Gospel Story Finder

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers do you too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were perched on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, milled about below them, blatting nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she hollered back, “Coming—on the double!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. Once an orphan lamb, he showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, which responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck firmly planted his feet, refusing to move. Though she pulled hard, her sixty pounds were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Tim Buck and grouched, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, baaing worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her questioningly, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was sandwiched between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s ropeburned hands, he dampened his bandanna in some clean water and gently patted them while she blurted out her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said, starting to fume again.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

7. Two relevant memories for young fathers. When I was such, I had just received a phone call telling me of a friend’s death in an accident. I was sitting in the living room with tears streaking down my cheeks. Our young son, Cory, saw the tears as he passed in the hallway. I learned that he had anxiously assumed the tears were because he had disappointed me in some way. He didn’t know about the phone call. Brethren, we underestimate how genuinely and frequently our children want to please us.

A few days later, Sarah and I were in the bone marrow transplant clinic, where she would receive a red blood cell transfusion. She had been premedicated for the procedure and was peacefully sleeping in my arms. I began to think intently about Sarah and how her situation was so dire: she was getting sicker and sicker by the day. Parts of her body had quit functioning altogether. Her red blood count had fallen drastically; she had no white blood count to speak of and would also be receiving a platelet transfusion before the day was finished. She was lethargic and weaker than normal, and her appearance was paler. Without new red blood cells to revive her body, life would eventually slip away.
But gratefully, I watched as precious red blood cells slowly dripped from a tiny bag and flowed through the IV tubing directly into Sarah’s body through her central line, literally offering her new life. I observed a physical transformation as Sarah’s cheeks and hands became a beautiful pink hue again. She even seemed to be breathing a little easier. Peace filled my mind as I knew that, once again, her body would be receiving its vital nourishment through the circulation of the new red blood cells. Life would continue.

How did this unlikely friendship start? With one returned missionary named Van Evans. Brother Evans served his mission in Peru and now serves as a volunteer in an organization called the Humanitarian Foundation of the Andes. He told some of the youth and their leaders about the kinds of items that were needed in towns throughout the Andes. These items included basics like clothing, hygiene supplies, and building materials. After careful consideration, the youth decided to make Urubamba a part of their youth conference.

The original goal was to supply good Sunday clothes for each member of the LDS branch in Urubamba. Brekke Platt, a Laurel who served on the youth council, explained, “We didn’t want people to feel they couldn’t go to church because they didn’t have Sunday clothes.”

The young men and young women asked for donations from stake members. The results were overwhelming: more than 90 men’s suits were donated, as well as countless women’s dresses and children’s Sunday clothes.

By now the youth were getting excited about how great it felt to get things together for people who they knew would be thrilled to receive it, so they extended the scope of the project. They learned that hygiene supplies were desperately needed, so they got to work.

As part of their youth conference activity, the youth used donations from their stake to put together packets containing basic supplies like soap and toothpaste. Included in each packet was a written testimony and an expression of love.

Two young men jumped at the chance to complete their Eagle Scout requirements through service. The foundation was planning a trip to the Andes so it could build a medical post in Urubamba, but lots of preparatory work needed to be done at home first.

Scout John Tateoka gathered friends and family and coordinated a project of painting window frames, siding, and doors for the medical post. His fellow Scout, Adam Watts, contacted several construction suppliers for possible donations. In a short time, the necessary donations and work were complete, and supplies were shipped to Peru.

But the service didn’t stop there. The young people’s enthusiasm for the people in Urubamba was contagious, and soon donations of eyeglasses, sewing machines, seeds, and maternity supplies were pouring in.

So why is it that the people of this stake, who started out with a fairly small goal of providing some Sunday clothes, reached out so generously to people they had never even met?

According to Gary Brimley, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, the answer is simple. “We’re all members of one church,” he says. “We care for everyone and work together as one unit.”

