Gospel Story Finder

Carlos rubbed his hand along his head, feeling his bare scalp. He sighed.
His hair had been falling out for a while now. It was a side effect of the cancer treatments he was having. Carlos had decided to shave the rest of it off because he didn’t like how patchy his hair looked. He used to have shiny dark hair. Now all he had was a shiny scalp.
“Carlos? Are you ready for church? It’s time to go,” Mom called.
“Coming,” Carlos called back. He straightened his favorite tie and grabbed his scriptures. Then he ran out to the car.
This would be his first Sunday passing the sacrament without any hair. He was going to be the only bald deacon. Was everyone going to stare at him?
Carlos didn’t say anything for the whole drive to church. He listened to his siblings and parents talk. His stomach was doing flips, and his hands were sweaty. The closer they got to church, the jumpier his stomach got.
The car pulled into the church parking lot. Everyone unbuckled their seatbelts. Everyone except Carlos. Part of him wanted to just sit in the car and never come out.
Mom noticed he wasn’t moving. “What’s wrong, Carlos?”
“I’m nervous about passing the sacrament. I don’t want everyone to stare at me,” Carlos said.
Mom turned around to look at Carlos. “Would you like to say a prayer before we go in?”
“Yeah,” Carlos said. Everyone folded their arms and closed their eyes while Carlos said a prayer. He thanked Heavenly Father that he was able to pass the sacrament. Then he asked for help to not worry about other people staring at him. When he opened his eyes, he felt peaceful and ready.
“That was a beautiful prayer. I know Heavenly Father will help you,” Mom said.
Carlos smiled. He remembered the end of the sacrament prayer, “that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:77). Helping others have the Holy Ghost with them was one of Carlos’s favorite parts of passing the sacrament. Now he felt warm and confident. He was ready.
Carlos walked into the chapel. He looked for his friends in the deacons quorum in the pews in front of the sacrament table. He couldn’t see them. Instead, he saw seven bald heads. Where were all of his friends from deacons quorum?
He walked up to the pews and realized that those seven bald heads belonged to his friends!
The deacons quorum president, Samuel, was smiling at Carlos. “We had the idea to shave our heads. We didn’t want you to feel alone.”
Carlos hardly knew what to say. He thanked his friends and prayed silently to Heavenly Father. He thanked Him for blessing him with such good friends.
Carlos stood tall as he passed the sacrament. He wasn’t alone at all! He had good friends, and he had the Holy Ghost with him.

Bishop Richard C. Edgley, when he was a General Authority and in the Presiding Bishopric, told this story of learning a valuable lesson on integrity: “After my freshman year of college, I spent the summer working at the newly opened Jackson Lake Lodge, located in Moran, Wyoming.” He explains that after the summer he returned home and was greeted by his father in the driveway. He then said,

After a hug and a few pleasantries, he looked into the backseat of [my] car and saw three Jackson Lake Lodge towels—the kind you cannot buy. With a disappointed look he merely said, ‘I expected more of you.’ I hadn’t thought that what I had done was all that wrong. To me these towels were but a symbol of a full summer’s work at a luxury hotel, a rite of passage. Nevertheless, by taking them I felt I had lost the trust and confidence of my father, and I was devastated.

The following weekend I . . . began the 370-mile round trip back to Jackson Lake Lodge to return three towels. My father never asked why I was returning to the lodge, and I never explained. It just didn’t need to be said. This was an expensive and painful lesson on honesty that has stayed with me throughout my life.

Bishop Edgley, then commented, “Sadly, some of the greatest missing values in today’s world are honesty and integrity.”

When I was a young missionary serving in Hong Kong, there was a part of the city that had many apartment buildings with security guards. It was very difficult to get permission from the guards to go inside those buildings to tract. We often tried but usually failed.
But one afternoon, my companion and I felt we should go to that part of the city. During the bus trip there, we saw an older woman pushing a wooden cart up a steep hill. She seemed heavy laden, so we determined to help her. We got off at the next stop and ran back to help the woman. Her load was so heavy that it took two young missionaries 15 minutes to push it to the top of the hill.
We didn’t realize that anyone had seen us helping the woman. But some of the security guards must have been watching, because later that day, when we walked into their buildings, they simply let us pass. That afternoon we had much success—we found three new investigators, and one of them was later baptized.
Through following the Lord’s example of obedience and charity, we were greatly blessed. I’m so grateful for a perfect example to follow.

