Gospel Story Finder

I recall one woman, whom I’ll call Ella, who as a child was criticized harshly by her parents and peers. Later, as an adult, during and after Relief Society lessons, she became discouraged as she compared herself to the other sisters. She was certain that they were all more intelligent, better organized, and stronger in the gospel than she was. Her husband began to avoid her after Relief Society because she was so unpleasant.

Eventually, Ella saw that her self-condemning attitude was harming her testimony and her marriage. She decided to change. Taking specific inventory of herself, she made a list of strengths and weaknesses. At first, she had trouble accepting her strengths, and she all too readily accepted her weaknesses as permanent and unchangeable. However, using the list, she determined to overcome one weakness and to develop one strength at a time.

Through her self-evaluation, she discovered that one of her weaknesses was saying things too quickly without stopping to think if her remarks would be hurtful to others. Realizing the harm her comments could cause, she practiced thinking before she spoke. Eventually, as she ceased to wound others through thoughtless remarks, she gained a new sense of self-mastery. She also developed her housekeeping skills, which gave her definite evidence of achievement in something that was important to her and was a service to others.

After overcoming a few of her weaknesses and refining a few of her strengths, Ella began to believe that she was a person of worth. She did not expect confirmation or praise from others for her efforts. Hers was an internal, personal effort—an effort to live in accordance with God’s laws. Her self-esteem really was self-esteem. And, as her self-esteem increased, her marriage improved. Her husband began to relax and enjoy her obviously more pleasant outlook and behavior. Then he, too, began to examine and improve himself—with beneficial results.

My wife, Harriet, is a wonderful example of this. When we were living in Germany, she would find a way to work Church-related topics into her conversations with friends and acquaintances. For example, when someone asked about her weekend, she would say, “This Sunday we had an impressive experience in our church! A 16-year-old young man gave a beautiful talk in front of 200 people of our congregation about living a clean life.” Or, “I learned about a 90-year-old woman who knitted more than 500 blankets and gave them to our Church’s humanitarian program to be shipped to people in need all around the world.”

More often than not, the people who heard this wanted to know more. They asked questions. And that led to opportunities to talk about the gospel in a natural, confident, nonpushy way.

Harold B. Lee came next. This was a man I loved. During the short tenure of his presidency, I traveled in Europe with him on two different occasions. Those were wonderful days when we talked together. I was his junior companion on those journeys, and he spoke out of his great heart about many things. He warned against the neglect of families. He told us that the greatest work any of us would ever do would be within the walls of our own homes. He told us to survey large fields and cultivate small ones. In so saying, he wanted us to get the great, broad picture of this work and then with faithfulness take care of our own individual responsibility in it. He had come out of humble circumstances and carried in his heart a great sensitivity for the poor. He was the first managing director of the welfare program as it was established in 1936, and taught its principles across the Church. He extended to me a call to serve as a stake president and set me apart in that office. I still remember some of the things he said in that blessing. Said he: “Be sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit. Be slow to censure and quick to encourage.” I commend that counsel to each of you. It came from a living prophet of God.

There are two major dreams that 15-year-old Ann Kelly of the Tamworth Ward in Staffordshire, England, is striving for. One is to go on a mission; the other is to play on a professional football (soccer) team.
To prepare for the first goal, the convert of a little over a year is attending all her Church meetings, including early-morning seminary. “Although it’s hard to get up and go, I know it’s worth it for my mission,” she says.
To prepare for the second goal, Anna runs and wins cross-country races for her school, and also for the Staffordshire County team. She also plays football for the Lichfield Diamonds.
“There aren’t many girls’ football teams around,” she says, “but I’d like to play professionally for the England Ladies’ team.”

I could tell Mom was upset by the look on her face as she hung up the phone.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“That was Tim’s mom,” Mom said.
Tim was a friendly boy from my class in school last year. He was a good basketball player, and once he brought his pet lizard to class.
Mom sat down next to me on the couch. “Tim’s mom said the doctors just found out that Tim has cancer,” she said.
Mom explained that cancer is a sickness, but not like a cold or the flu. She said Tim would have to stay in the hospital for a long time. It would be so expensive that Tim’s family might have to sell their home.
That night during family prayer, Mom asked Heavenly Father to bless and comfort Tim’s family. Then she said, “And please help us to know how we can help Tim.”
As I lay in bed a little while later, I thought about Mom’s prayer. But what could I do to help? I said a short prayer. “Heavenly Father, please let me know what I can do to help Tim.”
When I opened my eyes, I looked around my darkened room. I noticed a dump truck that I hadn’t used in months and a puzzle that was too easy for me now. Suddenly, my heart started to get warm.
The next morning I burst into the kitchen and announced, “I want to sell my old toys and give the money to Tim.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said.
We found a big box and filled it with toys and games I no longer played with.
“I’ll bet Grandma has some old toys,” Mom said.
“Maybe our neighbors do too,” I said.
We drove to Grandma’s house, and she helped us round up toys from her basement. Then we walked around our neighborhood and collected more. By the end of the day we had quite a few boxes full of toys and games. My heart pounded when I looked at them and thought about Tim.
On Saturday, we had a yard sale. A table in our front yard overflowed with dolls, trucks, stuffed animals, and board games. I put a picture of Tim on a large can. I told people that all of the money from our yard sale would go to help Tim and his family.
By afternoon, almost all of the toys were gone, and our can was filled with dollar bills and change.
That night I wrote a letter to Tim telling him that we were thinking of him and praying for him. I told him about our yard sale and put the letter and the money in the envelope. My heart felt warm, and I knew that I was doing a good thing for Tim and his family.
About a week later, I got a letter from Tim and his mom. They said they were filled with gratitude that I had thought to do such a thing. I knew it was Heavenly Father who helped me know how I could help. All I had to do was ask, listen, and then do it.

