Gospel Story Finder

Prior to his mission, Daeyoon had attended the dedication of the Korea Temple, where he met Sister Jeanhyun Baek. Before long, they were planning marriage. Daeyoon told her of his promise to President Kimball that he would serve a mission. Although Sister Baek had already served a full-time mission, she decided to accept a second mission call while Daeyoon served his mission.
Ten days after he was released from his mission, Daeyoon and Jeanhyun were married in the Seoul Korea Temple. They now have a baby daughter, Euigin. Brother Kim later served as president of the Kang Neung Korea District. Currently, he and his family live in the United States, where he is pursuing a master’s degree in animal nutrition. Daeyoon plans to obtain his doctorate degree—and then return to Korea to teach in a university.

Years ago, when I was serving in Primary, I was telling a story about someone who had been recently baptized. I pointed out that this friend might be one of the most pure and clean members of the Church. Then, on the front row, a hand shot up and an older boy declared, “I can be just as clean as he is because I’ve been baptized and take the sacrament.” I awkwardly answered, “Yes, that’s what I meant—what he said.”

In Denmark, far out in the country, there once lived a farmer and his wife. Their farm cottage was overgrown with moss, and a stork’s nest perched on its ridge. The walls were crooked, the windows were small, and only one of them could be opened. An oven for baking bread jutted out of one wall. Outside, a hedge of elderberries and willow trees surrounded a tiny pond where a duck and some ducklings swam, and in the yard there was an old dog that barked at everyone who went by.
They did without a lot of things, but they did have a horse that grazed along the edge of the road since they had no paddock for it. Sometimes the farmer rode his horse to town, and sometimes his neighbor borrowed it. This the farmer believed was to his advantage, for country people believed that one good turn deserves another. But one day the farmer thought he’d be doing himself a good turn if he traded the horse for something more useful, though he didn’t know what it could be.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said his wife. “There’s a market in town today. Why don’t you ride the horse to town and there you can trade it for something else. Whatever you do I’m sure will be all right.”
She tied his tie in a double bow to make her husband look more handsome. Then she brushed his hat with the palm of her hand, gave him a kiss good-bye, and off he rode on the horse that was to be sold or traded, just as he saw fit.
The sun was shining, it was hot, and there was not a scrap of shade along the way. The dusty road was filled with people traveling to market. Some had wagons, some rode horses, but many were on foot. And as he rode along, the farmer noticed a man leading a cow that was as beautiful as any cow could be.
“I’ll bet that cow gives a lot of good milk,” he said to himself. Then he called to the man, “You there with the cow, I’d like to talk with you!” And when the man turned around, the farmer continued, “I know that a horse is worth more than a cow, but a cow would be more useful to me. Shall we trade?”
“Why not?” said the man.
Now the farmer had done what he had set out to do so he should have turned around and gone back home with his new cow. But since he had meant to go to the market, he decided it would be a pity to miss it.
He and the cow walked quickly along, and soon they caught up with a man who was leading a goat. Such a fine animal it was. A goat like that I wouldn’t mind owning, the farmer thought. In the winter when it’s cold we could always take it inside. Besides, I don’t have enough grazing for a cow but I would for a goat. The more he looked at the goat, the better the farmer liked it.
“How would you like to trade your goat for my cow?” he finally asked. And the bargain was made.
He hadn’t gone far with his goat when he spied a man sitting on a big stone resting. He had good reason to rest for he was holding a very large goose.
“A fine fat goose!” the farmer cried as he lifted his hat. “How pretty it would look on our pond and then Mother could feed it our potato peelings.” She has often said that we ought to have a goose, he thought to himself, and now we shall have one! “I’ll trade you my goat for your goose and throw a thank-you into the bargain,” he said to the man.
“A goat for my goose!” exclaimed the stranger. “It’s a deal, but you can keep your thank-you for I don’t like to drive too hard a bargain.”
The farmer tucked the goose under his arm and walked on. People and animals were milling all about him as he came near the market.
The town’s gatekeeper had tied his hen in his potato patch so that it wouldn’t become frightened and run away in all the confusion. Its tail was as finely feathered as that of a cock. “Cluck! Cluck,” she said and winked at the farmer.
“That hen is a beautiful bird,” said the farmer, “I wish it were mine.” A hen can always find a grain of corn on the ground where she can scratch for her food, he thought to himself. Then she’ll lay eggs for us. I think I’ll see if I can strike a bargain for her.
It was no sooner said than done. After the farmer traded his goose for the gatekeeper’s white hen, he decided he was thirsty and hungry.
Entering an inn, the farmer bumped into one of the servants who was carrying a sack over his shoulder. “What do you have in the sack?” the farmer asked.
“Rotten apples,” the servant replied. “I’m on my way to the pigpen with them.”
A whole sackful, what an awful waste! thought the farmer. I wish Mother could see it. He remembered that last year their old apple tree only had one apple. Mother had put it in the cupboard and there it lay until it was all dried up and no bigger than a walnut. Then one day she had said to him, “I feel rich just looking at it.” He began to think how good she would feel if she had a whole sackful of apples so he asked the servant for them.
“What will you give me for them?” asked the servant.
“My hen,” the farmer replied. He hardly spoke the words before he found a sack of rotten apples in his arms instead of a hen.
The inn was crowded with butchers, farmers, merchants, horse dealers, and even a couple of rich Englishmen. The farmer sat down and, without giving it a thought, he put his sack of apples down on the stove and soon they began to simmer and sizzle.
“What’s that?” asked one of the rich Englishmen, pointing to the sack on the stove.
The farmer told him how he had traded his horse for a cow, his cow for a goat, his goat for a goose, his goose for a hen, and finally the hen for a sack of rotten apples.
“Your wife will be angry when you get home,” the Englishman scoffed.
“No,” the farmer insisted. “She’ll just kiss me and say that what Father does is always right.”
“I’ll bet a barrel of gold and a sackful of silver that she won’t,” said both Englishmen at once.
“The barrel of gold is enough and, if I lose, I’ll fill a barrel for you with rotten apples and you can have Mother and me for good measure,” the farmer declared.
So the Englishmen hired the innkeeper’s horses and carriage, and off they all went to the farmer’s house. When they arrived they drove right up to the door, where a barking dog and the farmer’s wife came out to greet them.
“Good evening, Mother,” said the farmer.
“I’m glad you arrived home safely,” she answered.
“Well, I traded the horse for a cow,” said the farmer.
“Trading is a man’s business,” she said and threw her arms around him. “Now we’ll have milk, butter, and cheese.”
“But I traded the cow for a goat.”
“How clever of you,” she said happily. “We have just enough grass for a goat, and the goat’s milk will be delicious for our supper. I can knit socks and a nightshirt from the goat’s wool. What a wise and thoughtful husband you are!”
“Then I traded the goat for a fat goose,” the farmer told her.
“Oh, my good husband, are we really going to have a fat goose in November for St. Martin’s Eve?” she asked. “You are always thinking of ways to please me.”
“I traded the goose for a hen,” the farmer said proudly, for now he realized how very well he had done.
“That was a good exchange,” said the wife. “Hens lay eggs and from eggs come little chicks. Soon we’ll have a real henyard and that is something I have always wanted.”
“But I traded the hen for a sackful of rotten apples.”
“Now I must kiss you, my dear husband!” his wife said, “for while you were away I decided to make a fine supper. I wanted to make an omelet with chives, but I had no chives. Our neighbor has some but she wouldn’t loan any to me. She declared that I could never return even so much as a rotten apple, because nothing grew in our garden. Now I can trade her many rotten apples. You have made the best bargain of all.”
The Englishmen held their sides with laughter. “From bad to worse and they don’t even know it. Always happy, always contented. It’s worth the money to see such people,” they said and gave the barrelful of gold coins to the farmer.
Yes, it pays for a wife to admit that her husband is clever. And now you know that “what father does is always right!”

Once there were two boys who lived next door to each other. Although they were of the same age, they couldn’t seem to get along together. Then one day, everything started to change. Here are the testimonies they recently gave at the Applewood Ward, Arvada Colorado Stake, where they are both deacons.
“Dear brothers and sisters, my talk is on friendship with my next-door neighbor, Shawn Bell, whom most of you know.
“When Shawn first moved next door, there was always trouble between us. The first day I saw Shawn, he threw a toy truck at me and hit me in the face, which gave me two scars, one underneath my nose and one above my left eye.
“When I was in kindergarten, I went to the morning class and Shawn went to the afternoon class. Shawn would wait for me on his way to school as I would be coming home. He would beat me and go on to school, and I would go home with a bleeding nose or a swollen lip.
“When I was nine, I was baptized into the Church. That’s when Shawn started going to church with me, and then last February he was baptized into the Church. Since Shawn and I have been going to Church together, we’ve acted like brothers and we’ve had fun in Scouts together. Scouting has helped Shawn and me do things together without much trouble.
“The meaning of this talk is the meaning of a fair friendship. I hope you, too, will bring one of your terrible enemies into the Church. I know the Church is true.” (Matt Taylor.)