Shannon, a young mother, did not expect that she would teach her children the power of prayer when they piled into their van to drive to their home just 40 minutes away. There was no storm when they left their grandmother’s home, but as they began to drive through the canyon, the light snow turned into a blizzard. The van began sliding on the surface of the road. Soon visibility was near zero. The two youngest children could sense the stress of the situation and began to cry. Shannon said to the older children, Heidi and Thomas, ages 8 and 6, “You need to pray. We need Heavenly Father’s help to get home safely. Pray that we will not get stuck and that we will not slide off the road.” Her hands shook as she steered the car, yet she could hear the whisper of little prayers repeatedly coming from the backseat: “Heavenly Father, please help us get home safely; please help us so we will not slide off the road.”
In time the prayers calmed the two little ones, and they stopped their crying just as they learned that a road closure prevented them from driving any farther. Cautiously, they turned around and found a motel for the night. Once in the motel, they knelt down and thanked Heavenly Father for their safety. That night a mother taught her children the power of holding true to prayer.

To pay my way through school and help my father support the family, I got two part-time jobs when I was 14 years old. To get to my morning job on time, I got on the bus at 6:30 A.M. In the mornings, I worked as an office boy, running errands up and down the stairs to offices in a 15-story building. In the afternoons, I made deliveries all over the city. As soon as my afternoon job was over, I went straight to school. My classes were from 7:00 to 11:00 at night. I didn’t get home until around midnight. I studied on the bus and on Saturdays. I had to give up many other activities. Later I also worked hard to attend the university.
Because I was willing to work hard, I did very well in school and later I had very good jobs. I was the director of a big company for the whole country of Brazil. I could do these things because of the sacrifices I made as a boy.

Craig Symes was just another locker-room attendant at the health spa I went to when my wife Sue and I lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. He looked like your average 16-year-old—average height, average brown hair. He had the typical teenager’s souped-up car and a nice girlfriend. But while he seemed like an average teenager in many respects, as I got to know him, I found that he was anything but average. And my relationship with him didn’t turn out to be quite what I expected.

There was something about Craig’s eyes and his smile that attracted people. I noticed how friendly and polite he was to everyone and that he never cursed. He always seemed to go out of his way to help people. I was attracted by his genuineness. We talked in the locker room about cars, his girlfriend, sports, our families, and religion. Here was an area where Craig wasn’t average. He wasn’t afraid to talk about religion as many people are.

One day we were discussing the importance of families, and I told him about the death of my father when I was 21. Craig told me a little about eternal life, which made sense to me because I had always hoped to be able to see my father again. I was surprised by Craig’s knowledge of religion and his willingness to talk about it.

I wanted my wife to get to know Craig, so I invited him to dinner. “If I go to your house for dinner will you come to church with me?” he asked. My wife and I were devout members of another faith, but I thought I’d accept his friendly gesture.

Two weeks later on a rainy Sunday morning, I attended church with Craig. I didn’t know anything about the LDS church at that time. Craig introduced me to a lot of “brothers” and to two missionaries who sat next to me during the meeting. The friendliness and warmth of those at the meeting made me feel comfortable. Many introduced themselves and welcomed me there. The lesson was on eternal life. I was impressed that the lesson was taught on a basic principle that I could follow.

Afterward we went to my house and had breakfast with Sue. We visited awhile and then Craig left. The rest of the day was a pretty average Sunday—the last one we’d have for quite a while. That evening the missionaries called and wanted to know when they could come by and share a special message about the Church with Sue and me. I asked them to come by on Tuesday evening.

When I hung up, Sue wanted to know what was going on. I told her that the missionaries were going to come visit us, and she was not very excited. But Tuesday, when she answered the door and let Elders Zaugg and Lewis in, along with Craig and his friend Steve, a good feeling came over her and she wanted to listen to what they had to say.

The missionaries taught us about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. We asked so many questions that the first discussion lasted four hours. We were interested in hearing more and set a date for another discussion. Craig and his friend Steve always came with the missionaries and joined in our discussions.

