Gospel Story Finder

Of my 14 years in the Church, the past three have been in the United States. During this time I had lost touch with the Liahona (Spanish), and there was a void in my life. Only recently did I discover that I could subscribe to the magazine here.
The Liahona is my compass. It comes in my own precious language, the language I use to relate to my Heavenly Father. Its articles, especially those by the Brethren, touch the deepest part of my being and enlarge my testimony.
The magazine edifies me, feeds my spirit, raises me to noble heights, and persuades me to do good.
I treat each issue like a cherished treasure.
Leda Carolina Sarmiento SchwartzWhite Plains First Ward, Suitland Maryland Stake

A dear friend told of the passing away of his atheistic father. As he bid good-bye to his family who had gathered around, he expressed no hope of any future, saying, “No, this is the end.”

Then, as the last moment came, he suddenly opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mother, how good to see you! Sister, you look lovely. How beautiful it all is!” Then he died. What a surprise it must have been for him! I hope he was happy about it.

Another man I know joined the Church when he was 89. His body was riddled with cancer. Yet his patriarchal blessing promised he would go to the temple. Over time, he became strong enough to sit in a wheelchair. He was endowed and sealed to his wife shortly before he died.

I know of two visiting teachers who had barely begun talking to a sister in her home when her two teenage daughters bounced in, announcing they were going to Young Women. Her husband, who also was leaving for an evening of meetings, detained their three-year-old son, who was determined to accompany his older sisters. Two other girls were arguing in the next room over which video to watch. When all the doors closed, the mother started to cry. It had been, she explained, a long week.
The visiting teachers wisely gave this very busy wife and mother a chance to talk. She discussed her week and how much she was missing her recently deceased mother. The three talked and shared their understanding of the gospel and the difficulties of every day application. The visiting teachers—one is single and has no children and the other is a single parent—praised their sister for all she was doing to raise her family well.
The mother felt better. The visiting teachers grew closer to each other and to this dear sister. They all felt better. In the true spirit of Relief Society, these visiting teachers strengthened this sister and her home. I feel better. Why? Because this story witnesses what I know—that Relief Society is indeed a balm that unites us, that helps us in our families. Sisters, I testify to you that one of our most important roles as Relief Society members is to strengthen each other, so all of us are better able to help our families. We come together. We learn from each other. We go home and strengthen our families. It’s that simple, yet how profound it is that we have this organization to be our balm of Gilead.

Christmas was Stacy’s favorite time of year. She loved the music, the colors, and the smells. She also loved helping her mother trim the family Christmas tree and looking at the many decorations they had collected over the years. After unwrapping each ornament, she placed it carefully on the tree. The little angel she had made in the second grade was there, and an old glass Santa Claus that had been her grandmother’s.
When the family tree was “perfect,” Stacy found a small artificial Christmas tree in the bottom box of decorations. “Mother,” she asked, “are you going to use this little tree?”
“Not this year, honey.”
“May I use it?”
“Yes, but you will need to make your own decorations for it. We can’t afford to buy any more this year.”
“Thank you, Mother. It’ll be fun to make decorations for it.”
Stacy blew at the gray layer of dust that covered the small tree. Taking it into her room, she cleaned it, cleared a space for it in the center of her dresser, and put on a set of miniature lights. Then she got scissors, glue, glitter, and colored paper, and cut stars, angels, and spirals for the tree. Best of all, the picture of the Savior that her Primary teacher had given her was just the right size to fit beneath the little tree.
Standing back to look at it, she felt a warm glow. But something was still missing. … Gifts! Checking her bank, she saw that she had only nine cents. What could she do for gifts? That night after thanking Heavenly Father for her blessings, she asked if He would help her think of some gifts to put under her tree.
The next day, while Mother was trying to make Christmas cookies, three-year-old Derick kept getting in her way. She asked Stacy to watch him.
Stacy started to complain, then had a wonderful idea! “Sure, Mother,” she said. “I’d love to watch him.” She took him into her bedroom, and got out her favorite coloring book, sat him at her desk, and gave him her crayons. Then she took one of the decorations from her tree and wrote “Watch Derick for Mother” on it. Satisfied, she replaced the ornament on the little tree.
Removing all the rest of the decorations, Stacy thought of other things she could do for her family and friends before Christmas. She wrote things like “Be quiet when Father is napping,” “Share my toys with Derick,” “Don’t talk about Susan,” and “Help Mother with the dishes” on them. Then she put them into a little box next to the tree. Each day when she woke up, she chose a decoration from the box, read what was written on it, and placed it on the tree. Sometime during the day, she gave her “gift.” Before Christmas was over, the little tree was covered with her pretty gift-ornaments.
When it was time to put the Christmas things away, she helped Mother take the ornaments off the big tree. Carefully wrapping them, she placed them back in the box.
When she went to take down the tree in her room, she thought about how much fun it had been doing things for her family and friends. After taking all the ornaments off, she plugged in the lights one last time. Looking at the little picture of Jesus Christ, which was still under the tree, she had an idea. Why take the tree down? Why not decorate it each month of the new year?
Stacy got out her art supplies again and made ribbons, streamers, and banners for the tree. On each one she wrote what she was going to do for someone in January. What fun! She made new decorations for each month—hearts for February, clouds and kites for March, flowers for May, pioneer wagons for July, autumn leaves for October, etc. It was her year-round giving tree, and giving service to her friends and family all year would make it seem like Christmas all year!