There was a time before we were married when my wife, Kristi, was struggling to feel Heavenly Father’s love and to understand His plan for her. As she prayed for guidance, an impression came that she should attend institute, so she enrolled in a New Testament class. The way her institute teacher taught from the scriptures, even the way he held them, showed how much he loved the word of God. As she attended, the Holy Ghost whispered to her that there was something in the scriptures that she needed. Her teacher’s love for the scriptures and the promptings of the Holy Ghost gave her a desire to begin a serious study of the word of God—which became a lifelong journey of deep conversion and consecrated service.

Poao and Atalina Ahhow met while they were both single teachers at Sauniatu. After they were married, they decided to go to BYU—Hawaii Campus and get additional schooling. Atalina said she learned about being a good mother and teaching a family from watching the young people work on the various projects.
“I also learned that you need to check after a project is done. If it isn’t right, do it over,” she said.
Her husband, Poao, said that he learned leadership skills, and once he caught the vision of doing the impossible, he felt he could go away for additional schooling so he could become a better teacher. “I learned that sometimes when the work is very hard, if you make a joke and smile, it seems easier.”
Poao and Atalina struggled at BYU—Hawaii because they didn’t have much money. “We had learned to sacrifice while at Sauniatu, and the Lord blessed us for it. When we needed money to do our washing, we would visit a pool near the temple. Every time we needed a quarter for the washing machine, it was waiting for us in the pool. Sometimes more was there, but we only took enough to do our washing. When we didn’t need money, we never saw money in the pool. This is one way the Lord helped us,” Poao said.

Of all her designs, her most important project came as an assignment from President David O. McKay and Sister Belle S. Spafford, the Relief Society General President. They asked Rose Marie to help design temple clothing.
So instead of designing swimsuits in a large factory, Rose Marie set up her sewing machine in her own home. She spent hours cutting patterns and sewing white fabric. “This clothing is beautiful and sacred and precious,” she said. “Designing it is the most important calling of my life.”

Then he recalled the words of President Mohamed Siyad Barre. He had told the students before they were sent out to participate in this literacy campaign, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn).”

Haroon had been sure he had much to teach the nomads. He was eager to take the skills of reading and writing the Somali language to the nomads who made up over 70 percent of the Somali people.

In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.

Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.

“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is also a box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. llaah ha ku barakadeya. (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”

Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.

Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignored him.

Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And what do you know?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”

After they parted, Haroon reflected on Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro.”

That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.

Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”

But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.

Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.

One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.

Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”

He became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.

Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.

The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.

For many years, I have loved the story that President Packer has told about William E. Berrett’s boyhood Sunday School teacher. An elderly Danish brother was called to teach a class of rowdy boys. It didn’t seem like much of a fit. He didn’t speak the language very well; he still had a heavy Danish brogue; he was much older, with big farm hands. Yet he was to teach these young, rambunctious 15-year-olds. For all intents and purposes, it would not have seemed like a very good match. But Brother William E. Berrett used to say—and this is the part President Packer quotes—that this man taught them somehow; that across all those barriers, across all those limitations, this man reached into the hearts of those rowdy 15-year-old kids and changed their lives. And Brother Berrett’s testimony was “We could have warmed our hands by the fire of his faith.”

Tying shoes? Well, try doing it one-handed.
His drive to excel was magnified by the fact that he had to overcome unusual obstacles, like learning to tie those shoes.
“That took forever,” he says. “I didn’t tie my shoes until I was about 10. I’d just walk up to people and say, ‘Will you tie my shoe?’ Now I can do it pretty easily.”
Of course, his parents offered him an incentive. They told him that if he wanted the new pair of sneakers he was so eager to get, he would have to learn to tie them. So, though it wasn’t easy, he did it.

Before I left for that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, then a counselor in the First Presidency, talked to us missionaries and told us that people would love us. Then he added: “Now don’t get lifted up in the pride of your hearts and think that it is because you are better than other people. It will be because of what you bring to them.” When he made this statement, I could hardly understand what he meant, but before I left that mission, I understood.
As I visited the Saints in Amsterdam to bid them farewell, realizing that I might never see many of them again in this life, I shed a thousand more tears than I did when I left my loved ones to go to Holland. For instance, I called at the home of a family where my companion and I had been the first missionaries to visit their home, and the mother, a small woman, said with tears rolling down her cheeks, even down the front of her apron, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago [in those days the Church encouraged the Saints to immigrate to America; now it does not], but it is much harder to see you go.” Then I felt that I could understand what President Lund meant when he said: “The people will love you because of what you bring to them.”
I called on a brother who stood erect in the uniform of his country and who was old enough to be my father. He got down on his knees, took my hand in his, and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. I felt again that I could understand what President Lund meant when he said: “The people will love you because of what you bring to them.”

