Gospel Story Finder

I was in my first year of employment with a cosmetics company. At the time I was divorced and lived alone with my two children. In December the company sent each salesperson large boxes containing the Christmas merchandise we were to sell during the holiday season. That meant, however, that a large amount had been withdrawn from my salary. When I calculated all my monthly expenses and tithing, I had enough for three people to live on—but only for one week. And this money had to cover groceries for the entire month and gas for the car, which I needed for my work.
When our home teacher came, I told him about our situation. I told him I would not be able to pay my tithing because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to feed my family. My faithful home teacher counseled me to pay tithing. He recommended that I do it faithfully, and the Lord would surely bless me. My home teacher had always been distinguished by faithfulness and reliability. I jokingly told him, “If I cannot buy groceries, I will come to you.” But I trusted him and did not want to disappoint him by not following his advice. So I paid a full tithing.
When I presented the Christmas merchandise early in the month, I was able to sell many of my goods. By the end of the month I had sold all of the Christmas items and all of the goods I had had in stock for several months. Had I had more products on hand, I would likely have been able to sell them too.
My home teacher’s promise was completely fulfilled. The Lord really did open the windows of heaven. We had more money than we needed that month. Later I inquired of my colleagues how their Christmas business had gone. They were not satisfied. At that time, a recession had caused a strong decline in sales in the cosmetics industry.
How grateful I am to that home teacher for giving me this good counsel. I have had a strong testimony of tithing ever since. When I visit teach sisters who feel they have too little money to pay tithing, I share my testimony about how much we will be blessed if we do so.

It was cold! Nicole and her friends hurried into the busy café to warm up for a few minutes. As they stood inside, Nicole glanced at the menu.
“I’m going to get some hot chocolate,” she said.
“Me too,” Beth said.
Audrey looked at her watch, and Heather said, “We don’t have much time. Remember, my mom is picking us up at two o’clock.”
Nicole looked at the long line. It would sure be nice to have a cup of hot chocolate to keep her warm while they finished their Christmas shopping. “Beth and I will meet you in the clothing store next door,” she told Heather. “We won’t take long.”
Heather and Audrey left, and Beth and Nicole got in line.
“Look, they have French vanilla,” Beth said, pointing at the menu.
Nicole’s eyes brightened. “Yum! I love French vanilla hot chocolate.” But then she frowned, a little uncertain. “It doesn’t say French vanilla hot chocolate,” she said. “It just says French vanilla.” She bit her lip. “Isn’t there a French vanilla coffee too?”
Beth shrugged. When it was Nicole’s turn to order, she asked the employee about it, just in case.
“It’s hot chocolate,” the lady behind the counter assured her.
“Great!” Nicole said. “I’ll have a large French vanilla.”
Beth ordered one too, and they left the café. When they met up with Heather and Audrey, Nicole sniffed her steaming cup. She gasped. “I think this is French vanilla coffee!”
Beth took a sip. “I think so too. But oh well. It’s nice and hot. I’m getting all warmed up.”
“But it’s coffee!”
“So?”
Nicole told her friend, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m not supposed to drink coffee.”
“You can drink coffee this one time,” Heather said impatiently. “You don’t have to be perfect every second of the day. We won’t tell anyone. Just come on. We need to hurry.”
Nicole could see that the line in the café was now even longer, and they didn’t have much time left to shop. But she knew what she needed to do. “I’m going to exchange this for hot chocolate,” she said firmly. “You guys go ahead. I’ll meet you at the toy store.”
She started to walk away alone, but Audrey caught up to her. “I’ll wait with you,” she said. Audrey was a Latter-day Saint too.
As the girls stood in line, Audrey said, “I’m glad you didn’t drink the coffee.”
Nicole smiled. “Me too.”
When Nicole explained to the lady behind the counter that the drink was actually coffee, the lady apologized and exchanged it for hot chocolate. Then Nicole and Audrey hurried through the cold to catch up with their friends. Nicole felt warm inside, but not just from the hot chocolate. She knew she had chosen the right. Despite what her friends had said about no one ever knowing, Heavenly Father knew. And she felt He would be proud of her.

Jimmy’s refusal. One evening when Jimmy went with friends to a party, “a girl came up and offered me alcohol,” he says. “I said no and didn’t pay any attention to her, but she kept offering it to me. And it wasn’t just alcohol—there were invitations to do other things. I didn’t agree to any of it, and I pulled away from the group. Some of the kids said I was antisocial, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. Every time I have a trial like this and overcome it, I become stronger.”

