Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago while my children were very young, the nighttime bottles and the daytime diapers seemed as endless as the frozen ground outside our military apartment. When I feel sorry for myself, it helps me to do something for someone else. That winter my need was great, so I needed a grand solution. I decided to make a sport coat for my husband. Having no experience in tailoring, I began by finding the best pattern and materials on the market. With great enthusiasm I took out the pattern guide. My heart nearly failed me. There were pages of instructions—138 steps, as I remember. It was beyond my ability. The next few days I took that pattern everywhere I went. I decided to work on no more than two steps per day so I wouldn’t get discouraged. When two steps were completed, I would read the directions for the next day’s task. Occasionally I got overanxious and had to unpick, but fortunately mistakes in good materials don’t remain if they are carefully removed. A few months later I had created a masterpiece. The pattern had made the miracle possible. Patterns had become very important to me.

“I shared a room with my sister. We liked to be together, but when were very young we argued about who was taking more than her share of the bed. One day we decided to settle the problem. We took a pen and drew a line right down the middle of the sheet. Mother didn’t like that solution and explained that we were not to mark on the sheets again. When we were older, our parents told us we could each have our own room. Dianne moved her things into another room, but it only lasted one night. We really preferred being together, so the next day she moved back.

Once I had to choose between attending a Church activity and going to a friend’s party. It was a difficult decision. I didn’t want to disappoint my friend, but I felt that attending the Church activity was more important. I prayed about it, and I felt peace about choosing the Church activity.
My friend was disappointed at first, but she understood my decision when I explained my reasons. My experience showed me that when I put God first, everything else falls into place. It also strengthened my belief that God will guide me when I seek His help through prayer.

One night I watched a scary movie and then went to bed. After I was asleep, I started having bad dreams. I got scared and woke up. It was the middle of the night. My bedroom was very dark. I got out of bed and knelt and prayed. It made me feel better, and I was able to go to sleep with no bad dreams. I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers and that He loves me.
Matthew Voelkel, age 8Lakeview, Oregon

Yesterday when we arrived home, I had a fax from our son David and his wife, Jennifer, in Belgium. David said, “Mother, I know you can do it. You may not remember, but you used to have a scripture on the fridge that said, ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’ (Josh. 24:15).” He said, “I was in and out of the fridge a lot, and I knew that you and Dad meant that.” I’m so grateful for our children.

He writes:
Our faculty should be commended [for its excellence. Surely there can’t be a finer academic group anywhere.] But the challenge [to excel] was not given to the faculty alone. Even those of us who are not educators per se have accepted the challenge to strive for that admirable goal. They are the custodians, grounds keepers, electricians, carpenters, painters, plumbers, and auto mechanics. They work in the heating plant. They are the architects, accountants, upholsterers, and so many others who often contribute above and beyond the call of duty. These are physical contributions, seen immediately and evident to all. As visitors arrive on our campus, they often comment on the beauty of the grounds. As they view the building, they marvel at the architecture, and time later time they refer to the cleanliness of the building. The care given these surroundings makes these buildings temples of learning, [often] named for apostles and prophets of the Lord. Here, of all places on earth, we should be able to observe how the world might be if excellence were its goal. . . .

[I was taught the gospel by two missionaries and was baptized into] a small branch of the Church in northwestern Ontario. . . .

I dreamed of a faraway Zion, a place In the West called Utah, and I hoped that one day I would see that place so important to me as a new convert. In the Church magazines I would read of a university owned and operated by our church, a university dedicated to the same gospel ideals that those missionaries taught. How would it be to live in such a place? Pictures of templed hills, chapels, universities, and well-kept homes flashed unceasingly before my eyes. But mine was to be a much different experience, for we met in the modest surroundings of a house [which served as our] chapel. . . . There was no beautiful architecture making the building conducive to the attitude of worship and [there was] no steeple drawing the gaze heavenward. . . .

What I would have given at that time to have met in a lovely edifice built with worship in mind, where my non-LDS friends could have come and been awed by the Church I belonged to. As years go by I find myself embarrassed by [those] presumptuous desires [then] for something far better than that which we had.

[Now, looking back on that experience, I realize that] though our church house may have been small and plain, I cherish the fond memories of that sacred spot. . . . I reflect on the care we gave to the grounds, the edging, the mowing, the planting of flowers. Inside we dusted and cleaned. The smell of furniture polish floated freely on the cool spring breeze making it all so clean and fresh. The windows sparkled like crystal in the sunlight. No temple custodians could care for their grounds with any more affection than did we. . . .

. . . In retrospect . . . I am now grateful for ­having had that experience which allows me to appreciate even more profoundly the buildings on this campus and give them that special treatment I could only dream of giving as a youth.