When I was 15, my father and I took a walk one Sunday evening. Suddenly, my father stopped and suggested that we go to the Mormon Church. I was surprised, but out of curiosity I went with him. The choir was singing a beautiful hymn. I had never heard anything so touching.
After the song, a missionary stood up and gave a talk about the Godhead. He later talked to my father and me for a few minutes.
I didn’t go back to church until one year later when I went to learn English from the missionaries. When each English class ended, we drifted into religious discussions. The missionaries taught me about the gospel and how to pray to God the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. They told me about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and many other gospel principles.
All this was so new to me, yet it had a familiar sound. I studied the scriptures intently and prayed sincerely for enlightenment, which was given to me.
My father noticed a change in me. But when he realized that I was getting serious about the Church, he became angry and forbade me to go to church. I went anyway. Frequently he sent my brother to bring me home in the middle of Church meetings.
When I turned 17, my father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted his approval to be baptized. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Never!”
By this time my parents had joined a different church. My father sent the church’s minister and others to talk to me, but I was firm in my testimony of the gospel. Father told me I was a disgrace to the family, and I was forced to leave home. I stayed at the home of a Relief Society sister for about a week. During that time my father’s heart was softened, and he allowed me to come home.
Within several months my father realized that nothing could take away the testimony I had of the gospel, so he gave his consent for me to be baptized. My joy and happiness were so great that they made a deep impression on my father. He even wanted to go with me to Oslo to attend my baptism.
All through this time, my mother didn’t say very much, but I could tell that she believed the gospel was true. We spent many hours talking about the gospel together.
However, the struggle was not over at home. My father wouldn’t listen to me. I put pamphlets on his nightstand, as he always read long into the night. I invited the missionaries to our home often, and they talked to my father, but nothing seemed to help.
One day my father asked me, “Do you ever pray?” I told him that I prayed every day that his eyes would be opened to the truthfulness of the gospel. He responded that it was all from the devil but then said, “Let’s pray together.”
I said, “All right, you pray to your God, and I will pray to my God, and we will see which answers first.” So we did.
Soon after that I started noticing that he was reading the pamphlets and the Book of Mormon. He went to church several times with me but would never talk about it or show me any change in his beliefs. Still, there was rarely a day when we didn’t discuss different principles of the gospel.
One day, after three years of this, he told me he was going to Oslo and wanted me to go with him. When we arrived at the station, one of the local elders was there. I asked him where he was going.
The elder said, “Don’t you know? I’m going to baptize your father.”
I cried and laughed! One month later my mother and youngest brother were also baptized. My sister and her husband joined the Church a short time later, as did three of my brothers.
Sara Elvira Eriksen’s faithful posterity in the Church now numbers in the hundreds. This account from her personal history was submitted by her children, Rose Anderson, Betty Farley, Aksel Tanner, and Janet Bylund.

A few weeks later, President Gordon B. Hinckley asked everyone in the Church to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year. Kim’s family started right away and read every night before saying their prayers and going to bed.
Grandma and Grandpa started to read the Book of Mormon at their house too. Grandpa got up early each morning, sat at the kitchen table, and read for a long time. He got so excited reading about the people in the Book of Mormon that he could hardly put the book down. He loved seeing how their lives were blessed when they followed the teachings of Jesus Christ. Grandpa read so much each day that he finished the book far before the end of the year. So he decided to read the Book of Mormon again.
When Grandpa finished the second time, he asked Grandma to call Kim, Cody, and Kate. “Tell them I did more than eat two cookies to go the extra mile. I loved the Book of Mormon so much that I read it two times before the end of the year!”