I still wanted to get to know Craig better, so a few days later as I was getting ready to leave the spa, I asked him to play tennis with me one morning. He said he couldn’t play in the mornings because he had seminary meetings at 5 A.M. I asked him what seminary was and he explained. I said, “Oh, you have to go.” He said, “No, I want to go.”

I wanted to know what made a class so interesting that a 16-year-old would get up at 4:30 in the morning to get there on time. It intrigued me that Craig would make such an effort to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ. So I started going to seminary with him.

The seminary teacher wasn’t afraid to let a 28-year-old man get involved with the class right from the beginning. The first day I joined in the scripture chase, although I didn’t have any idea where the book of Alma was. By my second visit I knew most of the students by name. I started attending seminary with Craig every day. More than just learning, I was receiving of their great spirit. I couldn’t believe that youth were so excited about church. I caught their enthusiasm.

Sue and I continued our discussions with the missionaries, and six weeks later we decided to be baptized. Our families were against the decision. We received a letter from my brother trying to dissuade us. The local officials of the church we had attended called us, and my mother also called 15 minutes before we left for our baptism. But we were committed to our decision. We knew it was the right thing for us to do. Craig baptized us.

I am grateful that a 16-year-old member of the Church caught the vision of “every member a missionary.” Craig brought happiness and joy into our lives, mostly by setting a proper example among both his friends and those that came in contact with him. He wasn’t afraid to let others know that he is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. He wasn’t afraid to be more than average and just a little out of the ordinary.

Richard Moore and the other young colonists strained to lift the rough split-pine boards into place so the men could hammer them together for tables and benches. The long tables were for the coming feast. The women and girls had baked and cooked enough food for the whole colony of settlers and the Indians who had been invited.
Richard lived with the Brewster family. They were kind and treated him like one of their own boys, but he missed his mother and father, two sisters, and baby brother who, with many others, had died during their first, long, cold winter in Cape Cod.
It seemed a long time ago that they had come from England to America on the good ship Mayflower. In England, everyone was expected to go to the same church, and Richard’s father didn’t think this was right. It was he who first decided to bring his family to a new land where they could worship as they wished. Other families believed as Richard’s father did, and they all sailed from England together. Richard’s job now was to help carry out the plans of the group for a life of freedom.
The harvest was good after a long winter. And everyone worked hard to gather the food into a storehouse to feed the colony during its second winter at Cape Cod. Successful hunting added wild turkeys, ducks, and deer to the store of food.
Governor Bradford declared a feast day to celebrate the good harvest and invited the Indians who had helped them.
Richard’s heart beat faster when he thought of the Indians. Even though some of them appeared to be friendly, there were stories about how some had physically abused settlers in other colonies and had burned their houses. But Chief Samoset was their friend. And it was Squanto who had shown them how to plant Indian corn and how to catch fish. These two Indians spoke English that they had learned from English fishermen and sea captains who had sailed into that part of America. Squanto had actually lived in London for a time, but returned to America in 1619.
“They have invited Chief Massasoit and some of the other Indians to the feast,” said Mister Brewster at breakfast.
I hope there won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Brewster worried. We’ve had enough already.
The children remained silent, but they looked at each other across the table and hoped that this would be a peaceful celebration. Governor Bradford had told the colonists that to live peaceably in the new land, they must make friends with the Indians who had taught them so much about growing their food.
It was late afternoon now and the aromas of roasting turkey and venison, corn bread, and wild-berry pies filled the air. Richard could hardly wait to eat. Then, suddenly, the Indians came out of the thick forest into the clearing. Their deerskin moccasins made no noise at all.
Richard’s heart was beating so fast he could hardly breathe. For a moment he even forgot about the waiting feast.
Governor Bradford, Captain Standish, Master Winslow, and Mister Brewster went to meet the Indians. Richard saw some boys with the Indian men. The squaws had been left at home with the girls and babies. The governor and Chief Massasoit solemnly shook hands. There was quite a large group of Indians, and Richard hoped there were enough places at the long tables for everyone.
He decided he would do as Governor Bradford had done, and, besides, he had a strong desire to know them better. Walking forward, he held out his hand to a young Indian boy. The boy took it and they shook hands.
Richard smiled and to his surprise the boy smiled back. He wished that the boy could speak English or that he could speak the Indian language.
Richard fingered the knife he kept in his pocket. It had a pearl handle and was one of the few treasures he had brought from England. “Here,” he said on an impulse, handing it to the Indian boy. “I want you to be my friend.”
The Indian boy ran his fingers over it carefully and handed it back. “It’s for you,” said Richard. He pressed the knife to his chest and then held it out again.
This time the boy took it and held it against his own chest.
Richard smiled, hoping the Indian boy would understand his desire to be friends. The boy did understand this time that the knife was his to keep—a gift from the young settler. He smiled widely and his brown fingers tightened around the pearl handle.
It was time to eat and everyone sat down to trenchers heaped high with roast turkey, venison, vegetables, and corn bread. Squanto and Samoset acted as interpreters so their Indian friends would know what was being said.
Governor Bradford bowed his head and in a commanding voice, so everyone could hear, thanked God for the harvest and for their friends.
After they had eaten, the young Indian boy pulled at Richard’s sleeve and motioned for him to follow. He led him to the edge of the forest and stripped a slim branch from a tree. He motioned for Richard to sit on the ground.
Richard wondered what the boy was going to do when he opened the knife and began to whittle on the green shoot—long, clean strokes that removed the bark and exposed the smooth white wood underneath. Richard watched intently as the shoot began to change form. “It’s an arrow!” he exclaimed.
The Indian boy cut slits in the end and slipped turkey feathers into them. And the point was as sharp as a piece of wood could be. Then smiling broadly, the boy pressed the arrow to his heart and handed it to Richard. He said something that Richard didn’t understand, but the meaning was clear.
Richard took the arrow and pressed it to his heart. “Thank you,” he said.
As they walked back to the settlement, Richard put his arm around the boy’s waist and felt the Indian boy’s arm around his own. There was no longer any fear of these people with the copper-colored skin and straight black hair. In the months to come, they would learn to trust and understand one another. When the feast was over, Richard was sure his new friend would return.
It was the beginning of a long friendship between the colonists and Chief Massasoit’s tribe.