We were still living in our home country, Argentina, when my husband and I started our family. We were returned missionaries and knew it was a blessing to be married in the Lord’s temple. We were excited to walk the path back to Heavenly Father together.
We knew that the plan of salvation included trials, but we trusted that we would be able to overcome anything through faith and prayer. But we did not expect adversity to come upon us without stopping. Trial after trial seemed to rain down upon us.
One afternoon I was alone, feeling very sad and crying inconsolably because of our trials. I didn’t know what to do. Every time I tried to stop crying, I only felt more depressed and anguished.
I then thought about the many men and women who shared with me how valuable prayer had been for them during difficult moments. I had a testimony of prayer, but my mind and spirit were so tormented that I thought I wouldn’t be able to find the words to say.
In tears, I knelt by my bed and with all of my heart, I asked Heavenly Father for comfort and peace. I didn’t ask for a solution or even for the trial to disappear. I just asked for peace.
While I was praying, I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it, with tears still in my eyes, and saw a sister from Relief Society. She told me she was working in the area and had stopped by on her motorcycle. All I could do was hug her. She said, “I don’t know why, but I felt I needed to stop by and see you.”
We sat at my kitchen table and she helped me calm down. After talking with her for a few minutes, I finally started to feel that I wasn’t alone and that Heavenly Father had heard my prayer.
It is a blessing to be able to talk to my Heavenly Father through prayer. He listened to me in my hour of need and sent one of His children to help me. I’m grateful this sister heard the inspiration of the Spirit and followed it.

My brethren and sisters, I seek the direction of the Holy Spirit that I may say something that will add to your faith. I’ve recently had a great experience. For the better part of a week, with others, I stood in the entrance to the Washington Temple as a host to special guests. These included the wife of the president of the United States, justices of the Supreme Court, senators and congressmen, ambassadors from various nations, clergymen, educators, and business leaders. Since that week of special invitations, other visitors, more than 300,000 of them, have come to see this sacred edifice.
A vast amount of newspaper and magazine space has been given the temple, and radio and television have carried its story far and wide. It is doubtful that any building constructed in the East in recent years has attracted so much attention.
Almost without exception, those who have come have been appreciative and reverent. Many have been deeply touched in their hearts. Upon leaving the temple, Mrs. Ford commented: “This is a truly great experience for me. … It’s an inspiration to all.”
These were my thoughts as I shook hands with many of the thousands who came to the Washington Temple with curiosity and left with appreciation, some with tears in their eyes.
Said one of the leaders of our nation as he left the Washington Temple the other evening and looked up to its spires, “This beautiful structure is a symbol of those virtues which have made of us a great nation and a great people. We need such symbols.”

A few months following my high school graduation I found myself at Army basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. In the early days of this experience I was stripped of my lifelong support structure of family, friends and Church leaders. I remember like it was yesterday when I had the realization it was entirely up to me to decide if the habits I had practiced during my upbringing were going to be maintained or cast aside. Nobody cared if I said my prayers, read my serviceman's copy of the Book of Mormon, or attended church services. I remember my first few prayers were offered as I lay in my top bunk in a barracks room with seven other guys. How was I going to kneel to pray at someone else's bedside? I learned to kneel in bed.

I remember packing my copy of the Book of Mormon in my cargo pocket or in my ruck sack and squeezing in reading when I could. I remember being asked if we wanted to attend Catholic, Jewish or Protestant worship services whose buildings were nearby. When most of the other soldiers fell out of formation having chosen one of those options, I was asked why I was still standing there. When I told them I wanted to worship with the Latter-day Saints, I was informed that they met in a small office building on the other side of the base. On the base, LDS services were two hours (sacrament and priesthood meetings.) The drill sergeants thought that was a little excessive—I didn't mention it was normally three hours. As I settled into my weekly Sunday routine of attending my meetings, I soon found a phone booth along the way and, if I ran almost the entire way, I could fit in a short phone call to check in with loved ones at home. I was blessed to find ways to maintain my habits while away from home. You will be blessed as you seek to develop and maintain good habits while you are in school and wherever you may find yourself.

In the October 2018 general conference, the Yigo Guam Temple was announced. Franchesca says, “The youth were so excited—we all prayed for it.” After that, she eagerly watched the construction and waited for their very own temple, which was completed in May 2022.
They’ve always had to travel to the Philippines for temple trips in the past. To pay for the trips, they would raise money with bake sales and car washes. Because it’s a big trip, they would plan it to last about a week. Franchesca is excited to be able to go to the temple more often and have the blessings that come from being baptized for her ancestors.