When I joined the Church, I didn’t fully understand the deep significance of the law of tithing. However, I knew and trusted you, Elder Dan Hawkley, and I made a promise to you to pay tithing. I could tell you were anxious that I should keep that promise.
In 1964 there was only one mission in Japan, the Northern Far East Mission. A few months after you taught me, you were transferred to a place far away from my small branch. As you left by express train, these were your parting words: “Dear Brother Hotta, pay your tithing and keep the Sabbath day holy.”
I could not forget the challenge I had been given. However, to be honest, I must admit that I was anxious to buy a beautiful and glittering Japanese Bible like the one you had. I wanted it to help me remember what I had been taught, as well as to remember the elder who had helped to teach me. But it was too expensive for me to buy one.
I reasoned that if I didn’t pay my tithing, I could obtain the Bible. Satan spoke in a whisper: “Buy it. It’s your money. Don’t worry.”
But, dear elder, I couldn’t forget your challenge. I knew it had come through the power of the holy priesthood and the Holy Spirit. I didn’t buy that Bible. I paid my tithing instead. And because I overcame that challenge, I came to really understand the meaning of tithing as a covenant between the Lord and myself.
A few months later, the postman visited us. He left a gift parcel for me. It was the size of a cake box. I opened the package and removed the Japanese Bible, beautiful and glittering, that you had sent me as a wonderful gift. I cried for joy at your deep love. Then I saw your note written on an inside page of the book:
“Dear Brother Hotta, hope you had a Merry Christmas. The work is really going well here in Gunma. Study hard. You can become an elder real soon now. Do me a favor and try to get to the temple in Hawaii. Isn’t the gospel wonderful? Love, Elder Dan Hawkley.”
Ever since that time, I have always paid my tithing. I have also been to the temple with my companion. And part of the reason I have been able to do so is because of the challenges and promises you made to me as a representative of the Lord.

Gaining a Testimony
Brad Barber, 14, Farragut Ward
It was about two years ago, and our family was driving home from Utah. I was talking to my mom. I had heard a bunch of people say that they had this burning feeling and they knew the Church was true. I told her that I had never felt anything like that. I asked her if I was too young to have something like that happen. She said I wasn’t too young. That night at the motel, when I was getting ready for bed, I prayed real hard about it. I asked the Lord if the Church was really true and if it was the right place for me to be. As soon as I was done, I felt that feeling that I had always heard about in sacrament meeting. I felt a warmness and happiness that said, “Everything’s okay.” It was peacefulness. I’ve heard it called a burning inside your chest. I guess that’s what it feels like. It makes you feel at ease with everything.

