Gospel Story Finder

Special education students and their buddies skate each Friday afternoon at the Bountiful Ice Rink, which is half a block from their school.

A buddy encouraged Trent to skate, and the ice immediately captivated him. As he progressed, Trent became a skating buddy to others. When one child was too timid to try, Trent said, “Come on. If I can do it, you can too.” He flashed his smile and soon had the boy gliding easily on the ice.

In October 2021 the Book of Mormon musical began its performances in The Millenium Centre in Cardiff. On the opening evening, I had the privilege of going to the Millennium Centre, along with Stake President Jason Spragg and Bishop Stefan Liassides of Cardiff Ward. We had all attended training in preparation for questions from the media or audience members.

We waited as the audience made their way out after seeing the show, where they were met by 40 missionaries in bright white shirts and missionary tags clearly in view. These young men and women stood firm in their beliefs and were a shining example to us who stood by. They were polite, friendly, and answered all questions. Some people stopped to listen and then while walking away would exclaim, “They are the real ones”. I remember seeing one young missionary run to his mission president in excitement proclaiming, “We need more, we need more!” He was referring to the pass-along cards, and leaflets with more information about the Church.

Due to COVID restrictions these missionaries had spent most of their mission working with social media to share the gospel and to contact people. Now they had the opportunity to meet face-to-face and to share their beliefs.

These young men and women were wonderful examples. Even though some people rushed past, or said they weren’t interested, the missionaries were not disheartened and carried on sharing what they knew to be true. How lucky we are to have real missionaries in each of our wards and stakes.

Ten dollars
When leaving Tonga for Hawaii in March 1960, my parents were still on their mission in Tongatapu. During this time in Tonga, members of the Church would sell everything they owned in order to earn the fare to go to New Zealand to attend the temple and receive temple ordinances. I knew my parents wouldn’t be able to go because they did not have enough money. So I made myself a promise - if I find some money in Hawaii, I will save it to send my parents to the temple. When we got to Hawaii we found that the Church took good care of us. They provided everything we needed, plus we were given ten dollars in cash every month so we could buy soda, ice cream, and go to the movie.
When I received my first $10, I remembered the promise I made. So I took it to Lola, my supervisor’s wife, and asked her to please make me a savings account and put this ten dollars in it, and told her what it was for. She helped me do that and also offered to donate an additional $10 a month to my account if I would come and clean their yard. Her neighbor found out what I was doing and offered to donate $10 to my account for cleaning her yard. There were others who also donated. By the summer of 1962, I collected enough money to send my parents to New Zealand to the temple. One of my brother’s wrote me a letter and said, it may seem that you love our parents more than we do, but that is just because you were in the position to help them to go to the temple, but we love them just the same.
These two stories, the $10 and the watermelon, show that with God, a penniless young man from Tonga can gather enough money to help do His will in sending his parents to the temple and finding eternal marriage.

On an early Monday morning, a group of willing volunteers gathered to help clean the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple. Assignments were given, and as several volunteers and I followed our assigned supervisor, we quickly realized she was leading us to the celestial room.
When we entered the room, we immediately noticed that the huge, tiered chandelier which normally hung high above our heads had been lowered near the floor. Our responsibility was to clean it. This was no small task, since the chandelier consisted of thousands of individual crystals! Each person was given white gloves, and we were shown how to remove the dust by carefully rubbing every crystal one by one between our gloved fingers. The delicate process was very labor intensive, but we enthusiastically went to work.
Several hours later, the newly cleaned chandelier sparkled radiantly! After admiring its beauty, we began cleaning the smaller chandeliers in the celestial room.
Suddenly something astonishing happened! The morning sun rose over the eastern mountaintop, and its bright rays shone directly through the large round window in the celestial room at the perfect angle to illuminate the magnificent chandelier. Each shiny crystal caught the sunlight, and innumerable prisms of light spontaneously scattered everywhere! Brilliant rainbows streamed across the floor, ceiling, furniture, walls, and the people, and some beams even danced through the air! We were catching rainbows in our hands! It was spectacular!
I have often pondered on that unforgettable moment and have come to understand more clearly that the light makes all the difference! Like the crystals, when we receive the light of the Son and reflect it outward, His light is magnified, and the joyful effects are astonishing!

In 1940, the only chapel in Laie burned down but because of restrictions caused by World War II, they were unable to start rebuilding it until 1948. The local church members decided to start a Hukilau as a fundraising activity for the new chapel.
Hundreds of visitors and island residents attended the first Laie Hukilau, which was held at Laie Bay, better known today as Hukilau Beach. The Polynesians demonstrated and sold arts and crafts, invited the visitors to help huki the nets at the appropriate time, served a traditional Hawaiian luau in the canoe house, and afterward entertained them with traditional Hawaiian and Samoan music and dance. That first Laie Hukilau was a huge success and it continued periodically over the next 20-plus years. It also clearly demonstrated to leaders at the Church that visitors were willing to drive from Waikiki to Laie to enjoy the warm hospitality of the Laie residents.
As a result of those earlier saints who "endured well" the desire to rebuild what is today known as the Back Chapel, situated next to the temple, they actively and creatively found a way to raise the needed funds but they also paved the way for the creation of The Polynesian Cultural Center which first opened its gates on October 12, 1963. Now, more than 33 million visitors have experienced that same aloha spirit, from the days of the Laie Hukilau. Many of the old Laie Hukilau performers were among the early PCC workers and villagers. The Lord truly does bless those who learn to "endure it well" (see www.polynesia.com).

