmer Paavo” throughout our childhoods. In the poem, Paavo was a poor farmer who lived with his wife and children in the lake region of central Finland. Several years in a row, most of his crops were destroyed, whether through the runoff from the spring snowmelt, summer hailstorms, or an early autumn frost. Each time the meager harvest came in, the farmer’s wife lamented, “Paavo, Paavo, you unfortunate old man, God has forsaken us.” Paavo, in turn, stoically said, “Mix bark with the rye flour to make bread so the children won’t go hungry. I’ll work harder to drain the marshy fields. God is testing us, but He will provide.”

Each time the crops were destroyed, Paavo directed his wife to double the amount of bark that she mixed into the flour to ward off starvation. He also worked harder, digging trenches to drain the ground and decrease his fields’ susceptibility to a spring runoff and an early autumn frost.

After years of hardship, Paavo finally harvested a rich crop. His wife exulted, “Paavo, Paavo, these are happy times! It is time to throw away the bark, and bake bread made only with rye.” But Paavo solemnly took his wife’s hand and said, “Mix half the flour with bark, for our neighbor’s fields have frosted over.” Paavo sacrificed his and his family’s bounty to help his devastated and destitute neighbor.

“Dad has always been understanding. Once I was driving a borrowed car and became involved in a wreck. I was devastated and in tears when Dad arrived. He patiently helped me through that crisis, and I’ll never forget that experience.”

Patricia: My best friend, Francini, and I are some of the only members of the Church in our school in Brazil, and we often find that the small things we do make a big difference.
One such small thing occurred in a Saturday math class Francini and I had together. On this particular day, Francini was absent. During class, the tests we had taken a few days before were passed back. I wasn’t paying much attention when the teacher placed Francini’s test on my desk and asked me to give it to her.
Since Francini and I had already discussed how we thought we had done, I was surprised that her grade was higher than we had expected. I looked at her test and saw that the teacher had failed to mark one incorrect answer as wrong. Without even considering, I told the teacher that Francini’s grade was too high.
What I didn’t realize was that the whole class was watching. As soon as I spoke, the class began to criticize me, saying that I was wrong to do that to a friend and that I only wanted my grade to be higher than hers.
I was confused and upset by the response. I was sure I had done what Francini would have done. But someone said it was impossible for anyone to be honest to the point of lowering his or her own grade. Everyone saw me as a traitor to my friend. I tried to tell them that Francini would have been honest about her grade and that truly honest people still exist in the world.
After much debate, the teacher and class decided that they would test us. The teacher said he would keep Francini’s grade wrong and that we would wait and see her reaction on Monday.
I didn’t like the idea. I felt that testing Francini was not fair. But the teacher had made his decision, and I couldn’t change it.
That weekend I was anxious about what would happen, even though I had confidence that Francini would do what was right. I fervently prayed that she would notice the error on her test.
In math class on Monday, the whole class was alert as they watched Francini pick up her test.
Francini: Shortly after class started on Monday, the teacher handed me back my math test. I was about to put it away without really looking at it, but then I noticed that my grade was higher than I had expected. I raised my hand and went to the teacher’s desk. I asked if he had graded the test correctly, and he answered that he had. I then pointed to my test and said, “But I made a mistake.” At that moment Patricia also came up to the teacher’s desk and told him that he had also left a wrong answer unmarked on her test and with all the confusion on Saturday, she had not noticed it.
The classroom immediately erupted. Some people began to murmur about Patricia telling me, but others gave embarrassed smiles. I was confused by all the different reactions to these events.
Later, Patricia explained what had happened on Saturday. I was surprised to know that I had been through a test unrelated to math and that my classmates had responded to my friend in that way. However, I was happy that I had been honest and that Patricia’s prayers had helped me be prompted to notice the mistake on my test. I am also grateful that my friend believed in me.
Patricia and Francini: Both of us learned a great lesson from this experience. Our testimonies have grown about the important role Latter-day Saints have in being witnesses of Jesus Christ and examples of His principles. We are grateful to the Lord for His gospel, which gives us the opportunity to make a difference.