Four “full-time missionaries” joined efforts during the Highland High School seminary’s second annual “missionary week” last fall in Salt Lake City. All four offered pleasant smiles, outstretched hands, and copies of the Book of Mormon, but only two could answer questions. The other two were seven-foot-tall statues with papier-mâché heads, hair of yarn, and bodies made of wood and chicken wire. They were designed and built by publicity chairmen Greg Goates and Heidi Nelson and were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and striped ties.
The “giant missionaries” served as attention-getters during the special missionary week, which included proselyting; mini-classes for members and nonmembers on such subjects as temple marriage, the plan of salvation, the Second Coming, present-day prophets, and prayer; and a Sunday evening fireside with guest speaker Elder Hugh Pinnock, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. In addition, the students wrote their testimonies in 460 copies of the Book of Mormon, which they gave to the missionaries for use in the Utah Salt Lake City Mission.
Several students became interested in finding out more about the Church as a result of the missionary week efforts. According to Jeff Swanson, seminary instructor, “Missionary week has developed into a great tradition at Highland seminary. We hope that we can continue to follow President Kimball’s instructions to lengthen our stride by sharing the gospel.”

Eighteen-year-old Amber Romney has a philosophy about her life. She got it from a children’s book she read when she was 11. The book is a familiar one, The Little Engine That Could. Amber, who is deaf, can relate to the little engine who had to tell herself over and over again, “I think I can, I think I can” as she pulled the big train up the mountain.
“In my life, my hill is my hearing impairment,” says Amber, of Mesa, Arizona. “The little engine is my strong will.”
With that attitude, Amber is able to face her daily challenges.
Amber’s positive attitude and desire to succeed have helped her to accomplish many things since a severe illness took her hearing when she was only 15 months old.
She’s learned to read lips and use sign language to communicate. Most importantly she has learned to never give up. With the help of her family, friends, and especially Heavenly Father, Amber has learned to overcome her disability and excel at many things.
“Everyone has their ups and downs,” Amber says, using her mother, Stephanie, as an interpreter. “I try to have as many ups as I can.”
Meeting people and making new friends is sometimes difficult. “I think maybe some people are intimidated because they think that they can’t talk to me,” she says. “Sometimes I have to make the first approach.”
Even if someone can’t sign to Amber, she can usually read lips. It’s a talent she says she’s continually getting better at.
She can speak to others because of years of speech therapy. She says that after the first few conversations people have with her, they usually get used to the way she talks. Then it gets easier.
Her dad, Bill, who serves as bishop of the Harmony Park Ward, Mesa Kimball Stake, says he also notices how Amber likes it if people try to sign to her. “She’s almost complimented by that,” he says, “and she always loves the opportunity to teach them or help them to sign.”
Now, thanks to Amber, most of her friends and her two younger sisters and brother know at least basic sign language, and some have even taken it as a class at school.
Amanda Lloyd, 17, who is in Amber’s ward and has been friends with her since they were both three years old, says Amber has taught her a lot about signing. “It’s not like I learned it all at once,” she says. “But since we’ve hung out so much I’ve learned it as I’ve gone.”
This year Mesa High School offered a sign language class for the first time. The class filled up immediately. Amanda says a lot of those students were people who wanted to learn to sign so they could communicate with Amber. “She’s such a sweet person,” says Amanda. “Everybody really admires her.”
Amber does something that most people probably wouldn’t think she could do. She’s a cheerleader. She made the team when she was 14 and has been cheering ever since.
Two years later she wrote an essay about being a cheerleader and won third place in a national writing contest sponsored by Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C. Deaf students from around the country were asked to write about their biggest challenge.
Amber titled her paper “A Silent Cheer.” In the essay, she shared her feelings about becoming a cheerleader. “I just went for what I wanted, despite the fact that I am deaf,” she wrote. “I couldn’t hear the music or the cheers, but with other people’s help I could do it.”
Now she’s cheered for four years and no one even notices that she doesn’t hear the music, the beat, or the other girls’ voices. “She’s got great peripheral vision,” explains her mother. That, combined with lots of practice, makes for near-perfect performances.
Amber continues to rely on her positive attitude and strong will as she gets involved in other activities.
She has also participated on the varsity swim team for four years. She’s involved in National Honor Society, Mayor’s Youth Committee, Spirit Club, and Junior Optimist Club, and she served as Girls’ State delegate last summer.
Even though she’s busy, she’s never too busy to be active in Church activities, and she loves her Young Women class.
“She does what everyone else does, plus more,” says her friend Amanda. “People are always so amazed with her that she’s come so far in her life and has done some really hard things that others wouldn’t dream of doing. She’s an awesome example to me and to everyone else.”
Amber is quick to point out that her accomplishments are the result of blessings in her life. “I know that Heavenly Father is responsible for my successes,” she says. “I couldn’t get by without His help.”
Still there are times when Amber gets discouraged. It’s then that she reflects upon her blessings to restore her positive attitude. “I just think about what Heavenly Father has done for me, how much my family loves me, how much my friends help me. And I read my patriarchal blessing, and that lifts my spirit,” she says.
“I think my hearing impairment has helped me have a stronger testimony of the gospel and to appreciate life more and more each day,” she says.
With her positive attitude and great faith, Amber continues to overcome the obstacles and, like the little engine that successfully reaches the top of the mountain, she realizes, “I know I can. I know I can.”