I grew up in Norway. The nearest temple was in Stockholm, Sweden, an 8- to 10-hour drive away. Needless to say, any trip to the temple took careful planning and deliberation. Our stake planned two visits to the temple for the youth each year; several wards would rent a bus and go to the temple for a weekend. It was fun to go with other youth, but my family and I wanted to go to the temple together sometime.

So one year we decided to go to Stockholm during our summer vacation. It was a great experience, and it soon became a pattern for our summers. We would camp at a campground close to the temple. Each morning we would get up early for a baptismal session with other families from Norway who had come to the temple. Afterward we would play football and go swimming at the campground.

These summers are sacred memories for me now. Although we didn’t live close enough to the temple to go there each month, it was always a special occasion when we could go. And even though the car ride was long and tedious, the Lord blessed us for our sacrifice. The spiritual experiences I had at the temple helped me develop my love for the temple and its ordinances. They also brought us closer together as a family.

Another week we had a rough time at church; the children were more restless than they should have been, especially during the sacrament. The next night we talked about the sacrament in family home evening. We discussed its purpose and how we should behave as the sacrament is being passed. I asked the children what they thought about during the sacrament. Our 10-year-old, Sharanne, commented that she thought about the life of Jesus Christ and the words from “The Living Christ.” Nothing more needed to be said.

Josh fidgeted on the bench. Sacrament meeting had already lasted an hour, and he was tired of sitting. He was tired of being quiet too. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor, and that made his legs hurt.
When he tried to ask his mother what the speaker’s talk was about, she said, “Shh.”
Josh looked around him at his friends. Tammy was coloring a picture of Captain Moroni. Jody was making a Noah’s Ark out of a piece of paper. Josh wanted to do that, too, but his father told him that it made too much noise. “Try thinking about Jesus,” his father whispered to him. “Remember, Jesus wants us to be reverent in church.”
“I’m trying,” Josh whispered back.
Josh couldn’t wait until Primary. Sister Cheshire always had such good stories in his CTR-A class that he could sit for almost twenty minutes without wiggling.
As soon as Sunday School singing practice was over, he jumped up from the bench and started to run to the Primary room. He stopped when he saw the Primary president. She smiled at him. Josh walked the rest of the way to class, but he walked very fast.
Today Sister Cheshire told the class that she needed their help. “I want each of you to name a way you can show Jesus that you love Him.”
“Going to Primary,” Jody volunteered.
“Picking up my papers after sacrament meeting,” Tammy said.
Sister Cheshire smiled. “Those are both good ways. What about you, Josh? Can you think of a way of showing your love for Jesus?”
Josh thought hard. “Being reverent,” he said.
“That’s a very important way,” his teacher agreed. “How can we be reverent?”
“That’s easy,” Tammy said. “We just have to be quiet.”
“What do you think, Josh?” Sister Cheshire asked.
Josh looked at his teacher. “We can be quiet anytime,” he said, frowning thoughtfully.
“That’s right,” his teacher said. “Being reverent means more than just being quiet.”
“My father said I should try thinking about Jesus during sacrament meeting. I tried, but I kept thinking about other things.”
Sister Cheshire held up a picture of Jesus in a white robe. His face was kind and gentle. “When we partake of the sacrament, we promise that we will always remember Jesus. Now, what does the bread represent?”
“His body,” Jody said before anyone else could answer.
“The water’s supposed to stand for His blood,” Tammy added.
Sister Cheshire smiled. “You’re both right. The water is a symbol of Christ’s blood, just as the bread is a symbol of His body.” She looked at Josh. “What do you think about when you see a picture of Jesus?”
“I think about how much He must have loved us,” Josh said slowly.
He looked at Sister Cheshire. She was crying.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, feeling like he might start crying too.
“It’s all right, Josh. I’m crying because you’re right—Jesus does love us very much—so much that He was willing to die for us.” She handed a small copy of the picture to each child. “When you come to church next week, I want each of you to bring this picture with you. It will help you remember Jesus when the sacrament is being passed.”
Josh stared at his picture. Jesus looked as if He was smiling right at him. Slipping it inside his Bible, he said, “Thank you, Sister Cheshire.”
“Thank you, Josh, for helping us better understand how we can be reverent. Will you say our closing prayer now, please?”
Josh started the prayer the way he always did. Then, after thanking Heavenly Father for Primary and his teacher and the beautiful day, he remembered the picture and said, “Heavenly Father, please help us to remember Jesus and show Him that we love Him by being reverent.”
He felt good a few minutes later as he walked down the hall, telling his mother and father about the lesson and showing them his picture of the Savior.