It looked as though the Dublin football match would have to be stopped. The game just couldn’t continue with two referees blowing identical-sounding whistles. The official referee was blowing his whistle at the proper times, but the whistle of a mysterious, unseen “official” was sounding at all the wrong times.
Fortunately for the players and spectators, the unofficial whistle-blower was discovered to be a starling perched in a nearby tree! The bird was chased away, and the game continued.

When John Taylor was a young boy in England, he felt a strong impression that he would go to America and preach the gospel. Several years later, his family moved to Canada. He joined the Church there, and a year later he met the Prophet Joseph. John not only preached the gospel in America, but he returned to England as a missionary. He also served missions in France and in Germany, and he became well-known for his ability to defend the Church and the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I played “the trick” the evening before school started. The principal, Mr. Sajack, telephoned and asked Stevo to have a short talk ready for the opening assembly. Stevo went to my room and prepared it. Later he read it to me and asked what I thought. I told him that in this part of America we had a special pronunciation for the name of his country and the natives of his land. He took notes.

The next day in the assembly he introduced himself, told them his “nickelname” and then said, “I come from the Sloback Republic and my people are known as Slobs.” Half the auditorium teetered in embarrassment and the other half rolled in the aisles. He just smiled as if it was okay and continued to talk.

Later that day in English class Mrs. Cartwright asked him who helped him with the pronunciation of the name of his country. Then she glanced over at me. Stevo asked, “Why?” When she told him what a “slob” was I thought he would really be mad. All he did, though, was run a hand through that black hair, grin, and say “That was funny joke, heh?”

As a mission president I traveled great distances over the state of Texas. (You can drive a long way in the state of Texas!) I used to spend many hours traveling alone, going from one missionary meeting or one set of interviews to another in the automobile that was provided for us. There was a lot of time to think, and many thoughts come in a situation of that kind. I discovered that it was a very helpful thing for me (and later very useful) if I used that time to practice organizing talks that I could give, forming associations of scriptural ideas and principles that would be helpful to me in expressing these relationships to others. Some of the best talks you’ll never hear, I gave to myself as I drove from one place to another in southern Texas. I recommend that process to you. In order to sustain constructive thinking, it’s necessary for us to have something worthwhile to think about, to have in reserve, as it were, some items, some problems, some challenges, to which we can turn our minds, to think our way through to a solution. I’ve discovered in my own life that that’s the best way to obtain inspiration and whatever degree of revelation we are entitled to.

But Rei was no nature-loving recluse. He loved his fellowmen as well. Shortly after his marriage a close relative died. Rei and his new bride accepted the responsibility of becoming the parents of the orphans. Some years later his wife caught typhoid while nursing a sick child after a disastrous flood and died.
Eventually Rei remarried; his new wife was a shy, beautiful young Maori widow. She became a warm and loving mother to her instant family of ten children. Together, she and Rei had four more children, in addition to foster children. To date, the Hamons have been parents to thirty-one children, many of them orphans.