“Landscape Architecture,” read the cover on the merit badge pamphlet. It looked interesting. I said to myself, “Self: Let’s get the landscape architecture merit badge.” I didn’t realize that I had nearly sentenced myself to an early death.
About the first thing the pamphlet said to do was to visit with the merit badge counselor. But I lived seven miles southeast of Puckerbrush Junction in Boondocks County, Oregon*—and the telephone had not yet been invented.
So I said to myself, “You don’t need a merit badge counselor. After all, you’re big and strong and handsome and you don’t need help from anybody. Naw. You go ahead and knock out the requirements first, and then talk to the merit badge counselor.”
Well, that turned out to be a not-so-good decision.
Actually, I got along pretty well through requirements l-a and l-b and l-c. Soon I had whipped out 2-a and 2-b. Even 3-a wasn’t too bad. I got through 3-b all right.
And then came 3-c: “Build a retaining wall to terrace a slope. Fill in behind the wall with dirt. Plant flowers along the top of the wall.”
Hmmm. Terrace the yard, huh? With rocks or with wood? Build it how tall? Build it how long? (The sort of questions merit badge counselors are so good at answering.)
I checked with Mom, and now I know how the Great Wall of China came to be: Some poor Chinese Scout, working on a merit badge, must have asked his mother how big she wanted a rock retaining wall to be. Mom said she thought I should start at the porch with a five-foot-high wall and continue on toward the forest for four or five miles.
Piece of cake, right? Wrong.
After gathering up a bunch of stray rocks and stacking them up to form maybe six feet of wall, I decided the whole thing was a genuine botch. See, before you start stacking rocks, you need to take a shovel and dig back into the slope a few feet. (That’s so the ground at the base of the wall is level, right?)
Out came all the rocks. Then came the shovel work. Grunt. Scoop. Throw the dirt out of the way. Restack the rocks.
Naw. That’s no good either. The rocks were all shaped like watermelons. How do you get watermelons to stay stacked up?
I said to myself, “What if you took a sledgehammer and cracked the rocks open so there would be a flat side to each stone?”
Go get the hammer. (We’re talking 14-pound hammer—the kind that put John Henry in a pine box.) Whack the rocks. Whack them again. Watch them shatter into useless rubble.
But not all of them. Soon I learned that you have to find a natural crack in the rock, and then hammer on the crack. (That way you get nice, flat sides instead of broken rubble—sometimes.)
Stack them up. Hey, this is looking pretty good! But I’ve run out of rocks, and the wall is only maybe ten feet long.
No problem. This whole 11-acre farm is made up of male and female rocks and litters of rock puppies. But they’re all hiding back in the forest, and they’re mostly buried beneath the ground.
Take the wheelbarrow and the shovel and a six-foot-long steel bar, and go get ’em! After you’ve found a likely candidate, you dig all around it, then pry it out of the ground with the bar. Then you grunt and sweat and strain and try to get it into the wheelbarrow.
Now you lay the wheelbarrow down on its side next to the rock. Roll the rock partially into the wheelbarrow. Now sweat and strain as you lift the wheelbarrow and the rock into an upright position. Now center the rock in the wheelbarrow. Now push the wheelbarrow over rough ground back to the work site. Now collapse.
After a few million hours of this entertaining little game, I had a pretty good pile of rocks near my retaining wall. Then came the charming little dance with the 14-pound hammer and the six-foot steel bar. Find the natural crack in the rock. Whang on the crack with the hammer. Ding on it with the pointed end of the steel bar. Sweat like a hog.
Given enough of this, the rock usually would break more or less where it was supposed to, yielding two or three usable stones with flat surfaces (“dressed stones”) to face the front of the Great Wall.
And then I made an awful discovery: My wall wasn’t straight! I mean, it was close to straight, and it wasn’t really all that bad. But as you stood by the porch looking down the wall, there was a definite zigging and zagging. And the top was uneven enough to make a fellow seasick just looking at it.
Time to start over. Out came all the rocks. Then I took a piece of string and stretched it out about 50 feet toward the forest and tied it to a stake in the ground.
Now we’re cooking on the front burner, kids! Up went the rocks again into a medium-pretty-good-looking wall. Now I had an absolutely straight wall, and the top was exactly level.
But about this time Little Brother came toddling along the top of my wall in his diaper ensemble and did a two-and-one-half gainer with a full twist (difficulty 6.3) to the terrace five feet below. Little Brother wasn’t hurt—though he made plenty of noise—but Mom decided the Great Wall needed a set of stone steps (so Little Brother could go from one level to another without having to use a parachute).