Yet, thanks to divine providence, an ember of hope for Koreans began to grow in New York, USA. Syngman Rhee, president of Korea, sent Kim Ho Jik, director of the Suwon Agricultural Experimentation Station, to the United States to learn how to improve nutrition in the Korean diet. Ho Jik chose Cornell University, which had an excellent graduate study program in nutrition. In 1949 he started to pursue a doctoral degree—as well as attend various church meetings around Ithaca, New York, to find the “true church.”1
Ho Jik made friends with a man named Oliver Wayman. Unlike Ho Jik’s other acquaintances, Oliver did not drink or smoke and never swore. He also never worked on Sundays. One day Ho Jik asked Oliver, “What makes you live that way?” In answer to that question, Oliver gave him a book titled The Articles of Faith by Elder James E. Talmage (1862–1933) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Ho Jik read The Articles of Faith within a week and then read the Book of Mormon. He believed both books and told Oliver the Book of Mormon was “more complete and easier to understand than the Bible.”2 Ho Jik accepted the gospel message like dry ground receiving long-awaited rains. His faith grew day by day. He started to receive the missionary lessons and decided to be baptized.
On July 29, 1951, 46-year-old Kim Ho Jik was baptized in the Susquehanna River—he wanted to be baptized near where the Prophet Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery were baptized over 100 years before. When he was coming out of the water, he heard a clear voice saying, “Feed my sheep.” That impression led him to devote the rest of his life to helping the gospel take root in Korea.

The reality of Aulola’s life, however, didn’t quite follow the plan in her heart. After her mission, it took some time before marriage became a priority for her, and by then she was in love with someone who didn’t share her faith.
“He’s a good man,” Aulola says. “He always welcomed [my Church’s] missionaries into our home and always fed them, but he was never interested in hearing their message.” His family are devout members of their own faith, and he would not break with their tradition. Their difference of religion put a great strain on their marriage. Aulola was unable to attend sacrament meetings as often as she liked, and she couldn’t raise their children in the Church the way she had been. Eventually, the contention in their home proved too much. After 23 years, the couple decided to part ways.

Mother was studying the calendar in the kitchen when Carly came home from school. “I can’t believe I’ve done this, Carly,” she said, still staring at the calendar.
“Done what?” Carly asked, dropping her school bag on the kitchen chair. It was two days before Thanksgiving, but the kitchen already smelled spicy and good. “Did you forget to invite someone?”
“No—it’s the special dinner at the rest home tomorrow afternoon that’s the problem. I scheduled Jason’s dental appointment for the same time. Aunt Hattie will be awfully disappointed if I don’t come.”
“Can’t you just change the dental appointment?”
“No, it was hard to get, and he’s already in pain with that tooth.” Mother sat down at the table and rested her hands in her chin. “We can’t bring Aunt Hattie over here anymore since she is so feeble, but I thought that at least I could go over there and have dinner with her.” Suddenly her mother sat up straight and looked at her hopefully. “Aunt Hattie has always liked you,” she said.
Carly sat down too. She knew what her mother was thinking. “But, Mom, she’s so old! She can’t hear very well, and sometimes I can’t understand what she says. She doesn’t make much sense anymore.”
“I know,” her mother said sadly. “But she’s my grandma’s only sister. She always brought me lemon drops when I was a little girl.”
“Lemon drops—ugh!”
Her mother shrugged. Then the hopeful look returned to her face. “If you went, she wouldn’t be sitting there all alone eating her turkey. …”
Carly picked up a slice of apple and ate it. “When she eats, the food sometimes dribbles out, or she spills it onto her chin or down her dress.”
“Well, I know, but we all do that at certain stages of our lives. You used to do it.”
Carly sighed. “All right. I guess I can. How will I get there?”
“I can drop you off on the way to the dentist and pick you up when we’re through. Thank you, Carly.”
“How long?”
“An hour or so.”
Carly sighed again. She didn’t mind too much going to the rest home with her mother, but to be there all alone with all those old people would be creepy.
The next afternoon, her mother stopped the car in front of the old stone building, and Carly plodded up the steps and opened the big wooden doors. The smell of fresh pine cleaner struck her nostrils, but as she tramped down the long hall to the dining room, she could smell turkey and sage dressing. Old people, most of them looking lonely, sat at the round tables in the large room. A few had family members with them. She spotted Aunt Hattie’s snow-white hair and slouched over to her. “Hi, Aunt Hattie.”
Aunt Hattie turned her head slowly and looked at her. “Hello, dear,” she finally said.
“Mother had to take Jason to the dentist, so I came to eat with you.”
“And who would your mother be, dear?”
Carly was taken aback for a minute. “Helen, your niece.”
“Oh yes. Dear Helen, Zella’s girl. Well, sit down, dear. Now, you’re …”
“Carly, Helen’s daughter.” Carly pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Of course,” Aunt Hattie said. She leaned back in her wheelchair and thoughtfully fingered the lace on the collar of her housecoat.
Soon a young man in a blue medical smock brought them each a plate with turkey, dressing, potatoes, and green beans. In the center of the table was a cardboard turkey with lollipops for its tail. Something about the turkey made Carly feel very sad. She didn’t know what to say to Aunt Hattie, and they ate in silence. Aunt Hattie dribbled a little gravy on her flowered housecoat, but generally she managed fine. Carly preferred not to watch her eat.
When the young man brought pumpkin pie, Carly looked at the wall clock. She’d been here only twenty minutes. What would they do the rest of the time? She looked around the room at the gray and white heads, some bent over their plates, some lying back in reclining wheelchairs.
At that moment, a man walked briskly into the room. To Carly, he looked pretty old but nothing like the people at the tables. He sat down at the piano in the corner of the dining room and began to play. At first he played old-time tunes that Carly didn’t know. As he played, Aunt Hattie sat up straighter and a little light came into her eyes. She smiled at Carly and her wrinkled fingers began to tap on the wooden table. Carly remembered that her mother had told her that Aunt Hattie loved music and had always sung in the ward choir.
Then the tunes began to sound more familiar, and Carly realized he was playing hymns. Suddenly Aunt Hattie began to sing “How Firm a Foundation.” Her voice was quavery but sweet and clear.
At first Carly felt embarrassed and looked around the room to see how people were reacting, but no one seemed to be paying any attention at all. Maybe Aunt Hattie did this a lot. Next she sang all the verses of “Count Your Blessings.” The piano player played all the songs in a lilting, cheerful way.
After that came “The Spirit of God.” Carly had learned the words to that song in Primary. Without really thinking about it, she opened her mouth and began to sing with Aunt Hattie. Aunt Hattie smiled, and her pale blue eyes were shining.
Then the man started playing Primary songs: “‘Give,’ Said the Little Stream” and “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” Carly leaned back in her chair and sang out nice and loud. No one cared. She thought about how she didn’t feel silly singing here.
Outside, a soft snow began to fall. The setting sun gave a pink glow to it and to the sky. Aunt Hattie laid her hand on Carly’s hand. It felt as though a warm leaf had blown onto her hand. Carly felt warm and cozy. They sang and sang.
The man stopped playing at the same moment that Carly saw her mother come into the room. She wished he’d keep on for a while—she knew that her mother would sing with them. As he walked by their table, he turned to Carly and said, “I play here on Wednesdays at dinnertime. Come back.” He stopped, plucked a red lollipop out of the turkey’s tail, handed it to Carly, and walked on.
When Carly got up to leave, she leaned over and gave Aunt Hattie a quick kiss on the cheek. Aunt Hattie squeezed her hand and smiled. “Helen’s girl,” she said softly.
In the car, Jason lay moaning in the backseat. “Was it awful?” her mother asked Carly.
“Yes,” Jason said, thinking the question was meant for him.
“No, not really,” Carly said thoughtfully.
“Did she dribble her food?”
“Well, anybody can spill a little gravy on her shirt.”
“Of course.” Her mother gave her a quick smile.”
“Would you be able to bring me over here next Wednesday—maybe leave me here while you do some errands or something?”
“You want to come back? By yourself?”
“Well, yeah. … Just to sing with Aunt Hattie for a while. We know a lot of the same songs. Maybe you could sing with us, too, sometime.”
Mother reached over and squeezed her hand in the same warm way Aunt Hattie had.