I can think back to one Christmas in which our family budget was extremely tight. We were supporting one of my brothers on his mission to Chicago, and that required us to skimp on nonessential items. The only gift-wrapped item I got that year was a fleece blanket. Nothing extravagant, just a plain blanket. I tried to talk it up to my friends at school and make it seem like it was a really great gift, but there was no use. It couldn’t compare to a video game console.
Since then, that blanket has come to symbolize much more to me. That gift was one of warmth. Yes, it warmed me on those few cold Arizona nights, but it also warmed me with love. My parents gave me more: they gave me fun family traditions, a firm sense of belonging, and a knowledge that true gifts are ones of service, love, and sacrifice. My parents sacrificed their money for my brother’s mission, but they never sacrificed their love for me, our family, and everyone around them as they served that year.
I wish I could go back to the school cafeteria table when my friends asked, “What did you get for Christmas?” I wish I could have answered them proudly: “I got a blanket, a blanket that warms me with the true love of the most wonderful time of year.”

One hundred and twenty-six years later a group of young Latter-day Saints came toiling up the same hill on a zigzag path, raising no dust because the earth was hard-packed. The pastoral beauty of the hill was sadly diminished by urban encroachment, but the view from the top was much the same as when Elder Pratt described in his journal “farms, orchards, vineyards, town, streets, river, and water ditches, fertile as Eden and stretching away till lost in the dim distance; or bounded by lofty hills and mountain chains, whose lower swells are checkered with fences and houses, and covered with flocks and herds, while their bosoms are rugged with rocky precipices, and checkered by dark ravines, or mantled with clouds; while the rugged summits repose in solemn grandeur in the bosom of the clear blue sky.”

The young members from Quillota found a patch of grass and flowers recalling the hill’s original charm and sat down to share their testimonies.

“The gospel is the most important thing ever to come to Chile,” 15-year-old Roberto said, looking out toward the valley-rimming hills and the pale afternoon moon. “It is the most important influence in my life. It is the true word of God and the only thing on earth that will lead to true happiness. Every young person in the world can know that the gospel is true and that the Father and Jesus Christ live.”