Saturday was finally here. It was time for our surprise adventure!
“I hope we’re going to the trampoline park,” I shouted from the backseat. Mom wouldn’t tell us where we were going, but the street we were on looked familiar. …
Then it hit me. We were going to the care center. Our school class had gone there a few times. We each had a “grandparent buddy” to talk to and play games with. My buddy was named Bill, and he was pretty cool.
But not as cool as a trampoline park, I thought as Mom pulled into the parking lot. When my brother saw the red and tan building, he groaned.
“This is going to be the worst day ever!” he grumbled. “This isn’t a fun adventure at all.”
Mom looked at us from the rear-view mirror. “Oh come on, give it a shot. By the time we’re through, you just might change your mind.”
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t so sure. I helped Mom carry bags of small quilts into the lobby. It felt calm and peaceful inside.
“Do you know why I like coming here?” Mom asked. I shook my head.
“I feel the same way here as when I see new babies at the hospital,” she said. “Like I’m close to heaven.”
Close to heaven. I liked that.
We showed the receptionist at the front desk the quilts we wanted to hand out, and he led us to a room where we could visit.
“Is Bill still here?” I asked. “The one who’s married to Ruth and likes baseball?”
One of the workers nodded. “Oh, yes! Bill is still here. We sure love him.”
We started talking with some of the people, and it was actually pretty interesting hearing about their lives. And after a while, I saw Bill sitting in his wheelchair.
“Hi, Bill!”
He didn’t look like he remembered me, but that was OK. I picked out a small quilt with a baseball pattern and laid it on his lap.
“He gets cold a lot, and that will really help him,” said one of the workers standing nearby. “His wife will be happy to see it. She comes to visit him every day.”
Our visit wasn’t long, but it was long enough to see Bill smile. On our way out, we read a piece of paper posted on Bill’s door that told some fun things about his life. We learned that he grew up on a farm and learned to play baseball from his stepmother.
“Hey, Mom, look!” I pointed to a line on the paper. “He was so good at baseball that he was going to sign on with a professional team! But then he served in the military instead.” It was neat to learn a bit more about Bill.
Soon we were back in the van, buckling our seatbelts.
“So?” Mom asked us. “What did you think?”
I smiled. “I actually had fun. And I feel really happy. I think it’s because we helped Bill.”
As Mom drove home, we talked about different ways we can show people love and how the Spirit tells us when we are making good choices. We were all feeling so great that we decided to go back and visit another day.
What a great day! I thought as we pulled into our driveway. It was a fun adventure after all.

I had the good fortune to personally witness an act of unconditional love that transcended beyond anything I had ever before witnessed, leaving an indelible impression upon me.

It began late one Saturday afternoon in August 1997. My wife, our 4-year-old son, and I were enjoying a leisurely drive in the country, when we were suddenly broadsided by a car driven by a young man who was attending Ricks College. Being unfamiliar with the back roads in this area, this young man failed to observe the stop sign while trying to make his way back to Rexburg. The unexpected collision was both swift and devastating, instantly causing the death of our young son, and leaving my wife with life-threatening injuries to her head, face, arm, and hands. Upon arriving at the hospital, I was informed that my wife would probably not make it through the night due to the nature and severity of her injuries. However, after receiving a priesthood blessing, my wife was rushed into surgery. I can only assume that angels were nearby that night, attending to my dear wife and guiding the hands of the many skilled surgeons who were charged with saving her life.

After many long hours and into the following morning the surgeries were complete and my wife would be moved into intensive care. When my wife finally regained consciousness, I knew that it was my responsibility to tell her that our little boy was no longer with us, that he had been called home to live with his Heavenly Father. Upon entering the room, I was unable to recognize my wife underneath all the thick, white bandage wraps that were around her head and face. I walked over to her and sat next to her bedside, struggling with how I was going to break the devastating news to her. I began by saying, "I need to talk to you about Kody." Before the next word could come out of my mouth, my wife brought her arms into a cradling position, pointed upward toward the heavens, and slowly gave me the OK sign with the only two fingers that weren't tightly wrapped in bandages.

During the many months following the accident, my wife would undergo more surgeries to repair the injuries sustained to her body. With each passing month her recovery was progressing remarkably well, surpassing even the expectations of the many surgeons who had worked so hard to save her life on that fateful night.

One year later, I was playing catch in our front yard with one of my sons when the young man who was involved in the accident came to our home. I stood there motionless, watching as he got out of his car, coming toward me with his outstretched hand. I extended my hand, but, looking back, I did so cautiously and with noticeable apprehension. Sensing my uneasiness, the young man turned and made his way onto our front steps and knocked on our door. My wife appeared, and without a moment's hesitation, threw her arms around the young man, and while embracing him, said, "I want you to know that I love you and that you are welcome in our home anytime."

In that tender moment I was overcome with humility and gratitude, knowing I truly witnessed a remarkable sort of love and compassion I previously thought only the Savior Himself was capable of offering. It was in that very moment the Spirit touched my heart in a way I am incapable of describing. I knew then I had been ensnared in the suffocating bands of pride and anger, that I had not been putting my trust in God, and that I was deeply in need of humbling myself in order to be guided toward a direct course of forgiveness and Christ-like compassion. Through my lack of faith and consideration for my fellow man during the year following the accident, I was preventing my personal Liahona from functioning properly, causing it to remain in a dormant state; the spindles had ceased to guide me in a direct course, instead, becoming wedged in an immovable setting, pointing in a downward position, thus halting further progression in my life's journey.