Realizing that adversity can include suffering, destitution, affliction, calamity, or disaster, how can we best use it as an opportunity for personal growth and development? For one answer, let me share with you an incident in the life of a special friend, which he tells in his own words at my request. I find his experience a powerful sermon.
“It was the third Saturday in January a few years ago. I was excited to attend a seminar that morning. It was an agricultural seminar at the Brigham Young University, where I had been attending school. I had been home from my Honolulu Hawaii Mission six months and was going through all the adjustments of a returned missionary. The challenge of family, girls, school, and the fact that there were twenty-five thousand other students who were bright and aggressive—some with plenty of money; others, like myself, who were pinching every nickel—didn’t make things easier.
“I landed a job running a hydraulic press earlier that week in a machine shop. We made seals for hydraulic equipment. Following the seminar that morning, I went to work. Kimball, my roommate and former missionary companion who had gone to work earlier that morning, instructed me in how to make a new seal. After approximately twenty minutes, one of the smallest seals stuck on the face of the plate. I struggled to get it off with my left hand. As I turned back to give it my full attention and use my right hand, the machine closed on my left hand, causing a horrible noise as it crushed my hand just below the wrist. After what seemed an eternity, the huge press finally opened. My first thought when looking at my hand was ‘What a mess!’ Then that inner voice which I had come to know, love, and appreciate, whispered, ‘Jerry, you won’t have your hand.’
“Four hours of surgery followed. The first thing I remember hearing was the surgeon’s voice in the recovery room.
“‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘Can you hear me?’
“‘Yes,’ I said.
“‘We had to take your hand off.’
“The following four days were filled with tears, aches, friends, cards, letters, and family. Concerned people made it so much easier for me, especially Kimball. He let my parents and others close to me know and helped in every way he could. Never did I have to ask for one thing. It was already done. By his example and support, he gave me courage to face this new challenge.
“The days in the hospital were filled with painful, sleepless hours and nights. Those nights gave me an opportunity to think about the Savior and Joseph Smith as I had never done before. I reviewed the Prophet Joseph’s life from everything I had learned. He faced physical, emotional, and spiritual trial upon trial. How I marveled at his well-won victories. At this difficult time I promised the Lord I would try to accept all of my challenges as the Prophet Joseph Smith had accepted his.
“Of course, during the first night there were thoughts of ‘Why me? Was it something in my past? What have I done to deserve this?’ Then I thought, ‘No more rodeo, football, or skiing,’ and I wondered what type of a woman would want a one-handed husband. I hadn’t developed a good self-image or a great deal of self-esteem, so these thoughts magnified my concerns.
“Mom came to school and drove me home for the weekend. One thing she said that made me again appreciate her greatness was, ‘Jerry, if I could only give you my left hand and make it work, I would.’
“Sunday was fast Sunday. As I stood favoring my bandaged, shortened arm, I thanked everyone for their thoughts, prayers, and cards. I realized as never before that good friends and faithful family members make challenges less difficult.
“After the testimony meeting, an admired friend gave me a special blessing. So many questions were answered during his blessing. He told me this accident was not punishment for anything I had done but, rather, an opportunity to help me become a better person and to amplify those particular traits which needed to be developed. He shared the thought that this challenge could make me more understanding of people, problems, and life. As I look back now, each point of his blessing and encouragement has helped in a very fulfilling way.
“One of my greatest fears was the constant thought of how people would accept me. Would they be afraid of me, question my ability, or write me off before I could prove myself? Would girls turn down dates because I was different? Would it make them feel uncomfortable to be seen with me?
“I had dated several girls since my mission but had only dated Julie a couple of times. When I awoke the day following the operation in the hospital, she was there with other friends. I asked everyone else to leave the room, and I then proceeded to give her what I thought was the perfect speech. I told her that they had to take my hand off. If she felt embarrassed or ashamed to be with me or be seen with me on future dates, she need not feel obligated to continue in any future courtship. At that moment I could see fire in her eyes. She let me know in no uncertain terms that she was not there out of pity or duty, but only because she cared for me. She indicated she would help me but never feel sorry for me. Six months later we were married in the Salt Lake Temple.
“There were many job interviews, prejudices, and rejections of employment; but with continued encouragement, the Lord blessed us in innumerable ways. When our first little girl, Bracken, arrived, it left us short of money to go to school. So after a major decision, we went into business, which proved to be another learning experience. After a couple of years—with many reverses—I was able to find a career in personnel management, which not only fulfilled my goals but also answered my prayers.
“Today as I look back, I see the challenge of adversity as something upon which to build. Of course, I cannot say the experience was pleasant; it was horrible. However, I hope I have used this adversity in a positive way. When I see others in trouble, in pain, when real adversity is knocking, I have an opportunity not only to feel something of what they feel but perhaps I can also help them because they can see that I have challenges of my own.”