When I was a teenager, I lived in Japan for a few months without my family. One night I felt very worried. I had a lot of big questions, and I was nervous. I knelt by my bed and prayed. I said the words out loud instead of in my mind. I poured out my worries to Heavenly Father.
All of a sudden a wonderful feeling came. My worries disappeared. The Holy Ghost filled the whole room with peace. I knew that peace was a gift from my Heavenly Father. I felt that He really did love me and that He wanted me to be happy.

The neighborhood in which I grew up was a microcosm of the world, with many varieties of people. They were a close-knit group, and I think we knew them all. I think also we loved them all—that is, except for one man. I must make a confession: I detested that man. I have since repented of that emotion, but as I look back, I can sense again the intensity of my feeling. Why this strong antipathy? Because he whipped his children with strap or stick or whatever came to hand as his vicious anger flared on the slightest provocation.
Perhaps it was because of the home in which I lived, where there was a father who, by some quiet magic, was able to discipline his children without the use of any instrument of punishment, though on occasion they may have deserved it.
I have since discovered that the man I disliked was one of that very substantial body of parents who seem incapable of anything but harshness toward those for whose coming into the world they are responsible. I have also come to realize that this man, who walks in the memories of my childhood, is but an example of uncounted thousands across the world who are known as child abusers. Every social worker, every duty officer in the emergency room of a large hospital, every police officer and judge in a large city can tell you of them. The whole tragic picture is one of beating, kicking, slamming, and even of sexual assault on small children. And akin to these violent child abusers are those vicious men and women who exploit children for pornographic purposes.
I have no disposition to dwell on this ugly picture. I wish to say only that no one who is a professed follower of Christ and no one who is a professed member of this Church can engage in such practices without offending God and repudiating the teachings of His Son. It was Jesus Himself who, while holding before us the example of the purity and innocence of children, declared, “Whoso shall offend one of these little ones … , it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea” (Matthew 18:6). Could there be a stronger denunciation of those who abuse children than these words spoken by the Savior of mankind?
Do you want a spirit of love to grow in the world? Then begin within the walls of your own home. Behold your little ones, and see within them the wonders of God, from whose presence they have recently come.
President Brigham Young (1801–77) once said: “A child loves the smiles of its mother, but hates her frowns. I tell the mothers not to allow the children to indulge in evils, but at the same time to treat them with mildness.”
He further stated, “Bring up your children in the love and fear of the Lord; study their dispositions and their temperaments, and deal with them accordingly, never allowing yourself to correct them in the heat of passion; teach them to love you rather than to fear you.”
Of course, there is need for discipline with families. But discipline with severity, discipline with cruelty, inevitably leads not to correction but rather to resentment and bitterness. It cures nothing and only aggravates the problem. It is self-defeating. The Lord, in setting forth the spirit of governance in His Church, has also set forth the spirit of governance in the home in these great words of revelation:
“No power or influence can or ought to be maintained … , only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned; …
“Reproving betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be his enemy;
“That he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death” (D&C 121:41, 43–44).
Behold your little ones, and teach them. I need not remind you that your example will do more than anything else in impressing upon their minds a pattern of life. It is always interesting to meet the children of old friends and to find in another generation the ways of their fathers and mothers.