Seventeen-year-old Oscar agreed. “I know that if we continue to progress we can be with our Heavenly Father again. I know that by working hard here in our beautiful Quillota and all of Chile we can achieve anything we truly have faith that we can.”

A year earlier a Missouri sheriff by the name of Reynolds had come into the state of Illinois, secured a writ of extradition, and, with a Constable Wilson, from Carthage, had found that the Prophet was visiting his wife’s relatives some twenty miles out of Nauvoo. They went to that place. They pretended they were missionaries and called him out of the house. They seized him, abused him, beat him with their pistol butts until he was black and blue. They refused to let his wife see him. They put him on a horse and rushed him toward the Missouri border to get him out of the state of Illinois. Some of his friends intercepted them by the way and got a writ from a local judge accusing them of abusing their prisoner. Further, the Nauvoo Legion was raised in Nauvoo and came out to the rescue. We have a strange procession: the Prophet a prisoner of the sheriff, the sheriff a prisoner of a local sheriff. They go into Nauvoo, where the Prophet is tried and released.

Then comes an unusual act. He invited Sheriffs Reynolds and Wilson to his home. He had his wife, Emma, and himself serve them with the finest that could be provided. He treated them with every kindness and courtesy, until one who was there on that occasion said, “His treatment of these men, who had been so brutal to him, would have melted the heart of an archcriminal.”

One Saturday morning, Bob and Paula Kraemer of Chandler, Arizona, were sitting outside in the warm sunshine watching their sons play in the backyard. Paula, who had recently returned to activity in the Church, pulled out her Book of Mormon and began reading. Bob, who is not a member of the Church, asked Paula what she was reading.
“The Book of Mormon,” Paula answered.
“Why don’t you read it to me?” Bob asked nonchalantly.
Paula was surprised at Bob’s request. During thirteen years of marriage, she couldn’t ever remember reading a book out loud to her husband. With hesitancy in her voice and a prayer in her heart, Paula began reading—“I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. …” She read for two hours that day and has continued, on occasion, to read the Book of Mormon to Bob.
“Something important happened that morning,” says Paula. “Bob and I began to communicate about the Church. With this newfound open dialogue, Bob began to see what a difference the Church made in my life. And I learned to be grateful for his support instead of being critical of him. I recently went through the Arizona Temple and received my endowment, and Bob supported me 100 percent.
“Now as I read the Book of Mormon, I realize that this book is far more than just words on a page; its spirit has worked miracles in my life just by reading its message to someone I love.”

I am a professional ballet teacher. I teach talented young dancers in my studio. Before I was a ballet teacher, I was a professional dancer. I even danced for presidents and leaders from all over the world.
I love helping my students improve their ballet skills. I enjoy taking them to the ballet to watch others perform. I love to choreograph dances. I also like traveling around the country to teach.
First I had to learn how to dance. I practiced many hours a day. I learned the basic techniques and the history of ballet. I also learned the right posture and positions for each dance step. Soon I started helping my teachers. Then I became a teacher myself. Sometimes I even let my students make mistakes so they can learn from them.
Teaching ballet is the best job in the world. I use the talents Heavenly Father has given me to help other dancers discover their gifts. Then I encourage my students to share their talents with others. Heavenly Father wants us to find our talents, use them, and share them with as many people as we can.

When my children were small, they liked to play games after family home evening. One of their favorites, “Trunky the Elephant,” was named after a song our daughter, Jocelyn, learned in school. After we all sang the song, I would be Trunky and give the children rides on my back. First, my two-year-old son, Jorge; then, my four-year-old daughter, Jocelyn; and finally my wife, Elizabeth, would climb on. With all three on my back, I would take them on a ride around the living room. We had a lot of fun.
Years later, my grown children were both waiting for their mission calls. During one family home evening, they remembered “Trunky the Elephant.” We sang the song together; then, after a hiatus of many years, I again became the elephant. First my son, then my daughter, and finally their mother climbed on my back. I ended up flat on the floor, and we all ended up laughing.
The memory of that moment makes us grateful that the prophets have taught us about family home evening. We learned that no matter how simple our family home evenings may be, the most important thing is that we have happy times with our families, times that strengthen our eternal ties.
Víctor G. Chauca Rivera