During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in trouble of one sort or another. I remember pulling them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family, and he wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable in terms of his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a real sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons. I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind was yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the unselfish contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that good brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews. I heard a soft knock on the office door, and when I opened it, I saw, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends.
What lessons culminated in that moment—a father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to hide my tears—and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

In December 2012, LaVell underwent open-heart surgery. Just after the operation, while still connected to tubes and groggy from the anesthesia, LaVell struggled to say, “Patti, be sure to call the bishop and tell him we can’t make it to tithing settlement, but tell him we are full tithe payers.”

They walked the walk of honor and commitment, understanding that “Cougars, it’s up to you.” Here was one of the most successful coaches in the history of college football humbly demonstrating his commitment to the principle of tithing just moments after major surgery.

Together, Patti and LaVell demonstrated to all of us obedience, integrity, and faithfulness. They lived the Savior’s teaching to “seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you” (3 Nephi 13:33).

Some years ago, Sister Sorensen and I visited India. At one airport I saw some men sitting in front of wicker baskets, playing flutes. As they started to play the music, they would take the top off the basket and a cobra would appear! As the music continued, the snake would rise higher and higher, nearly reaching its full length until the cobra would collapse back into the basket. Once I noticed a cobra fall outside the basket. The man playing the flute reached over, petted the cobra, and carefully put it back into the basket. I was amazed that a man could handle such a dangerous creature, apparently without being harmed. But our guide quickly told me that this was very risky and told us that a major cause of death in this province was indeed poisonous snakebite.

In our quest for an example, we need not necessarily look to years gone by or to lives lived long ago. Let me illustrate. Today Craig Sudbury occupies a position of prominence in Salt Lake City, but let me turn back the clock just a few years to the day he and his mother came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred Sudbury, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and indeed did not belong to the Church.
Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents. He shared his innermost hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. He pleaded earnestly with me for a suggestion. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be rewarded. Such inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents, and, on occasion, write to Dad personally and let him know that you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.”
He thanked me and, with his mother, departed the office. I was not to see Craig’s mother for eighteen months. She came to the office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig departed for his mission. His faithful service has qualified him for positions of responsibility in the mission field, and he has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently, my husband, Fred, stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and said, ‘All of you know that I am not a member of the Church, but something has happened to me since Craig left for his mission. His letters have touched my soul. May I share one with you? “Dear Dad, Today we taught a choice family about the plan of salvation and the blessings of exaltation in the celestial kingdom. I thought of our family. More than anything in the world, I want to be with you and Mother in that kingdom. For me it just wouldn’t be a celestial kingdom if you were not there. I’m grateful to be your son, Dad, and want you to know that I love you. Your missionary son, Craig.”’ Fred then announced, ‘My wife doesn’t know what I plan to say. I love her and I love our son, Craig. After twenty-six years of marriage I have made my decision to become a member of the Church, for I know the gospel message is the word of God. I suppose I have known this truth for a long time, but my son’s mission has moved me to action. I have made arrangements for my wife and me to meet Craig when he completes his mission. I will be his final baptism as a full-time missionary of the Lord.’”
A young missionary with unwavering faith had participated with God in a modern-day miracle. His challenge to communicate with one whom he loved had been made more difficult by the barrier of the thousands of kilometers that lay between him and his father. But the spirit of love spanned the vast expanse of the blue Pacific, and heart spoke to heart in divine dialogue.
No hero stood so tall as did Craig when, in Australia, he stood with his father in water waist deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Fred Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
The prayer of a mother, the faith of a father, the service of a son brought forth the miracle of God. Mother, father, son—each qualifies in a Hall of Fame.

I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.

A few days before my sophomore year of seminary began, Dwayne Wooley, one of my classmates, invited Dennis Murphy to attend seminary.
Dwayne’s invitation would change Dennis’s life. Dennis never came to church, and neither did his parents. But on the first day of seminary, Dennis was there. He told Dwayne he would try it but wasn’t interested in going all year. After that day, Dennis’s attitude changed, and he came again and again.
The Book of Mormon lessons in seminary required reading either in class or at home. At the beginning of the year, we were also challenged to gain a personal testimony of the gospel by taking the time not only to read the Book of Mormon but also earnestly pray about it.
Dennis was one of those who read regularly. I would often find Dennis after class talking to my mother, who was our teacher, about something he had read. He had never read the Book of Mormon before.
Seminary opened up a different life for Dennis, one that included new friends. It was not long after Dennis began attending seminary that he began coming to church. His mother started attending also. Several of us friendshipped Dennis. He was fun to be around, and we enjoyed including him. Our friendship seemed to mean a lot to him.
The school year quickly drew to a close. Dennis completed the year of seminary with perfect attendance. He also finished reading the entire Book of Mormon.
Dennis graduated from high school and soon after went on a trip with his friends to Washington. On the way home, the weather turned hot, and the river near the highway looked inviting. They stopped to go swimming. Dennis made the mistake of diving into the river. He dove into a rock and broke his neck. His friends pulled him from the water and rushed him to a hospital, but Dennis’s injuries were so severe that not much could be done. Dennis’s mother arrived at the hospital before Dennis died. In their last conversation Dennis said, “Tell my seminary teacher that I know the Book of Mormon is true.”
A year after his death, my mother and father drove Dennis’s mother to the Oakland California Temple, where, through proxy, Dennis received his temple endowments.
I had been among those Dennis looked to as an example. Yet as the year progressed, I began to see Dennis as the example. I observed his commitment to learn and the effect seminary had on his life. But, most importantly, I knew about Dennis’s final testimony. I will never forget him and how watching him gain a testimony helped me as I was searching for a testimony of my own.