The memory of that year is still strong. I can remember the smells, the colors, the people, the way the air felt and tasted. I was young, quite young then, but I can still remember.
The transition of summer fading into winter had already begun. The air was cold enough at night to leave a frost on the windows. The leaves of the poplar trees had turned from green to bright yellow, and the potawatomi plums were ripe.
I’d gone down to a thicket of potawatomi trees that grew near Grandma Gleaves’s place with two of my friends. The fruit was warm and fragrant from lying in the sun and was juicy and sweet. We sat under the trees eating and watching Grandma Gleaves’s house. The juice, the color of ripe canteloupes, streamed down our faces.
“I wonder if she’s in there.”
“She never leaves the place.”
“Come on, she’s gotta go out sometime.”
“Nope, Mr. Wilson brings her groceries to her every Saturday.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve watched him. I sat right here.”
“Ever see her?”
“I saw something move through a window once, and I heard her say something to Mr. Wilson when he was bringing her a load of coal.”
“What did she say?”
“It was too far away. I couldn’t hear too well.”
“It’s not that far.”
“I bet you can’t hit it from here.”
Kim reached down and picked up a bright red globe and then stood up.
“I wonder what she looks like.”
He leaned back and threw. The potawatomi arched up into the blue sky and then dropped down, splattering on the ground in front of the porch.
“I can do better than that.”
“Maybe she’ll come out.”
“Naw, she never comes out.” Rick stood up and threw. A fiery golden streak came down and smashed against the side of the house.
“Not bad.”
“Try for the window. Maybe she’ll look out if you hit it.”
I carefully picked out a potawatomi, one that was just a little green, a little harder than most of them. I wound up and put my weight into the throw. It hung in the sky, a second golden sun, and then flashed down.
“Oh, oh!”
The sound of the breaking glass was small and fragile. Reflected pieces of blue sky and of the yellow weeds that grew around the house dropped from the window frame, leaving a dark, jagged hole bordered with waving lace curtains.
We stood frozen, breathless, paralyzed by curiosity. A dark form moved in the broken window.
“Run!”
Rick and Kim turned and ran. I hesitated. The door opened, and in the time it took me to gulp a deep breath of air, I saw her, an old woman, thin, pale, and frightened.
I crashed into the sharp, black branches of the thicket. Potawatomis were crushed under my feet, making my footing slippery. I fell and scrambled, crawling out the other side of the trees, and then ran into a grain field, my heart pounding, the image of the old woman still in my mind.
The grain was bent down, showing the trail that Rick and Kim had made. I followed. Something caught my leg and I fell, tumbling. Rick and Kim were laying in the thick grain laughing.
“Great shot.”
“Got it on my first try,” I said, trying to forget the old woman.
Rick reached over and slapped me on the back.
“If your arm gets tired of patting yourself on the back, I’ll take over. You look like you saw a ghost. Did you see her?”
“No.”
“Do you think she saw us?”
“I doubt it.”
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got home that night. My father was waiting for me. He wasn’t smiling.
“Where have you been?”
I looked him in the eye brazenly.
“Nowhere.”
“It looks like you’ve been eating potawatomis.”
“Maybe.”
My shirt and pants had orange stains on them.
“There are some potawatomi trees down by Mrs. Gleaves’s, aren’t there?”
“I guess.” I knew I was caught.
“You broke Mrs. Gleaves’s window, didn’t you?”
“I … we …”
“Somebody saw you do it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
My heart was beating so hard now that it felt like a bird in a cage trying to get out. My legs were weak. It wasn’t that I was afraid of being punished. I was just embarrassed that I’d been caught.
My father, the muscles in his jaw flexed tight, watched me quietly for a few minutes.
“I don’t know what’s happening to you, Danny, throwing tomatoes at cars last week, letting that snake loose in the movie house, letting McLuhan’s sheep out during the Pioneer Days parade. You weren’t like this before. Ever since your—”
He stopped abruptly and looked away, silent. We’d never talked about it. It was never mentioned. He hadn’t cried during the funeral, not before and not after. He had just sat silent. After the funeral he’d taken everything that was hers and put it in boxes, taped them shut, and carried them to the basement. Everything about her he had taken and hidden. All that was left was the pain.
“You’re going to apologize to her.”
“No. I won’t.” This wasn’t the punishment I’d expected. I could still see the thin face and the white hair and the fear. It was too much. I couldn’t go back there and face her. I’d rather walk through the cemetery at night, alone. I knew he wouldn’t think much of having me walk through the cemetery at night for punishment, though.
“You can ground me for a month. I’ll sit in my room and I’ll only leave to go to school and church.”
“I don’t see that you have any choice.” His face hardened.
“I’ll rake all the leaves. I’ll clean the garden up.” I was getting desperate. “I’ll wash the dishes for two months.”
“I want you to go down there in the morning.”
“Three months.”
“I want you to tell her that you’ll replace the window and that you’ll help her with her yard work or any other work she needs done every Saturday for a month.”
“That’s too much for one window.”
“It takes a lot of good to make up for something bad. I’ll pick up the glass, and tomorrow after I get back from work, we’ll put it in. Tell Mrs. Gleaves we’re coming.”
It was early when my father dropped me off at the lane that led to Mrs. Gleaves’s house. My father smiled at me when I opened the car door to get out.
“Don’t forget to tell her we’ll be by to put the window in tonight.”
I closed the door, and he drove off leaving a thin vapor trail of dust hanging over the gravel road. I watched until the dust settled and the air was clear again. I kicked a furrow in the soft, dry earth and then started walking slowly toward the house. The fence posts and the trees that lined the lane cast long shadows. A rooster pheasant with his head ducked down ran across the road in front of me and then vanished into tall, yellow grass.
As I walked, I remembered vividly a story about two Mormon missionaries during the Mexican Revolution.
“Will you deny the truth?”
“No. Never.”
“Blindfold?”
“No. I don’t need one.”
I imagined walking bravely to the wall in front of the firing squad. I had reached the gate on the picket fence that surrounded Mrs. Gleaves’s house. I turned around and faced the firing squad. The guns exploded.
Mortally wounded I fell to the ground. I stood up again and looked at the gate. It couldn’t have been any worse for the missionaries to face the firing squad than what I had to do. I felt terrible. It wasn’t just that I felt bad about breaking the window. It was also that I’d been caught doing it.
I walked through the gate. The fence was gray with age and several pickets were broken. There was a large cottonwood tree in the front yard. The bark at the trunk and in spots on up the tree was the same gray color of the fence and was wrinkled like elephant skin. The tree was ancient looking. Everything about the yard looked old, neglected, forgotten.
To the left and in front of the house was the thicket of potawatomi trees sitting red and gold in the morning sunlight. In a direct line from the thicket was the broken window, a dark vacant hole surrounded by the sky and clouds. The house was made of square-cut logs that were fitted together and chinked with plaster. The wood was black-brown from years of exposure to the sun. It made the house look ominous.