Just two weeks into the new school year, my best friend, Scott, and I were driving home discussing our plans for later that evening. As we pulled into the driveway, I saw my dad working on the barbecue. As I stepped out of the car, I told Scott I would be ready for him to pick me up later. My dad, overhearing the conversation, told me that he was having students from his college ward over that evening for a ward social. “I could use your help getting things ready,” he said. I turned to Scott and told him that our plans would have to be postponed.
As Scott left, my dad asked me to take the grill’s propane tank to the store and fill it. After quickly changing my clothes, I loaded the tank into our truck and drove toward the store.
Between my home and the store there is an elementary school. I was well aware of the school as I had gone in that direction many times. But this time I was in a hurry and did not pay attention to the school zone speed limit. I knew school had been out for about an hour, so I ignored it.
After filling the tank, I headed home. As I approached the school, I had the feeling I should slow down. I didn’t heed the prompting and continued on. As I came closer to the school, I saw Bobby Logan,* a young boy from my ward, run onto the road.
He was on his way to the school to play with his sister and some of his friends. As Bobby came to the road, he stopped and looked at me. I started to slow down, again feeling the prompting. As I approached Bobby, he looked directly at me. We had eye contact for a second, and I had the thought that he was going to run in front of me. At that very moment, he did.
I was too close to miss him, and although I hit the brakes, it was too late. Realizing what had just happened, I quickly got out of the truck and ran to Bobby, who was lying on the ground. I ran to his house and told his mother to call an ambulance. Then I went back to Bobby’s side. I offered a silent prayer and pleaded for his life as I knelt beside him.
Bobby’s mother arrived and immediately checked for a pulse. I was crying hysterically and repeatedly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him.” Sister Logan looked at me and told me that she forgave me.
The ambulance arrived and took Bobby to the hospital, but he died about 30 minutes later. My bishop came to our home with the tragic news of his death. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know what to do or say. I was devastated.
A few days later I saw the Logans. As we visited, Sister Logan told me that the family felt strongly that Bobby was happy. She told me they held no harsh feelings toward me. As I heard these things, I felt the Spirit testifying to me that what she said was true, and their sincerity was very real.
During the next few days I struggled with the realization that I had taken another person’s life. As I battled with my emotions, I withdrew more and more. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything.
One day my mom and sister persuaded me to go with them. They were conversing in the front seat of our car, and I was lying on the back seat, pondering the question why and wondering how I could ever move on from that point in my life. Again I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father for the strength to overcome this obstacle. In the midst of my crying and praying, I suddenly felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy and peace. It was at that moment that I knew Bobby was fine and that he was happy. I also realized how much love my Heavenly Father has for me. I could truly feel His arms of love and understanding around me.
Since that day I began healing from my emotional pain. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could accept myself again, but I knew I was on the right track. Because of this experience, I have become even more grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine trying to endure this without the love of my family, the Logans, and countless friends who rallied around me. I saw the gospel in action. I saw my Savior’s healing hands work through those I love. I also know the Spirit is one of the most precious gifts we have.
The Logans are my heroes because they epitomized Jesus Christ from the very beginning of this ordeal. They forgave. For that I am eternally grateful. I know that I will see Bobby again and that hopefully then his family and mine will rest together in the heavens.

Before I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, I had lived in fourteen different homes! My father was a homebuilder, and every home he built was for sale—including the ones we lived in. Because we moved so often, we did not collect a lot of possessions. Every home I lived in was full of the spirit of love, friendship, humor, fun, and laughter. These priceless things always moved with us. The things we didn’t take with us were given to Deseret Industries.
A few things, however, were never discarded, including books, scriptures, family histories and photos, and music. Those material items were handled with care every time we moved, and I learned to value deeply what they stood for. My father and mother carefully wrapped and boxed these items, and I sensed even as a very young child that they were extremely important. As I grew older, this sense developed into a great love for the scriptures and also for family history and for our ancestors who sacrificed so much for us.
These moving adventures shaped me into the person I am today. I am not attached to material possessions. Instead, I place the highest value on relationships with people, including written records of these relationships, such as the ones you find in the scriptures or in family histories. I love to meet new people and look forward to getting to know others and making new friends.