As he drove, he remembered his disastrous first-grade school year in a small farm community, reliving the panic as he attempted to answer a teacher’s question but stuttered so badly she finally turned to someone else for the answer. On the playground that year, other boys in the class had mimicked him day after day until finally he would not even go out for recess.
They had moved to a larger town after that year, and careful professional therapy had helped him overcome the problem, but the emotional scars were still there. He couldn’t speak to large groups.

The first Latter-day Saint missionaries in New Zealand arrived in Auckland in October 1854 from Australia. The first 10 converts in New Zealand were baptized five months later.

Some of the most memorable experiences, of course, come while working with the full-time missionaries.
Ruben Tungate was with the elders when, without knowing in advance, they knocked on the door of a young man he had considered an enemy. “We ended up leaving a Book of Mormon there, and I’m on much better terms with him now.”

Her family joined the Church in December 2006, six years after her parents moved to the Dominican Republic from Haiti. “I’m so grateful for the missionaries who knocked on our door. It was great to feel the Spirit and to learn about Heavenly Father’s plan for us. Since the gospel came into our lives, our family is much closer. I am grateful that He gave me a family that is so united, even in the most difficult moments. To think that we can have the privilege of being sealed eternally seems like one of the greatest blessings of all.”

Some years ago I served on the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee and was assigned to attend stake conferences with the General Authorities to teach leadership principles relating to home teaching. During a Saturday night priesthood leadership meeting in the Raft River Stake in Idaho, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle of the First Quorum of the Seventy called on me to make my presentation. For about 15 minutes I waxed strong on the subject of home teaching and presented what I thought was a very comprehensive outline of methods that might be used to improve the performance of the brethren of the stake. The audience was courteously attentive except for a few yawns on the back row. These I attempted to cure with some interesting stories and all the enthusiasm I could generate. When I wound up the talk, I sat down feeling much like a football coach who had just given a rousing locker room pep talk.
Elder Tuttle had a very thoughtful look on his face as he arose to talk to the group. He began his presentation by saying something like this: “I tried to listen attentively to Brother Anderson’s presentation, but my mind kept wandering. I couldn’t help thinking about the home teaching families to which I am assigned at home. I have some real challenges in trying to reach and influence them, and they are a constant concern to me. Maybe I could just tell you a little about them, and you could help me with some suggestions.”
Elder Tuttle did not reveal any personal information that would betray a confidence, but he did proceed to illustrate some problems. Before long, hands were in the air; the priesthood members were offering suggestions and solutions, and everyone in the audience was involved in helping. Who were they helping? They were helping themselves learn how to solve home teaching problems.
And me? I was observing with awe the work of a great teacher and motivator. He was busy leading, delegating, enthusing, and the receivers of the learning were hardly aware of their change in attitude. They were busily involved, they thought, in solving someone else’s problems.