Out came all the rocks back to about ten feet from the house. Get the shovel. Dig back into the dirt to make room for stone steps. Select the flattest stones for stair treads. Stack ’em up. Pull ’em out. Try again. Eventually, I got the stairs to where they looked about medium-pretty-good. Now back to the wall itself.
Out of rocks again. Back to the forest. Find a rock. Dig around it. Pry it up out of the ground. Roll it into the reclining wheelbarrow. Tilt the wheelbarrow up. Center the rock. Push the wheelbarrow to the work site. Break up the rock. Fall over dead.
Then go get another rock. And another. And another.
(Say, friends, guess what this sort of thing does for your biceps and your triceps and your quads and your pecs. Soon, when I got on the school bus, I had the girls gasping in astonishment at my mean, lean, steel-belted, rock-stacking machine of a body. It’s embarrassing, having to step over the bodies of fainting females.)
Anyway. When my wall was out to about 60 feet (I lie not!)from the porch, I made a startling discovery. That much rock wall, absolutely straight, looked … well, it didn’t look right.
Straight stone walls are what you put around prisons. I decided what I really needed were some graceful curves in my wall. (Is the Great Wall of China straight? Of course not—and now you know why.)
Time to tear it all out again for the 87th time. Clear back to the stairs. (No, I didn’t rebuild the stairs!)
Then take the shovel and reshape the dirt to accommodate a curving wall. Then stack up those idiot rocks again. Then fill in behind them again with dirt.
Did it look pretty good? I should hope to shout! It looked purely wonderful! (Eat your heart out, Chinese Scout!)
I said to myself, “I wonder how long this wall is.” My tape measure showed 72 feet of wall five-feet high, including a set of stone steps. But it didn’t look … finished.
I mean, over here you have a beautiful stone wall, and right next to it you have the wilderness. I looked at the thing, and I scratched my head, and then I looked at it some more.
After about a week of this, I figured out how to solve my problem. (With the help of a merit badge counselor, I could have had my answer in maybe ten seconds.) What I needed to do was to gradually taper the wall off so it would look like the wall just sort of grew out of the hillside.
Then I conned Mom into buying some gladiolus bulbs to plant in the fill dirt behind the Great Wall. Finally, I was finished with 3-c.
My stone wall had gone from medium-rotten to not-so-pretty-good to medium-pretty-good to about as handsome a wall as any 13-year-old Scout ever had built (including Chinese Scouts).
Make that 13-and 14-year-old Scouts. During the 11 months it took me to do 3-c, I had had a birthday.
The other requirements didn’t amount to much, and soon I was ready for the long-postponed visit with the merit badge counselor.
On Sunday after church, Brother Perry drove out Puckerbrush Road into Boondocks County to pass me off on the Landscape Architecture merit badge.
Brother Perry and I were sitting on a couple of lawn chairs near the stone stairs at the base of the stone wall as he asked me various questions. We got through l-a and l-b and l-c and so on down to 3-c.
“Now let’s see your retaining wall or terrace,” he said.
“Right behind you,” I said, pointing to the Wall.
“You helped your father build this?” he asked.
“I built it myself, sir,” I replied (with incredible modesty).
Brother Perry looked at me with one eye sort of squinted half shut and said something about “We believe in being honest. …”
“Really, sir,” I said. “I built it myself.”
“With some help from … ?”
“From no one, sir. Really. I did it myself.”
“After your father brought in the dressed stones for you?”
“No, sir. I even dressed the stones myself.”
“After your father brought the rough stones to the work site?”
“No, sir. I dug the stones in the forest and brought them here in the wheelbarrow.”
There was this long pause. Then Brother Perry said, “Young man, take off your shirt.”
I did. Brother Perry looked at my biceps and my triceps and my quads and my pecs.
Then he said, “Let me look at your hands.” I showed him two large, strong hands well-decorated with thick callouses. Finally, Brother Perry was convinced.
“Here,” he said. “Let me sign that thing. You’ve earned your merit badge, son. Except it ought to come with gold plating and oak-leaf clusters and be presented to you by the President himself.
“But there is one word of advice I’d like to give you: I’m glad you’ve worked so hard on this merit badge. But maybe it’s possible to do too much. Maybe you could have earned several merit badges for all your work, instead of just one.”
At the time I thought maybe Brother Perry was right. But now as I look back on it, I’m not so sure. Building the Great Wall of Oregon taught me some really important things about hard work and pride in doing a job right. And those lessons have helped me again and again—on my mission, in my college work, in my career, in my Church work. Even when the Great Wall is gone, the ability to work hard and to keep after something until it is right will remain.
And now I say to myself, “Aren’t you glad you really earned your merit badge?” And myself agrees.