On April 6, 1830, there was a special meeting in a log house. Joseph Smith set up Jesus Christ’s Church again on earth.
Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery blessed and passed the sacrament.
After the meeting was over, several people got baptized.

As she repeats the Young Women theme with young women throughout the world, Mary Nielsen Cook, first counselor in the Young Women general presidency, is grateful to know that she is a daughter of God.
“My father passed away in November 2007, and I believe the Lord was willing to carry me through this trying time,” Sister Cook says. “We teach our young women that we are all daughters of God; this sacred experience reconfirmed that He knows and loves me individually.”

Susan tossed a newspaper onto the Clarks’ front porch. As she started to walk to the Arnolds’, she heard an odd squishing noise and quickly turned around. Her little brother, Harold, was standing in the Clarks’ flower bed. Harold’s yellow boots were deep in the mud.
“I’m stuck!” he cried plaintively.
Susan set down her newspaper bag, put her arms around Harold’s middle, and pulled hard. Squoosh! The yellow boots rose from the mud. Harold and Susan fell backward.
When Susan stood up, she scraped the mud off her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Harold picked up the newspaper bag, but it was too heavy. Newspapers spilled into the mud. “I wanted to help you,” he mumbled.
“You’re too little to help. Go home,” ordered Susan.
“Let me walk with you, please,” Harold pleaded.
“You’re too slow.”
“I want to come! I can hurry.” Harold stomped his feet. Mud spattered off his boots and landed on Susan’s jacket.
“Go home!” roared Susan. She bent to pick up the muddy papers. When she stood up, Harold was gone.
At dinner that night Harold said nothing and ate very little. He went to bed early. Susan wanted to play checkers, but she had no one to play with. Dad was shining his shoes, Mother was doing the dishes, and Harold was in bed.
Susan sighed. Teaching Harold to play checkers last summer had been fun. She had enjoyed showing him how to rake the autumn leaves too. And they had had a great time last winter building his first snow fort. Now it was spring, and Susan decided that since she had nothing to do, she would think of something new to teach Harold. A few minutes later Susan had an idea and raced into the kitchen to tell her parents about it.
“What a fine idea!” exclaimed Mother.
Dad patted her shoulder and said, “Good luck, Susan.”
At breakfast the next morning, Susan said, “Harold, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. Meet me here after school. I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as Harold got home that afternoon, he asked, “Where’s the surprise?”
“Come with me,” Susan answered. “I’ll show you.”
They walked to the Clarks’. Susan handed Harold a newspaper and said, “Put this on the Clarks’ porch.”
“OK,” Harold replied. He carefully put the newspaper inside the screen door.
Susan smiled at him.
They walked to three more houses. At each house Susan gave her brother a newspaper to deliver.
“This is fun,” said Harold.
Susan grinned and asked, “Do you want a job?”
Harold looked at Susan. “A job? Me? What kind of job?”
Susan gave Harold another newspaper. “This kind of job.”
Harold’s mouth fell open. “You mean your job?”
“Well, part of it. You can bring newspapers to these five houses every day. These houses are close to our house. Do you want to do it?”
Harold clapped his hands and shouted, “Yes!”
“Good,” said Susan. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fold the newspapers. I’ll teach you other things too. I’ll show you how to put the papers in little plastic bags on wet days.”
“I can learn to do those things,” Harold assured his sister.
“There’s one more important thing to remember,” Susan told him.
“What’s that?”
“Stay out of the mud!”
They laughed together; then Harold raced home to tell his parents about his new job.

3. Give training as needed. Often a new area of work is unfamiliar to the person receiving the assignment and he is therefore unable to immediately begin performing at a skilled level. To help the person reach the desired level of performance, the leader may need to spend time giving adequate instructions and training. For example, when a priesthood holder is delegated the responsibility of home teaching, the leader should take the time to give clear and appropriate training. This might include a period of explanation as well as a joint home teaching experience to show him how effective home teaching is done. Without this preparation, the home teacher may do a poor job, frustrating everyone, and the quorum leader may never realize that he is part of the problem.

After his return from England, Brigham became ill with what is thought to have been scarlet fever. It was winter, and the family was living in a log cabin that had a blanket for a door.

“When the fever left me on the 18th day,” Brigham wrote, “I was … so near gone that I could not close my eyes, … and my breath stopped. … [Mary Ann] threw some cold water in my face; that having no effect, she dashed a handful of strong camphor into my face and eyes, which I did not feel in the least. … She then held my nostrils … , and placing her mouth directly over mine, blew into my lungs until she filled them with air. This set my lungs in motion, and I again began to breathe.”11 That inspired treatment, now a common resuscitative technique, was not known or practiced until the 20th century.