When I was 14, I made a decision that changed everything. I was walking down the street with some friends on a Friday night, and we were having a good time, just as we usually did. But tonight there was a problem, and I knew I had to do something about it. I just wasn’t sure I could.
For the past couple of years, my friends had started experimenting with cigarettes and alcohol. It was slow at first, just a once or twice sort of thing, but by the time this Friday came, they regularly smoked and drank when we were out alone.
I thought that as long as I just kept myself clean, I could still have a good time with my friends. Of course, my parents could tell something wasn’t right with my friends. And my friends could tell that my parents didn’t approve of them. That left me in the uncomfortable middle: I found myself repeatedly defending my friends to my parents and defending my parents to my friends.
So there we were that Friday night, walking down the street. My friends started drinking and smoking, and I finally realized how uncomfortable I was with their behavior. So I made a choice.
I walked to the other side of the road.
My friends laughed at me. They called me a “goody-goody.” And they said that if I stayed over there, I wouldn’t be their friend anymore.
Well, we got to the end of the road. My friends turned left, and I turned right. I was two miles (3.2 km) from home, and they were the longest two miles I’d ever walked. You might think I would feel good about making such a courageous choice, but in that moment, I felt awful. I woke up the next morning with the terrifying realization that I had lost my friends and that I was now alone. For a 14-year-old, that was devastating.

Click! Thud! Thud! Thud! Wham! Squeak! That was my nightly routine for getting into bed. First I clicked off the light, then took three giant steps, and whammed into bed with such force that it caused my bedsprings to squeak. As soon as I hit the bed, I pulled the covers over my head so that I’d feel as safe as an eight-year-old can.
At night a snake I called Slither lived under my bed. His head was as big as an elephant’s ear, and his body was as round as a telephone pole. Sometimes Slither was visited by Crocky Crocodile. He was all mouth and teeth, with a short, squatty body. They didn’t make much noise, and my mom said that they weren’t really real, but I just knew that they were lying under my bed, waiting to snap at me the minute I put my foot or hand over the edge of the bed. That’s why I always slept in the middle of the bed and pulled the covers over my head.
I used to say my prayers kneeling beside my bed, but that was before Slither moved in. I was sure that he’d gobble me up if I knelt beside my bed, so I started to say them while lying under my blankets.
One Sunday morning my Primary teacher gave the best lesson on prayer. She said, “Always remember to pray to your Father in Heaven and talk to Him as if He were your best friend. Tell Him about all the good things that you are grateful for, and ask Him to help you when you need help. Don’t forget to pray each morning and night. It’s best to kneel by your bed and say your prayer out loud.”
I raised my hand and asked, “Is it OK to say our prayers while lying in bed?”
“It’s better to kneel,” she explained, “because it shows that we’re humble. That’s the way Jesus did it.”
That night as I lay curled up in the middle of my bed and began saying my prayer, I didn’t feel good about it. It was as though my prayer was being smothered by my blankets.
Then the image of my Primary teacher came into mind, and I remembered what she had taught us. I knew that I had to kneel, so I knelt in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and began to pray. But I didn’t feel any better. I let the covers slip from my head as I peeked at the floor, watching for Slither and Crocky.
I knew that no matter how frightened I was, I had to kneel by my bed. Slowly I slipped over the side of the bed and knelt beside it. I closed my eyes tightly so that I couldn’t see Slither and Crocky if they came out to bite me. Then I remembered my teacher telling us to pray for the Lord’s help, so I prayed that Slither and Crocky would go away and never return.
I finished my prayer and jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Then a peaceful feeling came over me, and I didn’t feel scared anymore. I pulled the covers off my head and leaned over the side of the bed. As I looked under it, for the first time the blackness seemed to be peaceful and calm. There was nothing to be frightened of—Slither and Crocky were gone forever!

A large red beetle scratched its way down the porch railing and disappeared into a hole in the old wooden porch. Jamon Knighton sat in Uncle Alban’s creaky, timeworn wicker chair, watching the beetle and listening to the early morning sounds that floated out of the valley. Every Saturday morning Jamon and Uncle Alban had watched things—things like the gold leaves that Uncle Alban said “fluttered across his yard like memories”—and had listened to sounds like that of Mr. Sadlier’s yellow dog’s barking in the distance. Jamon remembered how Uncle Alban had talked about the quiet, how he had said that it was a sound, too, and that it sounded like a secret prayer. “And if anything could look like a secret prayer,” he had added, “it would be that light in those thickets, pushing back the night.”

Speaking of prayer, Jamon thought, I need to offer one for Uncle Alban. He stood up, went down the porch steps, and paused in a patch of sunlight that beamed through the trees. It felt as warm and fine as his uncle’s arm around his shoulder as they had walked down the narrow dirt road toward Gooseberry Lake to go fishing.