I knocked on the door. From deep within the house something stirred, and then the house was silent again. A small wind came up, rustling the leaves that covered the grounds around the house. A few leaves drifted down from the cottonwood tree. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky. The steady sound of a thrasher working an unseen grain field could be heard in the distance.
Finally, after what seemed like several hours, the door opened a crack.
“Who is it?”
“Danny Anderson.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was distant and soft.
“I broke your window yesterday.”
“Window?”
“I broke your window yesterday. It was an accident.”
“Window.” The door closed a little.
“My father and I will come back tonight to fix it. And to pay for it, I’m supposed to do yard work for you.”
She opened the door a little more.
“I’ll be by on Saturday to do the work.”
She closed the door, and I backed off the porch.
That evening, after we finished replacing the window, my father went into Mrs. Gleaves’s house and talked to her while I waited outside.
“She’s expecting you on Saturday,” he said when he came out.
“She’s weird,” I said.
“She kind of withdrew into herself when her husband was killed in an accident. That was 20 years ago. I don’t think she’s been out of her house more than a couple of times since then.” My father was quiet the rest of the way home.
Saturday came too soon. She opened the door and handed me a small bucket.
“Fill it with potawatomis and bring it back to me.”
A few minutes later I handed her the bucket filled with the ripe plums. She took the bucket.
“You can rake the leaves.”
The leaves were almost half a foot deep and covered most of the yard. I’d finished my second pile when the most delicious aroma I’d ever smelled came from the house. It was the fragrance of bread baking and of something wonderfully sweet simmering. I had to rake harder to keep from thinking about it.
At about noon she came out onto the porch and waved to me to come over. She was carrying a plate with two three-inch thick slices of steaming homemade bread covered with melting butter and a golden-red jam. The aroma was indescribable.
She pointed to the porch steps with a hand that held a large glass of milk.
“Sit.”
She handed me the plate and sat down next to me. She watched me quietly as I savored the fragrance of the bread and then took a large bite. Hot homemade bread, fresh butter, hot homemade potawatomi jam—it was delicious. I smiled at her.
“It’s good.”
A smile cracked on her face and then faded. She turned and looked out at the yard.
“It looks awful now. No one has worked on it for a long time. It was once beautiful. We painted the fence every year.”
She pointed to the fence line.
“There were roses there, and in the back we had a garden. The best one in the valley. We had the biggest watermelon in the state once. It took first prize at the state fair. It was as long as you are. We had all of our friends here after the fair. We sat under that cottonwood and ate the melon.”
She sat silent for a long time looking at the yard. I finished the milk and set the glass down. I looked at the yard, trying to see what she was looking at. A small wind blew in short puffs stirring the leaves on the ground and starting more falling from the trees. The air was cool and smelled of fall, and the sun was bright and warm.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it was then,” she said. She wasn’t exactly talking to me.
“I’d better get back to work. My father will be here at 2:00.”
I stood and picked up the rake I’d leaned against the porch.
“Thanks for the bread and jam. I’ve never had potawatomi jam before.”
“It was John’s favorite. He planted the trees.”
That fall passed quickly. The following week while I chopped down the patches of tall yellow weeds and piled them, she made pie from apples I had picked from the tree that grew out behind the house. The week after that she made cookies filled with blueberries. I’m not sure when or why I started looking forward to Saturdays. I even enjoyed the work.
On the fifth Saturday my father came along to help. We brought paint that we had left over from painting our house. He repaired broken pickets while I painted. At noon Mrs. Gleaves brought out sandwiches and fresh-made doughnuts and milk. We sat underneath the old cottonwood tree while we ate. It was a cool day. The air was cold, but the sun was warm. Mrs. Gleaves had a sweater wrapped around her shoulders.
“It looks good,” she said. “The yard is looking real good.”
My father touched me on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Gleaves was my Sunday School teacher,” he said. Mrs. Gleaves laughed.
“That was a long time ago. Your wife was in the class too. She wasn’t your wife then, was she though?”
My father was silent. He kept eating like he hadn’t heard her.
“She had a temper, didn’t she? I remember we were building models of the city of Bethlehem out of Epsom salts one Sunday. I don’t remember what you did, but she got mad at you and dumped the whole bucket of salt on you right there in church.”
My father looked up laughing.
“I’d forgotten about that. She didn’t get angry very often but when she did. … When we were first married, I told her that the mashed potatoes she’d made were burnt. She picked up the bowl and walked over to me. She smiled and opened my shirt front and dumped the whole mess in. ‘You don’t have to eat them,’ she said.”
We all laughed. My father suddenly stopped. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. A tear streamed from an eye. My throat felt raw, like something was caught in it.
“She died, didn’t she?”
My father nodded, still looking down at his hands.
“I thought I remembered hearing that. It’s a hard thing.”
My father stood.
“I’ve got to be going,” he said. “Dan can finish with the painting.”
After he’d left, she said, “He took your mother’s death pretty hard, didn’t he?”
I nodded. She sat silent, looking at me.
“He’s lucky he has you.” She continued. “You’re a good boy.”
She stood up slowly, kneeling first and then bracing herself on the tree. My father had told me that she was at least 80 years old.
“John and I never had any children.” She looked up at the sky and held the sweater tight around her shoulder. “The snow will be here before next Saturday,” she said. “You’ve done good work with the yard. Thank you.”
She closed the door going into her house. I was alone. The air was growing even colder than it had been. The sky had clouded over and was a dark, slate color. The whole valley seemed to have darkened. I looked over at the potawatomi trees. Deep, deep inside of me a pain was swelling up. I walked over to the thicket. A covey of quail were feeding on the soft, overripe plums. They ran single file back into the thicket as I approached. The branches on the trees were dark, bare skeletons now. I reached down and picked up one of the plums. It smelled sweet and earthy.
I hadn’t helped my father. I looked at the window that reflected the dark clouds and the barren fields. I’d hurt him, maybe not intentionally, but just the same I’d hurt him. I’d been too busy feeling my own pain to help anyone, him or even myself.
The potawatomi squashed in my closed fist. The fragrant juice squeezed out between my fingers. I wiped my hands on my pants and went back to finish the fence.
The next week the fence looked good in the snow, white on white. A few leaves had fallen from the trees after the snow had come, coloring the white with gold. I helped Mrs. Gleaves bring coal in for her stove. I helped her with the coal and with her groceries the rest of that winter. Mr. Wilson was glad to have the help. He was getting old himself. And sometimes on particularly cold nights I would go to her house in the evenings and sit next to her old-fashioned stove, feeling the radiant warmth and talking, and sometimes my father came with me.