I had often seen the battered old green truck sitting in the field under the big, scraggly elm trees that surrounded a broken-down cabin. Nobody lived on the ranch now, but I liked to explore the area, looking for old relics.
The day Sam went down there with me was one of those hot, lazy summer days when you’re restless for something to do. Sam had brought his BB gun. My dad would never let me have one. He said that they were only good for mischief.
When Sam and I came to the ranch lane, we turned in and wandered over to the pond, which was muddy around the edges and covered with algae.
“What this pond needs is some ducks,” I said. “They’d clean it up.”
“Right,” Sam agreed, raising his gun to his shoulders and aiming at nothing, “and I could clip them off with my trusty gun.”
We walked over to the truck and sat on the running board in the shade. We pulled up blades of field grass and chewed on the ends and looked out across the field.
“Who owns this truck?” Sam asked. “Your dad?”
“No,” I said, “one of my uncles.”
“Does it run?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sam stood up and walked around the truck, examining it. “It’s pretty old and beat up. I guess he’s just junked it down here.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I said as I looked at the truck. The tires still had air in them, and nothing looked broken, just old.
“Let’s take a few shots at it,” Sam said enthusiastically.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just for fun,” replied Sam. “The truck’s no good. It won’t hurt anything. Come on, move out of the way.”
I followed him out a little way into the field, where he raised his gun and shot a hole through the truck’s windshield. The sun glistened on the hole and the small sparkling cracks spreading out from it.
“Now, see how close you can come to my hole,” Sam said, handing me the gun. I hesitated, then raised the gun and shot. I made another hole, not very close to his. We took turns for a while until the windshield was full of holes. Sam shot a couple of times at the headlight. It was fun, in a way, to hear the craack! when one of us hit the mark, but a very uneasy feeling was creeping over me. “Let’s go now,” I said finally.
“We’re just getting a good start on this thing,” Sam said. “We can shoot it as full of holes as a sieve.” He laughed and raised his gun again.
“Look,” I said, getting a little angry. “It’s my family’s property, and I say we’re leaving.”
Sam lowered his gun, looked at me a minute, and shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say.”
The next day our family left for our vacation to Yellowstone Park. We had a great time on our trip, looking at geysers and boiling mud pots and beautiful scenery. The day after we got home, my dad asked me to go down to the ranch with him to clear out the irrigation ditch. We climbed into the old blue pickup and headed for the ranch. After turning off the dirt road, we bumped across the field in the direction of the old truck.
Suddenly Dad put on the brakes and leaned forward. “What in thunder happened to that!” he exclaimed, nodding toward the truck. He slowly drove over to it, and we both got out. I was as surprised as Dad was. The hood was open, and wires were hanging out on both sides. The carburetor was in pieces and scattered on the ground. Looking inside, we saw that the radio was gone and that the instrument panel on the dashboard had been smashed in. The seats had been slashed. My dad turned and looked at me quizzically, but surprise showed clearly on my face too.
“This must have happened while we were gone,” he said. “I drove down around this way before we left and didn’t notice any damage to the truck.”
I heaved a big sigh of relief. He didn’t suspect me at all. I wasn’t guilty, anyway, I told myself. I certainly hadn’t done all this damage. I thought that my dad might ask me if I had any idea who had done it, but he didn’t.
That night at dinner Dad told Mom about the truck. “This is going to make a hardship on Uncle Cy,” he said.
I looked up quickly, my roast beef dry in my mouth. “Did the truck run, Dad?” I asked. “I’ve never seen Uncle Cy driving it.”
“Sure it did. He drives his car to get around, but he uses—used—the truck for hauling hay and garbage, things like that.”
“It looked so old and worn out.”
My dad looked at me sharply. “It was old,” he said, “but it served his needs. He sure can’t afford to buy a new one. He only has his retirement, nothing extra.”
Suddenly even Mom’s gooseberry pie didn’t look very good. I picked at my dinner a little more.
“Sometimes, Son,” my father said, startling me, “something isn’t very valuable in itself, but it has value for the person who owns it.” He looked at me so closely that I wondered if he knew, after all.