This story happened in the USA.
Daniel lifted the lid off Grandpa’s old toybox and peeked inside. His cousins gathered around to see. They loved to play together at Grandpa’s house!
Inside were lots of old toys that Daniel’s mom and aunt had played with when they were kids.
“What are those?” Daniel’s cousin Noah pointed to six shiny, old-fashioned lawn darts. They had pointy ends and colored flags—some red and some yellow.
Daniel picked one up. “My mom told me about these,” he said. “You put a hoop on the lawn outside. Then you take turns throwing these up in the air and try to get them to land in the hoop.”
“Cool!” said Noah. He was already running to the yard to set up the game.
Soon Daniel and his cousins were launching the metal lawn darts in the air all around Grandpa’s yard. Daniel liked it when the darts landed hard and stuck in the grass.
“I bet I can throw mine higher than yours,” said Daniel’s cousin Lily.
The kids laughed and threw the darts higher and higher.
Then Daniel had an idea. “I bet I can throw mine all the way across the driveway and into the hoop!” he said. He ran to the other side of the driveway and threw the dart hard.
The dart flew high into the air, but it didn’t land in the grass. Instead it fell onto Aunt Robilyn’s brand-new car with a loud THUD.
“Oh no!” yelled Noah.
Daniel picked up the dart. There was a giant dent on the car where it had landed.
The kids looked at each other with dread. Then, without saying anything, they left the darts on the lawn and ran inside.
Later that afternoon, everyone went to their cars to go home. Daniel’s aunt noticed the dent on her car. “What happened?” she asked.
Daniel’s stomach felt heavy. But he didn’t say anything. He just climbed into the car and waved goodbye to his cousins.
On the drive home, Daniel sat quietly in the backseat. He tried to read his book. But he couldn’t focus. He felt sick inside about what happened. He knew being honest was the right thing to do. But telling the truth would be awful! His parents would be so mad at him. So would his aunt.
Then Daniel thought about his favorite scripture hero. Daniel in the Old Testament was thrown into the lions’ den for choosing the right. He was brave. Maybe Daniel could be brave too.
“Hey, Mom?” Daniel said. “I threw a lawn dart, and it hit Aunt Robilyn’s car and made the dent. It was my fault.”
Mom glanced at him in the rearview mirror. She wasn’t as mad as Daniel thought she would be. “Thanks for telling me the truth,” she said.
Daniel took a deep breath. “Can I call Aunt Robilyn when we get home?” he asked. “I want to say sorry. And I’ll work hard to earn the money to pay to fix her car.”
Mom smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
The heavy feeling in his stomach was gone, and Daniel felt peaceful. He had been brave enough to tell the truth. Because of Jesus Christ, he could repent and make things right.
How did Daniel feel when he told the truth and repented?
Illustrations by Josh Talbot