John, David, and Keir wandered along the Fox River hiking trail one beautiful spring day. John and David were brothers, and their friend Keir lived around the corner from them.
“What do you guys want to do?” asked nine-year-old John.
“Let’s go home and get some ice cream bars. Mom just bought some,” seven-year-old David said.
“OK,” Keir said, “race you!” They took off up a dirt path that led back to the main road. Two blocks from John and David’s house, Keir stopped.
“Hey, look,” he said, pointing to something lying along the side of the path. “What’s that?”
It looked like a stack of paper. As the boys got closer, they realized it was a magazine. It was colorful and shiny with lots of glossy pictures. The pages flapped in the soft breeze.
“Cool,” John said as he picked it up.
They quickly realized that it was not at all “cool.” The magazine cover had pictures of naked women. The boys suddenly became very quiet.
“I think this is what’s called ‘porn,’” Keir said.
“What’s that?” David asked.
“Pornography,” John stated. He slammed the magazine closed and folded it in half so they couldn’t see the cover. “We shouldn’t look at it.”
“I think we should tell our moms,” Keir said.
“Or we could just leave it here,” David said.
“No, I don’t want someone else to find it. We’ll take it to Mom. She’ll know what to do,” John said.
David and Keir nodded. The three boys continued up the path. They didn’t want to laugh and shout anymore. They all felt a dull, heavy feeling inside. They were curious about the magazine, but no one wanted to look at it again.
When they got home, John showed his mom what they had found.
“You were right not to keep looking at it. This is not good for us to see,” she said. “I’m proud of you boys for bringing it to me. I’ll get rid of it.”
Later, when Keir got home, he told his mom and dad what had happened. They had a talk about pornography.
“Heavenly Father gave us our bodies to house our spirits,” Keir’s mom said. “Our bodies are very important, and we shouldn’t misuse them.”
“That magazine was showing how some people treat their bodies badly,” his dad added. “Pornography is evil, and the prophet has told us to stay away from it. You boys made a good decision today, Keir. You’ll be blessed for it.”
Keir had a good feeling in his heart that lasted for a long time. He knew John and David felt the same way. All three boys understood that the Holy Ghost had guided them to choose the right.