I excused myself and went out into the backyard and sat under the spreading branches of the willow tree. Uncle Cy had always been good to me. He was my grandpa’s brother, and he lived by himself in a tiny house with a coal stove and a big sheepdog. Mom took dinners to him sometimes. I still had a little horse that he had whittled for me.
I kept telling myself that I hadn’t really ruined Uncle Cy’s truck. The windshield and the headlight could have been replaced. Still, I felt responsible and guilty. Finally I came up with a plan.
On Saturday I went up to see Uncle Cy as soon as it stopped raining.
“Michael!” he said, slapping me on the back. “Glad to see you. Sit down a minute. I need an excuse to rest.” He motioned to a weathered gray bench under an old apple tree, and we sat down. “The rain was refreshing,” he said, wiping his forehead with a blue bandanna, “but it’s still hot.”
It was hot, all right, but I felt a chilly feeling in my stomach as I mumbled, “I was sorry to hear about your truck.”
Uncle Cy stuffed his bandanna into his pocket thoughtfully. “I was too. I don’t know how I’ll get hay to my horses this winter. I like to pasture them down at the ranch, where there’s water.”
“Well,” I said, shifting my weight carefully on the splintered boards of the bench, “maybe I could help you with that. I thought that maybe I could haul the bales in our wheelbarrow.”
Uncle Cy looked at me, and his old blue eyes were shining. “Michael,” he said, patting my leg, “that’s mighty thoughtful of you. Maybe we can work that out if I can get my hay hauled down there and into one of the sheds.”
“Dad will do that with his truck, I’m sure.” I didn’t look right at him. “I thought I could help with the garbage, too—maybe help you dig a hole to put cans and stuff in. We could burn the rest.” I was talking fast, and my palms were wet.
“That would be wonderful, Michael, but I couldn’t pay you very much.”
“Oh,” I said, looking up quickly into his ruddy face, “I don’t want to be paid. I just want to help.”
He looked steadily at me, and I looked at the grass and dandelions. “You’re a fine boy, Michael. Your dad can be real proud of you.”
I glanced up at Uncle Cy and saw tears shining in his eyes. I smiled at him, then took off up the lane.
As I neared home, my mind felt easier. I would help Uncle Cy with his work, and no one would ever need to know about my part in damaging his truck. But as I remembered his face and how pleased he was with me, something uncomfortable stirred in the back of my mind.
The next week school started. I went up to Uncle Cy’s two nights after school, and we dug the hole. I helped him smash cans and dump them into the hole. I burned garbage and cleaned up around his yard. When I’d finished, Uncle Cy put an arm around my shoulders. “I always thought that you were a good boy, Michael,” he said, “but I didn’t know how good until now.”
On Saturday we hauled Uncle Cy’s hay down to the ranch. The three of us loaded it, and Dad and I took it down. After we stacked the bales in an old shed, we sat down on the end of the truck bed and took a drink of cool water from Dad’s canteen.
“Uncle Cy’s really touched by all the help you’ve been giving him,” Dad said, “and I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”
I said nothing. The battered truck sat nearby in the sunlight accusingly, its wires hanging out like some wounded thing.
“Anything you want to tell me, Son?” Dad said quietly.
Suddenly, in a big relieving rush, I blurted it all out. “I don’t know who finished it off for sure,” I concluded. “Probably Sam and maybe someone else.”
Dad didn’t say anything for a while. He looked out over the fields.
“I guess you’re pretty disappointed in me,” I finally ventured.
“Well,” he said, “at least I’m glad that you told me. I kind of wondered if you knew something about it. What’re you going to do now?” he said.
I swallowed hard. “I thought that I was doing something about it, helping Uncle Cy out and all.”
“Yeah, that’s something, all right. But I wondered if you were going to tell him too.”
“Oh, Dad, do I have to?”
“No, you don’t have to. You didn’t have to tell me.”
“He thinks I’m such a great kid. If I tell him, he’ll know that I’m just a vandal.”
Dad laughed a little. “Maybe his opinion won’t be that bad. What you think of yourself is the most important, and I have a hunch that you’ll like yourself better if you tell him. Another thing, Sam needs a chance to make amends too. Maybe the two of you can haul those bales this winter.”
Dad was right. I felt as though a big weight had been lifted off my chest after I talked to Uncle Cy later that afternoon. Blackbirds called from the pond, and a meadowlark sang from the power lines as Dad and I climbed into the truck and drove home.