I had a somewhat similar experience not long after that visit to the cathedral. While sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office, I picked up a copy of a Reader’s Digest, only to discover an insert on how to communicate more effectively with family members. It was prepared by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was aware that the Church had begun placing these brief advertisements in the Digest but had never taken the time to do more than peruse them. I read this particular one through. It was nice, had some good pointers on communication, and seemed to be the kind of thing that would leave a positive impression with most readers. My next thought was rather judgmental: “This is quaint, but it really isn’t going to bring many people into the Church. Why waste the Church’s money on such fluff?”

Then there came a very simple but effective chastisement to my narrow mind. It occurred to me that there just might be someone, somewhere, who would be prompted, after reading the insert, to inquire after the Church and its teachings. More important, maybe someone would be helped by the piece. Maybe some father or mother, some son or daughter, would take counsel and take heart from what was written. Oh, they may not join the Church, but what if the insert actually helped their family, resulted in greater harmony, moved their home a little closer to heaven? Wouldn’t that make it all worth it? I sensed a broadening of my views through that experience and again, an awareness that the God and Father of us all will give unto us line upon line, precept upon precept, according to our ability and willingness to receive.

Will recognized that just wanting to serve a mission wasn’t enough. He knew it was important to prepare. One thing he did was go to teaching appointments with the full-time missionaries. “When the missionaries asked me to respond to questions, words seemed to come that I didn’t know could help the investigator understand a bit more,” he says. “And a few of the investigators they were teaching—whom I helped teach—have recently been baptized. It’s been a blessing for me to see that.”

I was called to serve as a counselor in the Relief Society in my family’s new ward. During our presidency meetings, we would go over a list of names of Relief Society sisters in our ward and consider how to help them and their families.
I was drawn to a sister in the ward named Mirta. She had been a member of the Church for many years, but for some reason, Mirta had not been attending for several years.
I noticed that her husband was the elders quorum president but that their children, who were members, did not attend church either. Each Sunday I would see her husband attend alone.
I felt that we needed to help this family return to church together and enjoy the blessings that the Lord wanted to give them. During the following presidency meetings, I shared my hopes of helping Mirta return to church. We planned activities in which we could include her in a special way, and we identified a few assignments we could give her.
When we visited her, she accepted each one of the assignments and afterward fulfilled them perfectly. We noted that she would eagerly wait to be picked up by one of us for Relief Society activities.
When we organized the visiting teaching companionships as a presidency, I asked the others to consider the possibility of Mirta and I becoming companions. Each month, without fail, Mirta and I would go visiting teaching. Every time we went out to visit the sisters was an opportunity to talk and get to know each other more.
Each time I invited her to attend church, she would merely say, “When I feel like I’m ready, I’ll go.” I didn’t understand, but I respected her decision. Eventually her answers became, “Maybe I’ll go on Sunday.”
I would wait for her anxiously every Sunday. She never came, but I continued to keep her in my prayers. A sudden move caused my family to return to where we had previously lived, and I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to Mirta. When we left the ward, she still had not returned to church.
Some months later I was told that Mirta had returned to church and was a counselor in the Relief Society.