We have met many other consecrated Church members who exemplify dedication and faithfulness. Some time ago a group of Saints from Punta Arenas, Chile, went to the Santiago Chile Temple. This trip requires some 80 hours by bus and often uses up the only vacation time people have during the year. One member of the group was a woman named Hermana Álvarez, who is less than four feet (1.2 m) tall and has difficulty walking. She carried with her some 27 family names for whom she wanted to do the vicarious work. What a thrill it was to be able to help her fulfill her worthy dream and to realize the extent to which so many Saints dedicate themselves to living and defending the principles of the gospel as a reflection of the law of consecration.

Later I noticed that many of the older youth became less active in the Church, and I had an absolute fear that one day I might lose my testimony. There were so few youth in the Church in Germany in those days that when they became less active, their absence was noticeable. It was frightening for my parents. They had given up everything to raise their children in religious freedom, and now they were thinking, “What can we do so that we will not lose Erich?”
One day when I was about 14 years old, my family was driving home from church. We had noticed, once again, that some of the youth had turned their backs on the Church. I said to my parents, “I want you to drag me to church until I am 21 years old, and then I will take care of myself!” I really told them that, and my mother often repeated it to me.
This concern explains why, when I was about 10 years old and attending primary school, my parents made a decision. In Germany you start a higher-education path at a young age. My parents decided not to allow me to go into higher education because they had seen many young people leave the Church while attending these schools at that time. They said, “You can go anywhere, but not to the Gymnasium [university-track school], because we don’t want to lose you to the world!”
That decision meant that I received a basic education and later a vocational education; for me, that meant a degree in business. This limited many of my professional possibilities. I completed my training when I was 18 years old and was called to serve as a missionary in Munich, Germany. I loved being a missionary.
When I finished my mission, I found myself without a lot of career options. I had finished my education. Two years after my mission, I married my wife, Christiane, and there was no chance for me to gain a university education. There was a moment when I felt sad about my parents’ decision because I felt so limited.
Then a thought came to me: “Whatever my parents did, they did to protect me. They did it out of love, and it will not be a disadvantage for me.” Even though at times it seemed to be a disadvantage in a worldly sense, I could now understand that it would never be a real disadvantage. I decided to make a career in the insurance business, and I later became an executive in the company where I worked.
One challenge for me was that I had always wanted to be a teacher, and you cannot be a teacher in Germany without a university education. However, I eventually did become a teacher—a religion teacher. I became a teacher for the Church Educational System. And in a manner of speaking, that is what I am now—a teacher. So I gained a testimony that it is worthwhile to listen to your parents, to follow their counsel, and to trust that they love you, pray for you, and know what is best for you. The desire to stay active in the Church was so strong on my part and the desire to protect me was so strong on my parents’ part that everything did come together for my good.

Life choices kept Shelly away from the Church for years. With the help of friends at church, Shelly eventually found the strength and faith to move forward and be a good example to her children.
But things happened, and when we got divorced, I was excommunicated. It took me about 15 years to get back into the Church. It took a while, but I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to be going to church for all the right reasons.
I remember when we first moved to Kentucky, USA, I’d take my son to church and stay in the car while he went inside. It was a hard time. My daughter was the first of my children to get married in the temple, and I couldn’t be there. That really hurt my feelings, but of course, it was my fault.
It just takes some people like me a long time to finally figure things out. Ward members and friends were patient with me. They let me know that they were there. One family in particular reached out to me and were really like my family because I didn’t have anybody out here. They helped me start going to church, but they never pressured me. The cool thing is that when it was time, my son rebaptized me.

Ben Carson said of himself, “I was the worst student in my whole fifth-grade class.” One day Ben took a math test with 30 problems. The student behind him corrected it and handed it back. The teacher, Mrs. Williamson, started calling each student’s name for the score. Finally, she got to Ben. Out of embarrassment, he mumbled the answer. Mrs. Williamson, thinking he had said “9,” replied that for Ben to score 9 out of 30 was a wonderful improvement. The student behind Ben then yelled out, “Not nine! … He got none … right.” Ben said he wanted to drop through the floor.
At the same time, Ben’s mother, Sonya, faced obstacles of her own. She was one of 24 children, had only a third-grade education, and could not read. She was married at age 13, was divorced, had two sons, and was raising them in the ghettos of Detroit. Nonetheless, she was fiercely self-reliant and had a firm belief that God would help her and her sons if they did their part.
One day a turning point came in her life and that of her sons. It dawned on her that successful people for whom she cleaned homes had libraries—they read. After work she went home and turned off the television that Ben and his brother were watching. She said in essence: You boys are watching too much television. From now on you can watch three programs a week. In your free time you will go to the library—read two books a week and give me a report.
The boys were shocked. Ben said he had never read a book in his entire life except when required to do so at school. They protested, they complained, they argued, but it was to no avail. Then Ben reflected, “She laid down the law. I didn’t like the rule, but her determination to see us improve changed the course of my life.”
And what a change it made. By the seventh grade he was at the top of his class. He went on to attend Yale University on a scholarship, then Johns Hopkins medical school, where at age 33 he became its chief of pediatric neurosurgery and a world-renowned surgeon. How was that possible? Largely because of a mother who, without many of the advantages of life, magnified her calling as a parent.

Have you ever had to ask yourself, “What’s more important, my friend or our friendship?” I faced that problem when a note fell out of my friend Kate’s* pencil pouch. I read it and realized that my friend was using drugs. I was devastated. I tried desperately to talk to her, but she ignored me.
Kate was my friend, and I realized that no matter what she said or did, her safety was most important to me. Every time I thought of it, I wanted to cry. I knew that Kate might never forgive me if I told on her, and she might tell my other friends that I wasn’t trustworthy. I asked my mom to help me, and we prayed, talked, and read the scriptures. I was looking for something to help me help my friend. We found a scripture that gave me courage to do whatever I had to do and to live with the consequences: “For I do know that whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions” (Alma 36:3). I knew that if I did what was right, God would support me.
I decided to tell the resource officer about Kate’s drug problem. Later that afternoon Kate was called to the office. When we changed classes, she was with her guidance counselor and a police officer. Kate caught my eye, and I could tell she knew I had told on her.
Several weeks went by before Kate would talk to me. I dreaded what she would say, but I was surprised that she wasn’t angry anymore. Our friendship had changed, but in some ways, it was better than before. She seemed to understand that I had done it for her sake. I never wanted to lose her friendship, but it was more important to love her enough to try to stop her from hurting herself and the people who love and care for her.
Yes, this experience was painful, but I learned that if we “trust in the Lord with all [our] heart; and lean not unto [our] own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5), anything is possible.