The story is told that in ancient Rome a group of women were, with vanity, showing their jewels one to another. Among them was Cornelia, the mother of two boys. One of the women said to her, “And where are your jewels?” To which Cornelia responded, pointing to her sons, “These are my jewels.” Under her tutelage and walking after the virtues of her life, they grew to become Gaius and Tiberius Gracchus—the Gracchi, as they were called—two of the most persuasive and effective reformers in Roman history. For as long as they are remembered and spoken of, the mother who reared them after the manner of her own life will be remembered and spoken of with praise also.
May I return again to the words of Brigham Young: “Let it be your constant care that the children that God has so kindly given you are taught in their early youth the importance of the oracles of God, and the beauty of the principles of our holy religion, that when they grow to the years of man and womanhood they may always cherish a tender regard for them and never forsake the truth.”
I recognize that there are parents who, notwithstanding an outpouring of love and a diligent and faithful effort to teach them, see their children grow in a contrary manner and weep while their wayward sons and daughters willfully pursue courses of tragic consequence. For such I have great sympathy, and to them I am wont to quote the words of Ezekiel: “The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the son” (Ezekiel 18:20).
But such is the exception rather than the rule. Nor does the exception justify others of us from making every effort in showing forth love, example, and correct precept in the rearing of those for whom God has given us sacred responsibility.
Nor let us ever forget the need to respect these, our little ones. Under the revealed word of the Lord, we know they are children of God as we are children of God, deserving of that respect which comes of knowledge of that eternal principle. In fact, the Lord made it clear that unless we develop in our own lives that purity, that lack of guile, that innocence of evil, we cannot enter into His presence. Declared He, “Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3).
Channing Pollock once wrote these interesting and provocative words: “Contemplating the adolescence through which we scorned the wrong, some of us must wish … that we could be born old, and grow younger and cleaner and ever simpler and more innocent, until at last, with the white souls of little children, we lay us down to eternal sleep.”
Behold your little ones. Pray with them. Pray for them and bless them. The world into which they are moving is a complex and difficult world. They will run into heavy seas of adversity. They will need all the strength and all the faith you can give them while they are yet near you. And they will also need a greater strength which comes of a higher power. They must do more than go along with what they find. They must lift the world, and the only levers they will have are the example of their own lives and the powers of persuasion that will come of their testimonies and their knowledge of the things of God. They will need the help of the Lord. While they are young, pray with them that they may come to know that source of strength which shall then always be available in every hour of need.
I love to hear children pray. I appreciate hearing parents pray for their children. I stand reverently before a father who, in the authority of the holy priesthood, lays his hands upon the head of a son or daughter at a time of serious decision and in the name of the Lord and under the direction of the Holy Spirit gives a father’s blessing.
How much more beautiful would be the world and the society in which we live if every father looked upon his children as the most precious of his assets, if he led them by the power of his example in kindness and love, and if in times of stress he blessed them by the authority of the holy priesthood; and if every mother regarded her children as the jewels of her life, as gifts from the God of heaven, who is their Eternal Father, and brought them up with true affection in the wisdom and admonition of the Lord.
Said Isaiah of old, “All thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children” (Isaiah 54:13). To which I add, “Great also shall be the peace and the gladness of their fathers and mothers.”