It had been a good year for pumpkins. That was the trouble.
“I really have to congratulate you, honey,” my mother said to my father. “I never dreamed I’d ever be married to a successful pumpkin farmer, but here I am.”
My father smiled. “I’m a regular Johnny Pumpkinseed,” he said.
I asked, “What are you going to do with all these pumpkins, Dad? There must be a million of them!”
“They’re going to market first thing tomorrow morning, Dot. Pumpkins like these will make me a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to pay the bills, if he’s lucky.” That was my mother’s line.
My father had been a machinist in an auto factory. When it closed down, he borrowed some money and said that he was going to make his dream come true. Mother told everyone that he was “going into pumpkins.”
Dad had said what he always said, “If I can make my dream come true, you can take an art class and work on your dream.” My mother had always wanted to study commercial art, but there was never enough money for it. I heard her tell Dad that she was going to do this as soon as we kids got through school.
“But,” my mother had wailed, “if your dream doesn’t pay off, we’ll be in worse debt than ever. Wouldn’t you like to get retrained in computers?”
“Dear, you have a negative attitude,” Dad said as he lifted a pumpkin to test the weight and solidness of it. “I hope it doesn’t rub off on the children.”
It might rub off on my little brothers, but I knew it wouldn’t rub off on me. I loved the farm too much. I figured if we could make it work, I’d be able to get a horse someday.
Well, here we were, looking at enough pumpkins to make a million Cinderellas’ dreams come true. We all picked pumpkins and loaded them into the back of the pickup. Then we picked another load and filled the back of the station wagon. It didn’t take many. Some were too big for me to carry.
The biggest pumpkin of all was too big for the station wagon. Dad saved that one for its seeds—and for the Biggest Pumpkin contest at the county fair.
Dad drove the truck, and Mom drove the station wagon into town. Sure enough, Dad sold the lot of them at the first supermarket. We had a party that night. I went out after supper and looked at all the rest of the pumpkins shining in the sunset like pure gold. For the first time, I was glad that my father had lost his factory job and decided to live off the land.
Then trouble came to Pumpkinland. It had been a good year for pumpkins—not just for us Martindales but for all the other pumpkin farmers as well. After we’d sold a few more loads of pumpkins, Dad stopped taking his pickup into town. The markets had plenty of pumpkins.
My mother made and froze pumpkin recipes until there was no more space.
Dad said, “I wonder what Johnny Appleseed would have done?”
“He would have moved to town and gone into computers,” my mother said.
Dad decided to open a roadside stand. All the time I wasn’t in school, I helped to work at the stand with Mother. It was fun at first, when the customers came to buy pumpkins. But soon they were whizzing by without so much as a wave.
“We need a sign,” I said that Thursday afternoon.
“What for, Dot? They can see this pile of pumpkins a mile away.”
“We need a sign that really stops traffic.”
Mother had been painting on a small canvas while we sat there watching customers ignore us. “Bring me the biggest pumpkin you can carry,” she said.
In a few minutes, Mother had painted “PUMPKINS” on it.
“It needs a picture,” I said.
She added a purple spider with long white fangs. I had to laugh.
The pumpkin took its place in front of the stand, facing the coming traffic where it could do its best to lure customers. My mother had such fun painting the sign that she painted a few more spiders on a few more pumpkins. I set them out front too.
The next cars that stopped bought all the spider pumpkins for Halloween. That encouraged Mother, and she painted jack-o’-lantern faces on pumpkins. Before long they sold too. Now, the shed roof didn’t have to fall on us to show us we had a good thing going. Mother painted pumpkins as fast as she could—weird faces, snakes, funny faces, and more purple spiders. Friday there was no school, and all day we sold her painted pumpkins. And those were about the only pumpkins we sold.
That evening when we told my father, he said, “Well, well, I never thought I’d be married to a successful commercial pumpkin artist, but here I am.”
My mother said, “Thank you, Johnny Pumpkinseed.”
After that, Mother couldn’t paint fast enough. She made some stencils and outlined the figures on the pumpkins. Then I filled in the outlines, and she followed with the details. We worked most of the night. Bright and early Saturday morning we were back in business.
Dad came home jubilant to tell us that he’d talked a chain of doughnut shops into giving away a free pumpkin with every two dozen doughnuts sold.
“With or without faces?” my mother asked.
“Ah! That’s the best part,” Dad announced. “They want some of your painted pumpkins to decorate the inside and then a truckload of unpainted ones to pile out front to give away.
Finally we were able to see the end of the pumpkins. We didn’t sell them all, but we did have enough money to pay the bills.
“There’s even enough left over for a horse,” Dad told me.
I thought about this for a long time, then decided that the money should go for an art course for Mother. It was her turn.

People have asked me, “Why do you do this every week?” My answer is that my family started this habit a long time ago. I’m the youngest of 12 kids, and for as long as I can remember I’ve seen my mom coming home from the early Saturday morning temple session. She promised Heavenly Father that if she ever lived near a temple she would go often (for her, once a week), and she has kept her promise ever since my family moved close to a temple many years ago.