Earlier this particular Saturday morning, however, when Jamon had left home with his fishing pole and had walked the half-mile down Thistle Road to his uncle’s place, he had been met on the porch by Aunt Eva, who had told him that Uncle Alban wouldn’t be able to take him fishing. “He had a heart attack about two hours ago,” she had faltered, “and a neighbor took him to the hospital in Monroe. I’ve just finished packing a few things, and your mother is going to drive me to Monroe so that I can be near Alban until he—” She’d pulled Jamon close to her, and he’d felt her body tremble as she’d tried to hold back the tears. “We must pray for him, Jamon,” she had finally said, then had hurried back inside.

Jamon left the patch of sunlight and headed toward a big willow that stood a short way down the dirt road. That will be a good place to pray, he decided. It was his and Uncle Alban’s secret place, and no one would see him there. Its thousand slender branches hung all the way to the ground like a leafy veil. Uncle Alban had told him many stories under the old tree, stories about Jesus and the Prophet Joseph Smith. It was there that Jamon had first seen the glow on his uncle’s countenance whenever he talked about such things.

Jamon paused a few feet from the old willow and gazed at the glitter of Gooseberry Lake beyond the trees. He recalled a Saturday morning not many months before when Uncle Alban had immersed him, along with the rest of his family, in the waters of baptism.

When Jamon emerged from the willow’s leafy seclusion, he saw the milk truck parked in front of his aunt and uncle’s house, and he realized that he had been praying for a long time. Brother Wilson never delivered milk before 9:00 A.M., and the pocket watch Uncle Alban had given him on his birthday last year had said 8:30 when he’d gone to the willow to pray. He’d been praying for half an hour!

Jamon stopped short when he saw his mother and the milkman on the front porch. They were comforting his aunt, who was sitting in the old wicker chair, sobbing uncontrollably.

Without having to be told, Jamon knew that Uncle Alban had died. He watched dumbly as Mother helped Aunt Eva into the house and the milkman came down from the porch and walked over to him.

“But I prayed for Uncle Alban, Brother Wilson. I prayed hard!” Jamon protested as he walked along the dirt road with the milkman. “I asked Heavenly Father to make him well again.”

The milkman stopped and pointed at the little circle of hills that surrounded them. “You know, Jamon,” he said, “when I was a small child, I thought that the mountains surrounding the town where I lived were the edge of the world because I couldn’t see beyond them. When I got older, I climbed over the mountains and discovered that the world went far beyond them.”

Jamon squinted up at the milkman. “What are you saying, Brother Wilson?”

“I’m saying, Jamon,” the milkman replied with a gentle smile, “that the Lord is a lot older and wiser than the rest of us. Don’t you think that perhaps He knows something that we don’t? Compared to the Lord, we are like little children. Often we can’t see beyond the little circle of mountains in our lives. But He can. He sees and knows what is difficult for us to understand—the reasons for things. And until we grow enough to climb over those mountains, we must have the faith to accept His good judgment. And remember,” Brother Wilson added, “that sometimes the answer to a prayer is no. And no is every bit as much an answer as yes.”

Jamon blinked back his tears. “Do you think that maybe God needs my uncle more than Aunt Eva and I do?”

Brother Wilson looked at the boy with admiration. Maybe, he considered, Jamon had already climbed some of those hills. Aloud, he said, “From what I hear, there are a lot of people on the other side who need teaching. There’s plenty of work to do, and judging from the way your uncle brought you and your family into the Church”—the milkman’s eyes misted—“as he did me just a year ago, I can’t think of a better person for the job.”

Jamon smiled through his tears. “Me either, Brother Wilson,” he said as they walked back to Uncle Alban’s house. “Me either.”

Sometimes people fall victim to the Frog Principle as they pursue their careers. When first starting work with a company, some are expected to do certain things that go contrary to their personal ethics. However, as time passes, they may slowly give in to deeds that might be considered questionable.
At first, they may distort the truth only slightly—through overstatement, understatement, or omission of a bit of information. Such actions are easily justified with, “That’s the way things are done here.” From there, it’s only a small step to a minor cover-up to preserve the company’s (or their own) reputation of being reliable or honest or knowledgeable.
These cover-ups, small at first, tend to grow and grow just like the heat under a pan until one is eventually caught doing something that is obviously dishonest. The path to sin is traveled step by step, not in one tremendous leap.

Recently, in Holland, the mission president was stricken with a massive heart attack and lay near death’s door for a while. Though he was an American foreigner, so to speak, he belonged to the household of God, and literally thousands of people in Holland and other lands, and the Apostles of the Lord, knelt and prayed for his life—if it was the will of God that he should live. Think of it—and it happens hundreds of times every day upon this earth. He belonged to the family of God; he felt their fasting and prayers and love. And what about his wife? She belonged as she had never known possible. I was there. I was a witness, and there were so many calls from those who belong to the household of God that she actually became weary.
As the president improved and I left, my heart was so full. Yes, for the preservation of his life, but also for the privilege of belonging to the church of Jesus Christ, here upon the earth.