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t too important—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are important—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below. You are the main character. What choices will you make?
Your mom says you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few kilometers away. She is in your Primary class and in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come, too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “If she is coming, I don’t want to come.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up and I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.”
After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
B. When Tasha can’t hear, you whisper to Julie that Tasha didn’t want her to come and was making faces at her behind her back. Julie gets very quiet. Your get-together is no fun after that.
Surely you didn’t mean to do that! Won’t you reconsider and choose I?
C. All three of you go back to the swing and have a lot of fun. After a while, Julie’s mom picks her up and Tasha walks home. You’re glad that she and Julie have become friends.
This is the end of the story—unless you want to do a little more missionary work. If you do, go to G.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.”
She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough.
When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.”
Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same as God? How do you know that he doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be Tasha’s and Julie’s favorite treats. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly to Julie. Tasha says, “Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
F. Julie doesn’t come, because she thinks your mom changed her mind about your having friends over. You and Tasha have a good time, except you feel guilty about lying to Julie. Later, Julie finds out that Tasha was at your house, and her feelings are really hurt. Your friendship is never the same. You are sad that you lost a good friend.
You can’t make such a bad decision so soon—repent and go to A.
G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks.
“It’s a scripture that teaches us not to smoke and not to drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And not to do drugs.”
Julie adds, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy food.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days sometimes.”
Julie says, “It’s really neat! Do you want to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?” Tasha asks.
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it won’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.”
Congratulations! You made important choices—and you made the right ones!
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. Even though you don’t breathe it in deeply, it tastes terrible. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, tells Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to come over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance to get this story on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!
I. You suggest that you all play on the swing. Tasha has the first turn. As Julie climbs on for her turn, a car full of teenagers drives by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, because it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
J. Julie gets tears in her eyes and doesn’t say anything. Tasha says, “Thanks a lot, Big Mouth,” and goes home. You and Julie have fun playing, but you get a knot in your stomach when you think about Tasha’s angry eyes. The next day in school, Tasha won’t even speak to you.
Not again! Aren’t you glad that this is just a story? Change your choice to E.

I learned a great lesson from my father about priesthood authority and power.
I grew up in a home with a faithful mother and a wonderful father. My dad was not a member of our Church but still came to Church meetings with our family. He coached our ward softball team and helped with Scout activities.
As a boy I asked my dad many times each week when he was going to be baptized. My father replied each time, “David, I will join the Church when I know it’s the right thing to do.”
One Sunday I asked my dad when he was going to be baptized. He just smiled and asked me a question. “David, your church teaches that the priesthood was taken from the earth anciently and has been restored by heavenly messengers. If your church truly has the restored priesthood of God, then why are so many of the men in your church no different about doing their priesthood duty than the men in my church?”
My mind went blank. I had no answer for my dad.
I knew that men who hold the priesthood should act differently than other men. Priesthood holders should not only receive priesthood authority but also be faithful and worthy to exercise God’s power.
I decided I never wanted to be a poor example to my father. I simply wanted to be a good boy. The Lord needs all of us who hold the priesthood to be honorable, virtuous, and good boys at all times and in all places.
A number of years later, my father was baptized. I had the opportunity to confer upon him the Aaronic and the Melchizedek Priesthoods. One of the great experiences of my life was seeing my dad receive the authority and qualify for the power of the priesthood.

Late one evening, my son Garrett called from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, USA. He and his wife, Shelly, and their children, were traveling from Alabama, where Garrett had military training, to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota. He explained that while they were traveling through Wisconsin, Shelly became seriously ill. They had found a hospital, and Shelly was scheduled for an emergency appendectomy the next morning.
I arranged to fly and meet them, but I couldn’t get there until the following day. My son expressed concern about what to do with his children—a five-year-old, a one-year-old, and a three-week-old baby—while their mom was in surgery. Not knowing anyone in the area, he decided to call the bishop in Minot, even though they had not met. The bishop in Minot said he would contact the bishop in Eau Claire.
The following morning, the bishop in Eau Claire, along with the Relief Society president, met Garrett at his hotel. They said they would be happy to care for the children while Shelly was in surgery. Shelly later commented that she was completely at peace letting two strangers—who were family in the gospel—watch her children. By the time I arrived in Eau Claire, Shelly was recovering and my grandkids were back with her and Garrett. We were grateful for the help we received in our time of need.