Old Bob came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his eighties when the house in which he was living was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front porch swing. With a plaintive voice, he said to grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have no money.” I wondered how grandfather would answer. Slowly grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it that old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob. Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move in your things. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay and nobody will ever put you out again.”
Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood ten feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has influenced my life.

“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks.

Julio looked at the new black and white soccer ball. He turned it carefully in his hands and ran his fingers along the seams.
“Do you like it?” Tia (aunt) Maria asked.
“Sim (yes),” Julio answered, still not believing the ball was his. “But why are you giving it to me?”
Tia Maria laughed. “Because you help me so much,” she replied. “You run errands for me and help me clean my yard. You have earned more than a ball, but this is all I can give you. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
Julio looked at his tia. He knew she didn’t have much money, and he wondered if he should accept such a big gift from her. But her eyes told him that she would be hurt if he did not take the ball.
“Obrigado (thank you),” he said softly.
“All I ask is that you always remember why it is yours,” Tia Maria told Julio. “Now go play.”
Julio thanked his tia again as he rushed out into the spring air. He rolled the ball over and over in his hands, wondering what Tia Maria had meant by, “Remember why it is yours.”
But the thought soon left when Julio noticed the budding trees. Spring meant soccer with his friends, and this spring he had his very own soccer ball!
Julio dropped the ball to the ground and skillfully kicked it down the cobblestone sidewalk as he ran.
“Hey, where did you get the new soccer ball?” Antonio asked as he came out of his house.
“Tia Maria gave it to me.” Julio replied proudly.
“That’s great! Can I play with you?”
“Sure!” Julio answered.
Antonio and Julio kicked and rolled the ball back and forth. Before long others joined them, and soon there were enough boys to start a soccer game.
Tia Maria watched from her apartment window, and Julio could see her out of the corner of his eye as he played.
Julio loved to play soccer and he was good. Someday he hoped to play on the national team of Brazil. Tia Maria knows that, he thought. Maybe that’s why she gave me the ball.
But the thought vanished as the ball came his way. Skillfully he maneuvered it with his feet toward the imaginary goal, never touching it with his hands. As he neared the goal, he kicked the ball and sent it sailing through the air and into the goal to score.
“Good work!” Antonio shouted. “We’re ahead now!”
For a while a younger boy watched shyly from the sidewalk. Then he slowly walked over to where the group of boys was playing.
“Oh, no,” Antonio whispered to Julio. “Paulo is coming! Don’t let him play! He always messes up the game. We’ll lose if he plays!”
It was true that Paulo was not a good player. He often lost the ball to the other team, and on several occasions he had even run for the wrong goal. But Julio knew how much Paulo liked to play.
“Can I play?” Paulo asked hopefully.
Julio looked at the other boys and started to say no. Then he glanced at the window where Tia Maria was standing. Her face was drawn tight in a concerned expression as she too waited for Julio to answer.
“Remember why it is yours.” Her words came to Julio’s mind. Once more he looked at Tia Maria. He had shared his time and efforts to help her, and he wondered if she were trying to tell him to keep sharing.
Julio looked away from the window and then turned to Paulo. “Sure, you can play,” he said. Before anyone could say anything, he added, “As a matter of fact, Antonio is a good player, and he’ll help you learn more about the game.”
Paulo’s face lit up with a smile. “You will?” he asked eagerly.
Antonio looked at Julio and then he too smiled. “Sure, I’d be happy to! We’ll all teach you to be a great soccer player!”
As they began to play again, Julio glanced up at the window. Tia Maria was smiling as she nodded her head. Julio waved at her before he continued playing the game.
Suddenly he knew why Tia Maria had given him the new soccer ball.

Bishop Monson recalled how he helped an elderly couple who needed to paint their home: “In a moment of inspiration I called, not upon the elders quorum or upon volunteers to wield paint brushes, but rather, following the welfare handbook, upon the family members who lived in other areas. Four sons-in-law and four daughters took brushes in hand and participated in the project.”2 This inspiration helped the family reconnect and better care for each other.