Even then, baptism was a challenge for Eliza, a humble woman who followed social rules and propriety. She prayed for someone to come baptize her, but no one came. When she heard of a meeting of the Saints about two miles from home, she asked her father’s permission to go and be baptized—as an adult, she respected her father, and he readily consented. At the meeting, there was no discussion about baptism, but Eliza gained courage to stand up and request the privilege. Before she could arise, a dark fear came over her. She pushed through the fear and was baptized in a nearby stream on April 5, 1835. “From that day to this I have not doubted the truth of the work,” she wrote.

When President M. Russell Ballard set me apart as the new president of the Provo Utah YSA First Stake, he provided a simple and specific assignment: “Go visit your leaders and members in their homes and apartments!” That was it; he gave no other training or assignments.
Coordinating our efforts with our bishops, we started on Tuesday, two days after our stake conference. As we ministered in our stake, we made mistakes, missed opportunities, and often thought, “I could have said that better” or “I wish we had asked a better question.”
Brigham Young University President Kevin J Worthen observed that “failing is a critical component of our eternal progress—our quest for perfection. And because of the Atonement we can—if we respond to failures in the right way—be blessed with a new kind of learning that allows our failures to become part of the perfecting process.”4
This was our experience as we learned to minister to the leaders and members of the stake and to others we met. As we continued ministering, the Lord began to put more and more people in our path.
On one occasion, one of my counselors, J. B. Haws, and I were walking between apartment complexes when we met a young man in the parking lot. We stopped to say hello and found out that he was moving out of our stake. We talked for a moment and discovered that he was a returned missionary facing questions about his faith. My counselor is a master teacher who connects with people easily. Answering questions like these was natural and normal for J. B. I could see in this young man’s eye a light that may have been missing for some time reappear as they talked.
It was obvious that J. B. was interested in him and in his questions and concerns. The young man opened himself up because J. B. showed compassion. My counselor’s “bowels were filled” with love, and he had a desire to understand this young man without judging him. J. B. asked if we could visit him once he settled into his new apartment. The young man nodded, mobile numbers were exchanged, and a promise to follow up with him was made.
Before we left, we asked if there was anything we could do to help. He said, “Stopping to say hello was one of the most important things you could have done for me today.” Later that evening, I thought to myself, “If J. B. and I had not been out ministering, we may never have met this young man.”
It seems the Lord knew that we would be ministering that evening, so He placed this young man in our path—trusting we would see him and minister to him.
When we desire to minister to all as we go about our daily lives, the Lord will place people in our paths because He trusts us that we will look up from our mobile phones, take a moment to smile at a stranger, or ask a question from someone we have met in the market or wherever we find ourselves at school, work, or church.
Image from Getty Images
Looking back on the Savior’s example in 3 Nephi, I discovered an important principle about ministering. As you will remember:
“It came to pass that when he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and their dumb, and with all them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him.
“And they did all, both they who had been healed and they who were whole, bow down at his feet, and did worship him; and as many as could come for the multitude did kiss his feet, insomuch that they did bathe his feet with their tears” (3 Nephi 17:9–10; emphasis added).
Notice that those ministering brothers and sisters who helped bring those they knew and loved closer to Jesus Christ also found themselves at the Savior’s feet, bowing, worshipping, and kissing and bathing His feet with their tears.
As we minister to all, we will see Christ healing emotional, spiritual, and physical wounds. And as we invite others to “come and see” and “come and help” in natural and normal ways, we will find our own wounds being healed too.

Karate instructor Mark Tyson couldn’t believe it when a “skinny little blond-headed kid” entered his gym and began winning competitions. But Joshua Bosse, Australian junior middleweight full contact champ, could. The 16-year-old priest attributes his discipline and fitness to following Church standards.
“Keeping the Word of Wisdom gives me an edge over my opponents who don’t,” says Joshua, who is an active seminary student in Tamworth, New South Wales. “The Church is great!”