As the Maid of Iowa docked in Nauvoo to unload its passengers—more than three hundred British converts—Captain Dan Jones, also a new convert, anxiously searched the crowd of greeters for the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Captain Jones had never seen Joseph Smith, so he was startled when a “large, comely man” approached him and shook his hand, saying “God bless you, brother.” When the man returned a little later, Dan Jones realized that this was the very person for whom he was looking.

There seem to be more families involved in the Church in Madrid than there are in other parts of Spain. Still, in Madrid, like anywhere else, you have to know for yourself what’s true.
Arturo and Alberto Recio saw their father join the Church first, but wanted to gain their own testimonies. “I was studying the Book of Mormon and I read Moroni 10; then I read it again and again,” said Arturo, 13. “Then I asked God if it was true, and he answered me, and here I am.”

“My parents were both musical, though untrained. While we had no musical instruments at home except my father’s ukulele, the family enjoyed singing together. I was in my teens when my parents first acquired a record player. And I remember what a great experience that was and how much we all enjoyed it. When I was older, the family did acquire a piano, and some of the younger children took lessons. My wife was a music major, and that was one of the things I enjoyed about her when .we were dating. I loved to sit and listen to her play the Bach Inventions.
“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of an apartment house with only cold running water in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as did all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

I was shopping for school clothes with my nine-year-old son when our conversation turned from lighthearted chitchat to a more serious question. “Mom, why do they have to put that stuff in all the store windows?”
“That stuff” he was referring to was immodest pictures displayed in the windows of just about every shop we passed. Although pictures like these had always been there, I hadn’t paid much attention to them before. But the fact that my oldest son was starting to take notice awakened a new awareness in me. Over the next weeks, I began to see these images everywhere: on television, at the grocery store, at restaurants, in advertisements that came in the mail. I couldn’t get away from them. Some images were so explicit that I began to feel perplexed, and a feeling of alarm began to grow in my heart. How was I supposed to protect my family from the traps of pornography?
Every general conference we hear warnings about its devastating effects, and we have been acquainted with its victims. We had taken all of the precautions at home with our computer and the media we allowed there, but clearly, unless our children were quarantined, there seemed to be no way to completely avoid seeing unwanted images that might lead to further curiosity. Could my son’s innocent gaze at the grocery store turn into a lifetime struggle with pornography? My anxiety over this issue grew, and I began to feel a sense of helplessness and vulnerability in protecting my children.
Detail from Tree of Life, by Kazuto Uota
Then one day while I was reading in the Book of Mormon, I unexpectedly found reassurance in 1 Nephi 15. Nephi is explaining Lehi’s vision of the tree of life to Laman and Lemuel when they ask the meaning of the river of water. Nephi answers in verse 27: “And I said unto them that the water which my father saw was filthiness; and so much was his mind swallowed up in other things that he beheld not the filthiness of the water” (emphasis added). Lehi’s mind was focused on the tree of life and getting his family to it to partake of its fruit! He didn’t even see the filthiness because of this focus.
That was the answer! Keeping inappropriate media out of our home was a start, but a more direct and conscious effort to teach our children the gospel is what would ultimately be their best defense against anything that could lead them away.
Because of this experience with the scriptures, my husband and I decided to redouble our efforts in teaching our children and thus keep our eyes on the love of God instead of the filthiness in the world. We have felt impressed to focus on three different areas*:
1. Increasing our own personal scripture study and decreasing the “noise” around us. Like Lehi, our minds must be filled with positive things in order to hear the promptings of the Spirit and to keep us focused on anchoring our family in the gospel. My husband and I try to regularly spend time talking about the spiritual needs of each individual in the family and how we can meet those needs and create a home where the Spirit can thrive.
2. Making family scripture study more meaningful. Although it takes a lot of effort just to gather the family together daily to read scriptures, we are trying to have more discussion when we read the scriptures. We have a wide range of ages with our children, so we read scriptures with the younger kids later in the day and the oldest kids early in the morning when the little ones are asleep so there is less distraction and more opportunity for discussion. We have found that almost daily there is discussion of current events that relates to the scriptures we are reading.
Most mornings are far from idyllic, but with perseverance we are finding that the kids really are listening and participating, even though sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get everyone together.
3. Doing missionary work. When we bear testimony, the Spirit testifies that what we are saying is true, and our testimonies grow. We are trying to make missionary work a family affair. We talk about sharing the gospel, and we regularly invite friends to our home. We also take every opportunity to have the missionaries and investigators over for gospel discussion. We have had wonderful experiences with new members of the Church and investigators in our home, and it has made an impression on our children as they reflect on their own testimonies and hear those of the missionaries.
I am so grateful for the Book of Mormon and the miraculous way a single verse of scripture has given me reassurance and a clear direction for our family. The scriptures can truly replace fear and helplessness with power and peace.