The next day was Mother’s Day. Chad wanted to give something special to his mommy. He was only five years old and didn’t have any money to buy a present.
Yellow-faced pansies bloomed along a sidewalk in Mrs. Dewey’s yard next door. Chad had watched Mrs. Dewey plant them. Her husband had died last year, and she lived alone. Sometimes Chad’s parents invited her to Sunday dinner.
Chad asked Mommy if he could go outside and play on the swing set. The pansies seemed to smile at him. He picked a handful and carried them inside.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!” He held out the flowers to her. It didn’t feel as good as he thought it would.
A smile settled on her lips. “Chad, they’re beautiful! Thank you.” The smile faded. “Where did you get such beautiful pansies?”
He shuffled from one foot to the other. “Outside.”
“Where outside?”
“Mrs. Dewey’s yard,” he said reluctantly.
“How do you think Mrs. Dewey is going to feel when she finds that some of her flowers are missing?” Mommy asked softly.
Chad remembered how Mrs. Dewey had knelt on the ground, patting the dark dirt around the flowers. She had worked a long time planting them. “She might be sad.”
Mommy put the flowers on the table. “What do you think you should do?”
He chewed on his lip. “Maybe I could put them back.”
Mommy sat at the table and patted the chair beside her. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Chad didn’t think so, either. “I guess I should tell her what I did.” He looked at the flowers. They lay limply on the table, their cheerful faces already drooping.
He trudged over to Mrs. Dewey’s house and knocked at the door. “I picked your flowers for my mommy for Mother’s Day. I’m sorry.” He got out the words in a single breath.
Mrs. Dewey smiled. “Thank you, Chad, for bringing the flowers back and telling me the truth.”
“I’ll help you stick them in the ground again,” he offered.
“After flowers are picked, they can’t be replanted,” she said gently.
“That’s what Mommy said.” He brightened. “Maybe I could help you plant some new flowers.”
Mrs. Dewey’s smile bloomed like one of the pansies. “I’d like that.”
That afternoon, Mommy and Chad bought new flowers to plant in Mrs. Dewey’s yard.
“I’ll do chores to pay you back for the flowers,” Chad said. He thought for a moment. “I could do more chores for a Mother’s Day present.”
Mommy hugged him. “That’s the best present you could give me.”

About 15 years ago I was in my car somewhere on the North Dakota prairie headed home to Grand Forks. It was a typical winter night in North Dakota – 10 degrees below zero, waves of powdery snow blowing across the highway, thousands of stars visible in the clear moonless sky, not a town or car in sight. I was checking channels on the radio and came upon an interesting program. It featured the conductor of a symphony orchestra. He was analyzing a passage from a Mozart symphony. He was attempting to pinpoint and describe the genius of this particular composition. Even though I lacked a full technical understanding of his explanation, I was fascinated by the analysis and, of course, I was duly reminded that Mozart was indeed a musical genius. At the conclusion of the vignette the radio announcer said, “Join us next time for another episode of What Makes it Great. In the moment that I heard the title of that radio program, What Makes it Great, I had one of those wonderful moments of enlightenment that was about 20 years in the making. I understood what it was that so many of my undergraduate professors were trying to teach me when I was a college student. Through their choice of subject matter and readings for classes, and through their comments about things that were important to know, they were exposing me to what was the most interesting, the most profound, the most successful, the most beautiful, in essence, the best that their discipline had to offer. On that frigid night as I experienced this insight, I was warmed by a feeling of tremendous gratitude for the great gift I had been given those many years ago.