Matilda the Jungle Tracker carefully smeared mud over every inch of her face. Then she clung by her fingertips to the grass at the top of the bank by the creek. Of course, if I were a real jungle tracker, she admitted, there would be a hundred-foot drop here and alligators would be snapping at my heels. But then, she thought, scrabbling up onto the creek bank, in the jungle I would have a vine to swing on.
Matilda surveyed the area. The boys were just disappearing into the woods, and they hadn’t seen her.
“I think I’ll be Matilda the Spy,” she muttered, and she flitted from tree to tree, keeping the boys just within sight.
Suddenly the boys stopped, then turned around and listened. Matilda fell flat on her stomach and peered at them through the tall grass, while they scanned the terrain. A bug crawled over Matilda’s wrist, but she lay perfectly still and thought about something else so that her whereabouts wouldn’t be detected by the boys. When she looked up, the boys had disappeared again.
Matilda sprang softly to her feet like a panther. Her trained mind was alert and ready, and her reflexes were still sharp from her experiences as Matilda the Intrepid Explorer. As she darted across the clearing, she heard the boys shouting.
“Aha!” she whispered, shutting her eyes halfway as she did when she was Matilda the Super Sleuth. “They’re heading for the pond.”
Matilda knew a shortcut. When she had been Matilda the Mapmaker, she had mapped this entire section of country. She easily reached the pond before the boys did, then watched them through the cattails growing there. Just as I thought. They’re building a dam.
Matilda slipped behind a tree. She quietly aimed her camera at the boys and took a picture. She had bought the camera when she was Matilda the Newspaperwoman on her school newspaper.
Of course, she thought, if I were a real secret agent, I could blow up the dam. But they may be building it for the government as a special assignment. I’ll have to observe.
Matilda got down on her stomach again on the steamy jungle floor. Raucous cries of exotic jungle crows echoed in her ears. She narrowed her eyes to tiny slits—the boys were coming.
The boys sloshed into the water halfway up to their knees and started piling more mud onto the dam. They stuck a piece of cardboard into the mud for reinforcement, then built up both sides of it with more mud.
Matilda inched up onto her elbows and snapped another photo. Then she wriggled back until she was out of the boys’ sight and hearing. She hacked her way home through the jungle.
“Matilda!” her mother scolded. “What have you been doing? We’re going out to dinner, and you’re covered with mud. Get washed up now and put on a dress. Hurry up!”
Matilda didn’t argue because now she was Matilda the Diplomat. Besides, she liked bathing. It reminded her of when she had been Matilda the Long-distance Swimmer. She quickly bathed and put on a dress and combed her hair. Her hair looked quite nice because she had once been Matilda the Famous Hairdresser.
“That’s better,” her mother said. “You look nice and pretty, like a little lady. Come along now.”
Outside, the boys were passing by and they snickered at Matilda. She stared at them with her stern Matilda the Judge look. Then Matilda the Civil Engineer smiled at them and said, “You’re building your dam all wrong.”
They goggled at her unbelievingly.
“I have a piece of outdoor plywood,” she said, remembering the leftovers from when she was Matilda the Carpenter. “It’s much stronger than cardboard. I’ll give it to you.”
“But how … ?”
“Who told you … ?”
“Uh, thanks for the wood.”
But Matilda wasn’t listening. Her eyes were inscrutable, and her fingertips were pressed together. She was Matilda the Scientist, thinking about her next invention. It would be a quadruple-stage rocket that could orbit the earth, then reenter and leave the earth’s atmosphere at will at a billion miles an hour.

Ten years after Uncle Joe passed away, I was reading through my great-grandmother’s journal. The journal told of her husband leaving her with no money, $30 due in rent, and nine mouths to feed.
Then she wrote: “In Bisbee [Arizona] the people were so good to us. Even when we lived out of town south of Bisbee, they brought us home [from church]. Brother Joseph Kleinman, who lived in Mexico, brought us home many times, and not only that, but [his family] took us all to eat dinner with them. They served fried rabbit with all the trimmings, which we enjoyed very much. They were transferred to Nogales … and they let us have their rabbits, pretty white ones, and we sure had all we could eat then.”