But it was the inspiring words of Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve, given at the Relief Society conference in Salt Lake City in the fall of 1971, that gave me the courage to tell my husband how I felt about him joining the Church. Among other things, Elder Packer said:
“I have often said that a man cannot resist membership if his wife really wants him to have it, and if she knows how to give him encouragement.
“If you have faith enough and desire enough, you will yet have at the head of your home a father and husband who is active and faithful in the Church.
“Some who have long since lost hope have said bitterly, ‘It would take a miracle!’ And so I say, Why not? Why not a miracle! Is there a purpose more worthy than that?
“And I repeat, if your husband doesn’t feel at home going to church, then do everything you can to make him feel at church while he’s at home.
“Sisters, make the gospel seem worthwhile to them, and then let them know that that is your purpose.
“He needs to know, he needs to be told that you care about the gospel and what it means to you.” (“Begin Where You Are—at Home,” International Magazines, July 1972.)
Now an apostle of the Lord had told me to tell my husband what it would mean to me for him to accept the gospel. What a task! In our home the gospel was never mentioned unless my husband started talking about it first. I wept, trying to figure out how I’d ever be able to do it. Then I remembered the scripture, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10). I decided once again to fast and pray and trust in the Lord. It took me until January 1972 to find the courage to speak.
Then, one night, I asked Norman if he felt he could ever accept the gospel. He gave me a firm, but not unkind, no. Taking a deep breath, I told him how much the boys and I loved him, what a fine father and husband he had been; but, I said, he was unable to give me the thing I wanted most of all. Well, I had done it! An apostle of the Lord had told me to do it. Within six months of that night, after thirty-seven years of marriage, Norman was baptized. It was indeed a miracle.
Looking back on the months following that January conversation, I can see that many things happened to bring this about. Some friends from Salt Lake City gave Norman the book, No More Strangers by Hartman and Connie Rector, and challenged Norman to take his place at the head of his family and bear the priesthood. After our younger boy’s missionary farewell, where Norman spoke briefly, Norman’s Sunday School teacher challenged him to be baptized. Steven wrote letters of encouragement and asked his dad to read the Book of Mormon. Douglas also bore testimony to him. Though Steven had left a nonmember father behind in 1972, he returned in 1974 to find his father sitting on the stand as second counselor in the bishopric.

The Lord guides a sister in creating with her husband a home where the Spirit is welcome.