During stressful times, should missionary work go on? The Saints in Sierra Leone have a tradition. They continue to share the gospel no matter what.

"Rather than bemoaning our lot or remaining stagnant, we were encouraged to rally the Saints by calling branch missionaries to replace the full-time missionaries," explained President Bai Seasy of the Kossoh Town District. "We had no time to feel sorry for ourselves; we had the work of salvation to do. We paired returned missionaries with prospective missionaries and organized them into zones."

"Each branch mission leader was authorized to have a phone card for proselyting purposes. They must account for its usage, but it has helped the branch missionaries remain in contact with new investigators and recent converts alike, and staying in touch has made a huge difference," said Brian Robbin-Taylor, another special assistant to the mission president.

"We have ‘phone lessons’ with investigators and new converts," he continued. "That supplements weekly missionary lessons held at church. We have adapted to the needs of members and investigators who otherwise might have no contact, due either to quarantine restrictions or apprehensions about getting the disease."

Today convert baptisms in Sierra Leone are only slightly lower than when full-time missionaries were there, many less-active members have returned to activity, and growth of the Church is steady.

Deciding to Be Baptized
Kerry Johnson, 16, Farragut Ward
I remember when I was deciding whether or not to be baptized. One day, I got up really early. It was a Saturday. I went out into this field we lived by. The sun was just coming up. I was lying down, really praying a lot about if the Church was true or not. I lay there awhile just thinking. I didn’t know whether to ask for a sign or what, but I started getting a good feeling. When I opened my eyes, all these little butterflies were flying up from the grass. It seemed to fit how I felt. I knew in that moment that the Church was true.

When Elder Nathaniel Johnson completed his full-time mission, he reflected on the prior two years—the work he did, the people he blessed, and the way he had grown. He was assigned to serve in one of 124 bishops’ storehouses operated by the Church worldwide. He unloaded trucks, stocked shelves, and kept the storehouse clean.
For him, the most meaningful experiences were helping patrons fill orders for sorely needed food and commodities. He said, “I was basically bringing the light of Christ into other people’s lives so they could know they are part of Heavenly Father’s plan.”
On hectic days during the COVID-19 pandemic, patrons lined up around the block and the storehouse was open for 10 hours a day. “I learned that when the Lord is with us, we’ll be able to do anything and get through any challenge,”1 he observed.

I will never forget that day. In my Primary class, Brandon and his buddy were dressed in bathrobes with the rest of the class standing behind a folding chair. We were reenacting the story of Alma and Amulek when the righteous were being burned, and Brandon was playing Alma. As he read the scripture where Alma was constrained by the Spirit from saving the people, tears ran down his cheeks. He finally looked at me in desperation, “Sister Boyack, I just can’t read this! It is too sad!”
Brandon was usually a bit hard to manage in the classroom. But that day, he was feeling a powerful spirit. That day the Book of Mormon was very real to him.