Jackie Allen hurried along the steaming pavement. She paused just outside Mr. Martin’s pet shop and opened her purse. Inside were the ten dollars and fifteen cents she had so carefully saved, plus a crisp ten-dollar bill she had received that morning for her eleventh birthday. I should have enough, she decided.
Inside the shop Jackie walked past the birds and fish and kittens, to a box with three bundles of fur huddled together. Two of the puppies were black and brown, but the third was tawny brown and white. Leaning over the box Jackie offered a finger. The brown and white puppy left his play and wobbled over on unsteady legs. He seized the finger and looked up at Jackie with soft brown laughing eyes.
Jackie fell hopelessly in love. “Mom and Dad said I could have a dog,” she told Mr. Martin who had come to help her. “And I’d like this one,” she said, her finger still firmly gripped between the puppy’s needle-like teeth.
Mr. Martin disengaged the pup from Jackie’s finger and lifted him out of the box. He was so tiny he could sit in the palm of Jackie’s hand. “You’ve made a good choice, young lady. That’s a purebred shetland sheep dog. They’re smart, easy to train, and small enough to live in the city.”
Jackie stroked the silky head and caressed the floppy ears. “He’s exactly the sort of puppy I’ve been hoping for. How much?”
“Sixty-five dollars.”
Jackie swallowed hard, numb with disappointment. He might as well have said two hundred dollars. It had taken her all last winter, running errands and babysitting, to save ten dollars. It’ll take years to save that much, she thought dejectedly. With tears in her eyes she handed the puppy back and left the store.
“You’ll just have to choose a less expensive dog,” her mother said later when Jackie told her about the shelty pup. “There are lots of mongrels for ten or fifteen dollars, and they often make the best pets.”
But Jackie didn’t want another pup; she wanted the shelty. That night she dreamed about him, and the next day hurried back to the pet shop to visit him. If only I were old enough to get a summer job, she wished fervently as she stood gazing into the puppy box. But she couldn’t get a job until she was at least fifteen, and that was four years away.
As she left the shop Mr. Martin was putting a sign in the window. Idly Jackie read it: WANTED! RELIABLE BOY TO FEED PETS AND CLEAN CAGES DURING SUMMER. Why couldn’t I have been born a boy! Jackie brooded, deliberately dragging her feet as she slowly trudged down the sidewalk.
But before she had reached the end of the first block, Jackie paused a moment then hurried back the way she had come. What if I’m already too late! she worried.
Mr. Martin was busy arranging dog collars and leashes on a rack at the front of the store. Timidly Jackie approached. “Have you hired a boy yet, Mr. Martin, for that job?”
Mr. Martin laughed. “I only put the sign in the window five minutes ago.”
Jackie took a deep breath. “Could it possibly be a girl?”
The store owner continued arranging the leashes and collars. “I guess so. Have you an older sister who’s looking for a job?”
“No, sir,” Jackie gulped. “I am.”
Mr. Martin smiled at her, then picked up another handful of collars. “In three or four more years you’ll be just perfect,” he said kindly. “But I’m afraid I’d be in trouble with the authorities if I hired anyone your age.”
Jackie could feel the tears starting to gather behind her eyelids. She didn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Martin. She swallowed hard. “Until you hire a boy, could I just come and help? Not for any pay but just to look after the puppies until they’re sold?”
For one dreadful moment Jackie thought that Mr. Martin was going to refuse. But then he smiled. “Let’s try it tomorrow and see how we get along.”
Next morning promptly at nine Jackie arrived at the pet shop.
“The first thing is to feed and water the animals,” Mr. Martin directed. He gave her a list of exactly what each pet should receive. Jackie followed the directions carefully.
When she had finished Mr. Martin showed her how to clean the bird cages, and then how to change the water in the fish tanks. “Now how about taking these puppies outside for some exercise,” he suggested.
Jackie scooped up the wriggling puppies and hurried out to the small enclosed yard behind the store. As she played in the sunshine she pretended the little shelty was hers.
“You’ve been a big help, young lady,” Mr. Martin said as she was getting ready to leave. “Will you come tomorrow?”
“I’ll come every day until you hire someone,” Jackie replied eagerly.
Next morning as Jackie hurried the three blocks from her house to the store she worried that Mr. Martin would have hired someone and that the sign would be gone from the window. But it was still there! And it was there the following morning too. But on the fourth morning, it was gone.
Jackie felt sick as she opened the door and went to find Mr. Martin. “Have you hired a boy?” She struggled to keep her voice level. “Is that why the sign is gone?”
Mr. Martin straightened up from unpacking boxes of birdseed. “The job is filled, that’s why the sign is down.”
Jackie felt as though the floor were falling away beneath her feet. She turned back toward the door. “Then, I—I guess you won’t want me anymore—” she stammered.
“The job is filled by the best summer helper I’ve ever had,” Mr. Martin interrupted, smiling.
Jackie couldn’t believe her ears. She turned to face him again. “You mean? …”
Mr. Martin’s eyes were twinkling. “I mean, I’d like you to continue to work for me during the summer. And in return, since I can’t pay you, I’ll make you a present of that little shelty you’re so attached to.”
“Oh, Mr. Martin!” Jackie could scarcely breathe. She started to run toward the puppy box.
“I could never sell him to anyone else anyway,” Mr. Martin called after her. “He’s much too fond of you.”
But Jackie wasn’t listening. She was on her knees hugging the wriggling puppy, explaining that he was finally hers, while the pup was giving his full attention to playfully biting her ear.

One priesthood bearer remembered as a young boy a meeting at his home in which Eliza R. Snow, Zina D. Young, Clara Kimball, and other leaders of the Relief Society were present. While he was playing on the floor, he heard Sister Snow, by the gift of tongues, and Zina D. Young, by interpretation, promise that he should grow to manhood and become an apostle of the Lord. The man recalling the incident was President Heber J. Grant.