Jackson Payne’s life is busy and wouldn’t seem to leave much room for early-morning seminary or priesthood responsibilities, but he knows where his priorities are. Hailing from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 18-year-old Jackson started participating in artistic gymnastics when he was 6 or 7 and has since made it to several national and international championships. The high bar is his best event, but he’s decided to reach for something even higher.
Instead of spending his time before school at the gym squeezing in extra practice time, Jackson attends early-morning seminary. This daily routine is just as important to him as his gym routines. “I think if I disrupted my routine by not going to seminary for a couple of days, it would really mess up my day. It’s important for me to stick to that routine.” He observes that “if you keep messing up your gymnastics routine, you don’t gain any confidence or consistency for competition. In the same way, if you don’t go to seminary or church, you’re more likely to fail in the real world.”
When it comes to gymnastics, precision is key. “You’re judged on everything you do; everything affects your score,” Jackson says. He also says that the better you perform a routine or skill, the easier it is to execute and the more it becomes second nature. No one can perform a perfect routine in gymnastics, just as none of us lives a perfect life in mortality. But Jackson says that unlike in gymnastics, we have a perfect example to strive toward: Jesus Christ. And in our paths to perfection we’re given commandments like tithing, the law of chastity, and the Word of Wisdom, commandments we can execute with exactness right now.
Gymnastics teaches Jackson about dedication and faith, principles he can directly apply to the gospel. “I go into the gym every day and have certain things I have to do. It gives me a test of my dedication and faith in knowing that if I do all the things I’m supposed to do, I can get better at gymnastics. In the same way, if I do things I’m supposed to do with church and Mutual and fulfilling my priesthood duties, my testimony will strengthen and I’ll learn more about the gospel.”

Several weeks later Johnny again came up the path, this time holding a bridle in back of him and an apple in his outstretched hand. “Betsy! Betsy!” he called. Then he stopped at a fence post and listened. He could hear the chirping of very young birds. He quickly dropped the bridle and apple.
Bracing one foot on the barbed wire, the boy heaved himself up so he could see the hole from where the tiny sounds came. But the nest was in a deep hollow. He tested the wood at the opening and carefully tore it away until he came within sight of the nest and the gaping bills of three featherless baby woodpeckers.
“Wow!” Johnny exclaimed, picking up the bridle and apple, “am I in luck! I can come up every day and watch them grow.”
The next morning Johnny was up early to eat breakfast with his father.
“Are you going to help with the milking?” Dad asked, smiling at his son.
“Oh, Dad!” Johnny said excitedly. “I found some little birds in a nest.” Then he told how he had fixed the hole so he could watch them each day.
“Johnny, I hope you didn’t touch the nest,” Dad said. “Birds don’t like to be disturbed.”
After breakfast Johnny hurried up the hill to make sure the birds were all right. He propped his foot on the barbed wire, and looked in the ragged hole. “They’re gone!” he exclaimed. He reached down into the nest to make sure. It was cold and empty. Only the soft, downy bed remained. Tears came to his eyes and he ran into the barn where his father was milking the cows.
“You had to learn for yourself, son,” Dad said quietly when he had heard Johnny’s story. “Do you remember what I told you when we were plowing on the sidehill and plowed around the lark’s nest?”
“Something about respecting nature’s laws,” Johnny answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Now you see that the woodpecker family chose that particular hollow post for a reason. The opening was just big enough for them, but not big enough for their enemies. When you changed that, any night owl could make a meal of the little ones. Maybe that’s what happened to your birds.”
“Dad, I didn’t want them to get hurt,” Johnny said.
“I know that, Johnny, I know.” He paused a minute before continuing. “It’s early in the year. Mr. and Mrs. Woodpecker will probably raise another family in some new nest before the summer is over.”
“Honest, will they?” Johnny asked eagerly.
“Honest,” Dad assured the boy. “And when they do, we’ll both remember how important nature’s law of survival is. Then we’ll have meadowlarks and woodpeckers and boys all growing and respecting each other. It’s all according to plan, son. Do you understand?”
And Johnny did.

Brothers and sisters, the decisions we make in this life greatly affect the course of our eternal life. There are both seen and unseen forces that influence our choices. This point was brought home some five years ago in a way that almost cost me dearly.
We were traveling with family and friends in the south of Oman. We decided to relax on the beach along the coast of the Indian Ocean. Soon after our arrival, our 16-year-old daughter, Nellie, asked if she could swim out to what she thought was a sandbar. Noticing the choppy water, I told her that I would go first, thinking there might be dangerous currents.
After swimming a short while, I called to my wife, asking if I was close to the sandbar. Her response was, “You have gone way past it.” Unbeknownst to me I was trapped in a riptide1 and was being pulled rapidly out to sea.
I was unsure what to do. The only thing I could think of was to turn around and swim back toward shore. That was exactly the wrong thing to do. I felt helpless. Forces beyond my control were pulling me farther out to sea. What made matters worse was that my wife, trusting my decision, had followed me.
Brothers and sisters, I thought there was a high likelihood I would not survive and that I, because of my decision, would also cause my wife’s death. After great effort and what I believe was divine intervention, our feet somehow touched the sandy bottom and we were able to walk safely back to our friends and daughter.