Sarah gulped down the last bite of toast and took a last swallow of milk before she grabbed her books and ran out the door. If the kitchen clock was right, she’d be late for school again, and her good citizenship grade would fly right out the window.

Until recently Mom had always awakened her by shouting, “Sarah, if you don’t get up this minute, you’ll be late for school!” But since Mom had had to start working and had to leave for the office so early, Sarah had only herself to rely on. If she were to grade her own efforts at good citizenship so far, she’d give herself an F.

That’s what Mrs. Buskirk said she was going to give her, too, if she was late one more time. The teacher had already sent a citizenship report home, and Dad had lectured Sarah about her deportment. “Your mother has accepted the additional responsibility of a job,” Dad had told her firmly, “and there’s no excuse for you not to accept the responsibility of getting yourself to school on time.”

Sarah shoved her bike out of the garage and pedaled down the driveway, adjusting her book bag on her shoulders as she went. She tore down Highland Avenue and turned onto Main Street.

As she rode along, she wondered why the biggest grade school and the only junior high school in town were built next to one another right on the city’s busiest street. Even though there was a sidewalk and a wide shoulder on the road, riding a bike in the morning traffic wasn’t easy.

Sarah passed the bank and glanced at the big clock inside. Only seven minutes until the tardy bell rings, she thought. The lights will have to be with me the restof the way if I’m going to make it. If they weren’t, she’d better forget about being captain of the volleyball team for the year, because no one with citizenship grades below a C was eligible. And she knew what would happen at home—no movies and no television.

Volleyball was Sarah’s whole life. Her grades were sort of ho-hum, but she could play volleyball quite well. When she practiced her spikes on the court and knew that the other kids were watching, she wanted to throw her arms around the world and hug it. Oh, if she lost that feeling, she’d just die!

Pedalling harder, Sarah welcomed the cool morning air that stung her cheeks as she approached Washington Avenue. Nearing the intersection, she saw that the cars were backed up, waiting for the light to change. Come on lights. Be on my side, she agonized.

The lights changed, yet nothing happened. The cars weren’t moving. Oh, no! Now what? she wondered. What she didn’t need was an accident on this corner so that the cars would be backed up in every direction.

Sarah pulled to a stop as far into the intersection as she dared. Then she saw the problem: A little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, had wheeled her bike into the center of the crossing. When the lights had changed, she had stopped, probably wondering if she should continue or go back. Now several drivers honked, anxious for her to move out of the way. Sarah watched as the little girl looked uncertainly from the cars on Main Street to the cars on Washington Avenue. Then her lunch box slid from her grasp and fell to the pavement. The lid opened and an orange rolled over to the curb.

Sarah fidgeted. While all the drivers were busy watching the little girl, maybe she could try to make it across the street against the red light.

Cautiously she looked around for a policeman but found only the faces of angry motorists. They were frowning and tapping their steering wheels; some shouted out their windows.

If they’re so anxious to get going, Sarah wondered, why doesn’t somebody do something? Why doesn’t someone act responsible and help the kid across the street?

As Sarah watched, the little girl tried to reach her lunch box while still holding her bicycle upright. But her arms just weren’t long enough.

Why doesn’t somebody do something? Sarah thought again. Then she realized that she was somebody!

Sarah lifted her bike up onto the parkway grass and laid it down. After shrugging off her book bag, she hurried over to the little girl. As Sarah neared her, she could see tears rolling down the child’s cheeks.

Good-bye volleyball, Sarah thought as she picked up the books and lunch box and guided the little girl across the street. Who wants to be captain, anyway? There are other things in life. Maybe next year …

After Sarah put the little girl’s bike up on the sidewalk, she bent over to look at her. The younger child’s face was blotchy and covered with leftover tears. Sarah handed her a tissue. “I’ll get my bike, and we’ll ride the rest of the way together, OK?”

Inside, Sarah felt the same warm rush of emotions that she did when she served or spiked for the volleyball team.

These encouraging statistics suggest how important it is not to stand by and wring our hands but to do something! The reason, frankly, brethren, that so little is happening is that so little is being tried. An experienced woodcarver was asked how one begins to be a woodcarver. He said bluntly, “Start making some chips.” Brethren, let’s start making some chips!