Donna’s red curls bounced as she skipped home from school. Mrs. Richards had just read the class a story about pirates who buried chests full of treasure. Some of the buried treasures had never been found, and Donna was thinking how wonderful it would be to discover one of them. Her family was going to Grandma’s house for dinner that night, and she could hardly wait to tell Grandma the story. She often talked about the olden days; now it would be Donna’s turn.
When they arrived at Grandma’s house, Donna ran straight to the kitchen. “Grandma! Grandma!” she squealed. “We learned about buried treasure today. My teacher says there are still treasures hidden away. Maybe when I get older, I can find one.”
Grandma smiled. “What kind of treasure would you like to find?”
Donna thought for a minute. “Gold and diamonds.”
Grandma nodded with a twinkle in her eye. “That certainly would be wonderful. Maybe after dinner we could pretend to be pirates and look for buried treasure right here.”
Donna clapped her hands. “Oh, Grandma, could we? I’ll help you clean up after dinner.”
When the dishes were washed and put away, Grandma took Donna aside and whispered in her ear. “When I was a little girl, I, too, dreamed of finding a treasure. I used to search in the attic. Shall we see if there’s any treasure up there?”
Donna could hardly control her excitement. “Yes! Yes!”
They had to climb some narrow steps to get into the dark attic. Donna held Grandma’s hand very tightly. She was a little afraid, but she didn’t want Grandma to know. When they reached the top of the stairs and Grandma turned on the light, Donna was disappointed. All she saw were some dusty boxes, a few cobwebs, and a big trunk that didn’t look anything like a pirate chest. How could they ever find treasure in this junk?
Donna carefully opened one of the boxes. Inside were some old toys. She took out a doll with bright blue eyes and a pink dress. “Who did this belong to?” she asked, admiring the doll.
“Your mother. It was her favorite, and she used to play with it every day. She called it Donna, and she always said that when she had a little girl, she would name her Donna, too.”
Donna smiled, trying to imagine her mom playing with the doll. It made her happy to know that her mom had always wanted a little girl.
Grandma had opened another box and was looking at a large picture in a beautiful wood frame. Standing in the picture was a red-haired girl about Donna’s age. Donna examined the picture carefully. She had seen this girl before, but where?
“Who is she?” Donna asked.
“Well, goodness,” said Grandma, “that picture does look familiar.” She searched and found a dusty mirror, cleaned it off, and handed it to Donna. “Look,” she said, “and tell me what you see.”
As Donna looked in the mirror, her eyes got bigger. They were the same big brown eyes she had seen in the picture, under the same red curls. The two faces were the same!
“That’s me in the picture, Grandma! Why can’t I remember when it was taken?”
Grandma laughed. “Because that isn’t you in the picture, dear. It’s your mother. We had that picture taken when she was just about your age.”
Donna was amazed. She had had no idea that she looked so much like her mom.
Grandma’s eyes were gleaming as she opened the big trunk. “Donna,” she said, “come see what I’ve found!” On top of the pile was the dress Donna’s mom had worn in the picture. It was white with purple flowers and white ruffles.
“Can I try it on, Grandma?” Donna pleaded. “I’ll be very careful; I promise.” After Grandma had helped her put on the dress, Donna looked in the mirror again and giggled. Now she looked exactly like Mom. They were finding some wonderful treasures, even though not of diamonds or gold.
Grandma reached into the trunk again and pulled out another picture. This time it was a small picture of a beautiful building.
“I know what that is!” Donna exclaimed. “It’s the Salt Lake Temple.”
“Yes,” Grandma said. “This picture is very special to me. When I was a little girl, my Primary teacher gave one to each of us after a lesson about the temple. She told us how wonderful it was to go to the temple and be sealed together as a family.
“She said that we could also do work for people who had died without a chance to hear about the gospel. Then she explained that in order to enter the temple, we had to go to church, pay our tithing, obey the Word of Wisdom, and keep the other commandments.
“I was so proud of my beautiful picture that I took it home and hung it right above my bed. Every night before I said my prayers, I looked at the picture, then asked Heavenly Father to help me prepare to go there. I wanted to go to the temple more than anything else. I wanted to help people like my great-grandmother, who didn’t know about the gospel. And I wanted to be married there to a good man.
“The day I went to the temple with your grandpa to be married for eternity was the most beautiful day of my life. When I see our family together, it makes me happy that we have made the right choices. We still need to keep working to be good, but it’s all worth it, knowing that we can be together forever.”
Donna smiled. “I guess we really did find a treasure today.”
Grandma hugged her. “Donna, I want you to have this picture of the temple to help you remember the treasures you will find there.”
Donna gave Grandma a big kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Grandma. You’re the best treasure finder in the whole world!”

1. Bobby knocked on his sister Alicia’s door. “Will you help me button my white shirt? I want to look just like the bishop.” Alicia smiled as she helped him. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
2. Bobby went to his brother Chris. “Will you help me tie my tie? I want to look just like the bishop.” Chris tied Bobby’s tie and said, “You will look just like the bishop.”
3. Bobby saw his sister Sarah fixing Laura’s hair. “Will you help me tie my brown shoes?” Bobby asked. “I want to look just like the bishop.” Sarah tied his shoes. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
4. “Don’t forget your suit coat,” Laura said. She helped him put his arms in the sleeves of the coat. “You will look just like the bishop.”
5. Bobby saw Mom looking in the mirror. “Mom, will you comb my hair? I want to look just like the bishop.” Mom sprayed Bobby’s hair with water and combed it. “You will look just like the bishop.”
6. Bobby stood at the front door. “Are we ready to go?” Bobby asked. “I want to be on time, just like the bishop.” “Don’t forget your scriptures,” Dad said. “You will need them to look like the bishop.”
7. Bobby picked up his scriptures. “Am I ready?” he asked. “You look just like the bishop,” Dad said.
8. At church, Bobby sat reverently as he waited for sacrament meeting to start. Then he saw a hand stretched out in front of him. It was the bishop! The bishop shook Bobby’s hand. “Is that you, Bobby?” the bishop asked. “I thought it was me!”

Wendy M. Mitosinka of the Bradshaw Ward, Prescott Arizona Stake, remembers one such lesson from her childhood: “My mother played our piano, and we sang and sang. When we sang ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd,’ I felt the Spirit strongly, and tears came to my eyes. The melody stayed with me, and later I learned to play it on my guitar. Today when things get rough, the hymns I learned as a child bring me peace and happiness.”

When John Rainer was a young boy in Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, one of his favorite parts of the day was dusk. Like most young Indian children, John would run and play and do chores all day long, with an exuberance typical of those who grow up with space to roam and air to breathe. But at the end of the day, when golden fire filled the horizon, John would pause and listen. He would always hear the song of the flute.
“It was a peaceful, relaxed melody,” John recalls. “The old man would sit near the river half a mile from town and play his tunes. He believed the music would travel with the water. You couldn’t see him, but you could always hear his tunes.” It was a time for rest from the day’s labor, a time of repose and contemplation, a time during which a love for music was born in John’s heart.
John grew up and moved to the city. He lived in a comfortable brick home in a suburb of Orem, Utah, with his wife and children. And every evening, just at dusk, he would take his flute—one he made himself—and play a melody—one he wrote himself—to his family. His neighbors didn’t always see John, but they could usually hear his songs. When they did, the whole world seemed to pause, breathe deeply, then sigh in contentment.
“Playing the flute is my way of sharing something my ancestors shared with me,” John said.