“Matthew, you must go get the water now.” Mama’s tired voice barely carried above the wind blowing against his pale cheek. Hunching his neck deeper into his heavy woolen sweater, Matthew looked down at his mother and sisters. Mama had stayed awake the whole night, trying to comfort the seasick girls. Alvina, a slender six-year old, tossed restlessly in her blankets while four-year old Ruth slept fitfully in Mama’s arms.
“Please be careful not to spill it again, Son. We’re only given one bucketful for all of us.” Mama laid a gentle hand on Matthew’s sleeve, then pulled a blanket closer around little Ruth.
Slowly, with cold, reddened hands, Matthew reached for the handle of the heavy wooden bucket resting on top of the box holding Mama’s kitchen supplies. His light blond hair was ruffled by the cold sea breeze. Reluctantly he dragged his feet toward the end of the crowded steamship deck, where people were lining up near the big water casks. Matthew picked his way, careful to step around families sitting among trunks, boxes, and blankets. Babies cried hungrily, children played and shouted, and adults talked and argued. Everyone was bundled in blankets and coats against the early North Atlantic spring gusts.
Never in his ten years had Matthew been among so many people. His home in Finland had been in a small town where there had been plenty of open space in which to run and play. The grass in spring had been bright green, the air crisp and quiet except for the cries of birds. Here, there was constant noise, and the dust and the smell from the ship’s smokestack seemed to soak even into the food they ate.
This was the spring of 1895. Matthew, Mama, Alvina, and Ruth were only one family among many hundreds on the crowded ship bound for the United States. Leaving their homeland and relatives behind, they were all now emigrants headed for the port of New York City.
Matthew wished that Papa could have been with him as he got in line, bumping buckets with an old lady in front of him. But Papa had left for America two years before and had just recently been able to send for the rest of his family. Big, gentle Papa, whose huge hands had made such beautiful furniture in Finland, was felling trees in Michigan in order to earn money to buy land. He had written Mama long letters about life in the big logging camps.
The last letter had come with money for four steamship tickets and the information that friends of Papa’s would meet Mama and the children in New York City. Then the family was to board a train to travel to Michigan. Papa’s letter had also contained a special message for Matthew, written in Papa’s bold handwriting. Feeling very small and alone now, Matthew remembered and tried to gain strength from the words Papa had written: “My son, while on the long voyage, you must be the strong one who helps Mama and protects the little girls. You must be a man on this great adventure.”
When he’d first read the message, Matthew had almost heard Papa’s voice, and he’d felt like a man. But now as an elbow jabbed Matthew in the ribs, he felt very little like a man. He wanted to run away and cry.
Three big boys surrounded Matthew and pushed him. One pushed him so hard that he almost dropped his bucket. Matthew held on, hoping the old lady would say something to stop his tormentors. But the old lady only stared ahead at the slow-moving line.
“Going to share your water with us again, little boy?” The tallest boy leaned his thin face into Matthew’s and roughly whispered the question. Matthew’s face stiffened with fear.
“He always shares his water with us,” a boy in a red woolen cap said, laughing. “He’s a good little boy.” The boy slapped Matthew on the back in an unfriendly way.
Matthew gulped down a sob as he looked at the cruel faces.
The third one, a dark-haired boy, swung a wooden dipper from one hand. He beat it against Matthew’s bucket.
One by one the people in line moved forward to get their water. Then they walked back to their families, careful not to trip on the shifting deck of the boat. Matthew’s turn came, and he numbly watched the cold water fill his bucket. He tried to move away quickly without spilling it. But the three big boys caught up with him and blocked his way.
“My, my, I am so thirsty today,” said the dark-haired boy with his dipper raised. “I could use a drink.” He bent forward to scoop water from Matthew’s bucket. He drank a full dipperful with loud gulps. Matthew’s eyes filled with tears as he watched the boy pass the dipper to the second boy.
Suddenly Matthew straightened up, and his blue eyes flashed. He was still afraid, but Papa’s message—“You must be a man”—had come into his mind again, and he’d asked himself, Would Papa let someone take the water that Mama and poor little Alvina and Ruth needed?
Matthew’s mind had shouted the answer: NO! So as the second boy bent to dip water from the bucket, Matthew quickly moved his bucket behind him, placing it on the deck. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists as he faced the boys, and declared loudly, “I won’t let you take any more of my water!” Then he clamped his feet on either side of the bucket to stop his legs from shaking, and continued in an even louder voice. “My mother and sisters need this water!”
“Why the little rat! He thinks he can stop us! We’ll show him!” The boy in the red cap moved angrily toward Matthew.
“I know I can’t fight you,” continued Matthew, gulping for air. “But I will kick over this bucket rather than let you steal one more drop of my water!”
As people turned to see what the shouting was about, Matthew looked into each boy’s eyes. The boys looked away and began to look embarrassed.
“Oh, come on, let him go. He’s just a little kid,” the tallest boy said as he walked away. Reluctantly, the other two followed, leaving Matthew shivering in the cold. But he also felt a deep warmth, a pride, because he had fulfilled Papa’s faith in him. He picked up the heavy bucket and carefully carried it to Mama and the girls. Whatever the new country had to offer, he felt ready to meet its challenge.