Sister Patience Kaloobhai wanted the 2018 Light the World campaign to be different. She wanted to fully participate in the suggested service activities and to have the Spirit of Christmas abide with her and her family.
She felt inspired to share daily thoughts on her social media platforms. Almost immediately, a few friends began asking her about this “Light the World thing” that was constantly on her social media timeline. But she wanted to do more than just share, and so she looked for opportunities to participate in the service activities herself. She had been teaching her seven-year-old son, William, that Christmas is not only about Christmas trees and presents and wanted her own service to be an example of that.
One morning on a quick errand, as she made her way across the bridge to the bus rank in Gaborone, she observed that there was an elderly lady with two children trying to get two big suitcases to the other side of the bridge. She was carrying the infant on her back and the two heavy suitcases on each hand while the toddler trudged behind—at times holding on to her dress. She would take a few steps, then turn to be sure that the toddler was staying close to her amongst the fast-moving crowd. Whenever she stopped, she would relieve her hands from the heavy suitcases that she was carrying. This flustered lady and toddler would often get in the way of the oncoming crowd—people who were not at all pleased with this slow-moving elderly lady and her child. In the hot December Gaborone heat, this old lady kept her eyes to the ground as she would take three steps, rest and start all over again. As Sister Kaloobhai watched, she wondered if the woman would ever make it across to the other side of the bridge and the bus rank.
“Can I help you, Mama?” Sister Kaloobhai asked the elderly lady.
“Yes please,” the clearly relieved lady replied, handing Sister Kaloobhai one suitcase and wiping beads of sweat from her face. She seemed close to tears and clearly overwhelmed. Sister Kaloobhai smiled, took the suitcase and also held out her hand to the toddler who grasped it—and the two women walked over the bridge. As they walked to the bus rank, the elderly lady expressed gratitude that someone, a stranger, felt pity and was willing to help in a moment of need. She remarked that nowadays, it is rare to find someone who will go out of their way to assist—and especially in this case where Sister Kaloobhai had to deviate from her intended destination to assist. For some reason, Sister Kaloobhai felt that what she had originally set out to do was not so important as helping this lady and her children. After all, she could finish her errands after this. As she helped the older lady, her luggage, and children onto the bus, Sister Kaloobhai suddenly remembered that week’s Light the World suggestion to light her faith by being the answer to someone’s prayer.

I just finished reading “A Conversation on Things of the Spirit, Pornography, and Certain Kinds of Movies, Books, and Magazines” [May]. I truly appreciate the honesty and perspective with which Dr. Victor Cline and the interviewing students discussed sex, pornography, violence, and our spiritual well-being. This is the most effective article I have read concerning these subjects. From my experience, I can say that pornography is frighteningly addictive. My personal campaign to control my thoughts and reactions sprang from the “instinctual desire to regain my sensitivity to the Lord.” I am thankful that the Holy Ghost and the words and spirit of this article have given me the courage to continue my struggle for dedication to the Lord and peace of mind. A grateful subscriber, I’m a single male, twenty-six years old.
Name Withheld

Those who built the Salt Lake Temple realized the truth of this statement while the temple was under construction. Work on the temple began on 14 February 1853 but was interrupted during several years of difficulty for the Saints. When the work resumed, the builders found they needed to lay a new foundation. President Brigham Young (1801–77) stated that he expected the temple to stand through the Millennium, “and this is the reason why I am having the foundation of the temple taken up.” The new foundation, 16 feet (4.9 m) deep and 16 feet (4.9 m) wide, was built strong enough to withstand the weight of the granite walls and roof that followed.

As youth around the world make the effort to attend seminary, they’re receiving strength in much more than scripture study. Cameron L. of England found that he was blessed in all areas of his life. “Not only does seminary help with the spiritual side of things, but it also helps with school and education,” says Cameron.
He says that “an early start to the day gets your brain into gear. Some of my friends said they were too busy to attend—well, it’s not like you’re going to be reviewing math at 6:00 a.m., are you?” As you study, “the Lord will help you in your exams, and if you go to seminary, He will help you even more,” says Cameron.
Of course, seminary helped Cameron strengthen his testimony as well. He says, “The beginning of my testimony came from the seminary program. At the youthful age of 14, I was really struggling in the gospel. I did not enjoy church, and I got up to things that I shouldn’t have. It was only a matter of months before I would have given up entirely.” But when a friend invited Cameron to attend seminary, he decided to go with her. Then the blessings really began to come.
“I began to feel the Spirit again,” says Cameron. “I started paying more attention in church and attended my Sunday School and priesthood lessons. It became easier, and I started to feel happier. I finally gained a testimony of the gospel for myself.” After two months of seminary, Cameron met with his bishop and was ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.
Cameron knows that seminary helps him stand strong against the temptations of the world. “As seminary continued,” he says, “I found it easier to deal with the challenges that the world presents. It’s pretty tough being a youth in the world we live in—sin is surrounding us from all sides. I testify to you that if you attend seminary, you will find the strength to defend yourself against it. Seminary creates a spiritual shield to protect you. Many different trials and temptations have been thrown my way, and seminary has been such a huge help in keeping me on the strait and narrow.”