In his sophomore year Wilbanks tried out for the high school basketball team and made it. On the first day of practice his coach had him play one-on-one while the team observed. When he missed an easy shot, he became angry and stomped and whined. The coach walked over to him and said, “You pull a stunt like that again and you’ll never play for my team.” For the next three years he never lost control again. Years later, as he reflected back on this incident, he realized that the coach had taught him a life-changing principle that day: anger can be controlled (see “The New Obscenity,” 24).

“I will NEVER forget when I first saw this. I am autistic and have struggled with chronic depression and suicide ideation. The last few weeks before that concert were pure torture for me, and I was completely lost in what to do anymore. A few days before this song was performed, I asked a few friends of mine in the Choir for some support which they gave and when I first heard this song, I was drowning in tears. Truly the light will always come at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, Tabernacle Choir, my dear friends, for being such heroes in my life and such wonderful friends! I love you all forever!”

Today, 12-year-old Loni, of the Jordan (Utah) Oaks Fifth Ward, can’t remember all of that trouble, but she’s heard enough about it to want to change things somehow. So on January 1, Loni set a goal to sew clothes small enough for babies as tiny as one or two pounds and donate them to the hospital.

“If she sets a goal, she does it,” says Sharon. “There is no stopping her.” Loni says she is always working on one goal or another. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s service oriented or meant for self-improvement; Loni is up to the challenge.

Her idea to sew “preemie” clothes has definitely been one of the larger goals on that list. But for Loni it was easy. She has been sewing since age eight and had no problem finding doll patterns to shrink down and follow. Within a week Loni had sewn eight outfits and delivered them to the newborns at the University of Utah Hospital.

A local television station got wind of what she was doing and picked up her story when Loni delivered the clothes to the hospital. A local viewer was impressed and donated several bolts of material to Loni for more clothes.

Loni quickly took up the challenge and sewed 18 more outfits. This time she made tiny jogging suits, dresses, and night clothes for the infants. On March 1 she returned to the hospital with another batch of clothes.

There she met Kimberly and Mark Graham, whose son Colton had been in the hospital for six weeks. Colton was born 13 weeks early and had only been dressed twice when Loni delivered the clothes. Kimberly was touched by Loni’s ability and desire to do this for her son and the other infants at the hospital. “It means a lot to the parents,” she says. “It’s especially nice because some of these people could really use this. Dressing their babies up lets them feel that they’re going to be okay and helps them realize that there are other [premature] babies out there.”

Many of the clothes Loni delivered will remain at the hospital for other infants to wear during their stay or until they grow into store-bought clothes. And, most likely, Loni Frandsen will show up again at the Newborn Intensive Care Center with an armful of clothes. For Loni service is an everyday act. She says that goals like this allow her to be an example. “[They] help me because I can do things for other people, just like Jesus would.” Loni couldn’t have said that any better.

Our son, Spencer, has tried to learn to fast since his baptism two years ago. We have not made him feel he must fast at his young age, and he may not fast as long as we, his parents, do on some Sundays. However, in fast and testimony meeting some time ago, he whispered to me, “I think I’ll bear my testimony.” I smiled and nodded my approval, His sincere testimony touched my heart. Obviously, he was feeling something work within him because he was fasting. We, too, can develop special feelings within us if we enter into fasting with proper intent and with the foundation of prayer.