At the age of two I was in a farming accident that left me paralyzed from the waist down. However, I was fortunate enough to be raised in a family who overlooked the disability and treated me just like everyone else.
We always enjoyed swimming at the local pool. One evening at the pool, when I was about 9 or 10, as I “walked” up and down the edge of the pool (my weightlessness in the water allowed me for a short time to be like everybody else), I watched my family laughing, splashing, and diving from the sides. My brother Robert, who is two years older than I am, thought I was not having as much fun as the rest, so he decided to help me. He told me to hold on to his shoulders, and he would swim me over to the far side of the pool. He said it would be fun. He was right; it was fun. I played on the other side, and as long as my feet could touch the bottom, I felt safe and secure.
Then Robert came to take me back. This time he veered from the shallow end, and I was soon in deep water. Suddenly he stopped and with a quick movement he turned and pulled my arms off of his shoulders and said, “OK, now swim.” Then he let go, and it was a matter of sink or swim. I sunk! Robert thought for sure I would swim. Luckily my dad had been keeping an eye on us, and he was at my side instantly. I grabbed onto his strong shoulders, and he led me back to the shallow end of the pool. As a result of that experience, I developed a fear of the water. I would still go with my family on these outings, but I would usually watch from the safety of the poolside deck chairs.

It was the hardest letter I had ever written. Not knowing how it would be received, I struggled to find the right words.
It had been five years since I last communicated with my ex-husband’s mother. I was now remarried and trying to offer the love of four children to a grandmother who hadn’t seen or heard from them in all that time.
“Do what you feel you must do,” my husband said, although he didn’t like the idea too well. “Don’t start something you might regret later,” my mother told me.
But there was something else prompting me—a different spirit that said, “You must let her know that her only grandchildren are alive, well, and happy.”
So I wrote the letter. Offering to put aside our past, I spoke of future visits with loved grandchildren and friendship with our family. I included the children’s school pictures.
Grandmother June was in the hospital when the letter arrived. Following surgery, she had developed an infection that slowed her healing and was the start of a deep depression. She had had an unhappy life, and no one was really surprised when she seemed to give up the will to live. Days went by as she lay there, uncaring and unfeeling.
Bill, her husband, brought her cards and letters as they arrived, but it didn’t seem to help. A few days before Thanksgiving a priest came to administer last rites. There was not much hope for her recovery.
That day, when Bill brought the mail in, June took an interest in one of the letters. He opened it, spilling the children’s photographs onto the bed. Both of them reached at once for the pictures. Bill kissed them again and again. June was too weak to do more than look at the treasure and weep.
Later in the afternoon she told a surprised nurse, “I’m hungry. Please bring me something to eat.” With a new will to live, June sat up in bed for the first time in many days. Soon she was strong enough to answer my letter. She was overjoyed to read about the children, happy to forget about past problems, and excited about seeing her grandchildren again.
We drove to Pennsylvania that summer and visited June and Bill, sharing together a great gift of love and gratitude. I don’t know that my letter saved her life, but I do know that the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to write. And I am deeply thankful that the Spirit urged me to do it when I felt like not doing it.

Some months ago, I was able to get in touch again, through a video conference, with one who used to be a very good friend in the past—but with whom I had no contact for nearly two decades. He had made some decisions in his life which caused many of his “good” friends, including myself, to decide not to be close to him anymore. During this video conference we were trying to catch up for nearly 20 missing years of our lives. He then called his younger son, who appeared in front of the screen smiling, and he said pointing at me: “Son, I want you to meet your dad’s very best friend!” At that moment I felt a mixture of joy for learning that he still considers me his best friend—and pain for knowing that I had left him alone, perhaps when he needed me the most. We have, since then, reignited the flame of our precious friendship.

When I was 22, I had an opportunity to work at a center where I served girls who had experienced abuse and neglect. I felt sorry for them. I saw how the abuse broke their hearts and destroyed their love for themselves. Some of them attempted suicide. Some of them didn’t want to trust anyone. Many of them had no hope in life and didn’t feel the Savior’s love.
I often asked myself, “Could these abuses have been prevented? What if their perpetrators had received the gospel? What if their parents had become members of the Church before these girls were born?” I realized that these girls might not have experienced these trials if their parents and perpetrators had received and lived the gospel.
Reflecting on these questions and working at the center helped me see that all people need the gospel. Just as the army of Helaman in the Book of Mormon fought to defend their faith and families, the Lord needs full-time missionaries to share His gospel and protect His kingdom.
The experiences I had with the girls at the center inspired me to walk the path where the Lord wanted me to go. I decided I needed to join the Lord’s missionary army. He saw this desire, and I was called to serve in the Philippines Cauayan Mission.

It happened by accident—literally.
After his wife hit a car in the parking lot at Caesar Rodney High School in Delaware, where they are both teachers and coaches, basketball coach Jeff Savage offered to pay for the damage.
“I told the young man who owned the car to get two estimates for the work to be done and I would give him a check for it,” says Coach Savage. He pretty much forgot about the incident, until the boy returned and gave him a check for $100.
“He told me the work had cost $100 less than the estimate, and that I should have the difference back. I was so impressed with this act that I told my team.”
After practice, three LDS boys on the team, Frankie Victory, Mark Lee, and Jason Badell, told him the boy was a member of the LDS church and had returned the money because he knew it was the right thing to do.
That small incident aroused the coach’s curiosity, a curiosity the boys were prepared to satisfy with missionary work.
The boys never missed an opportunity to show the coach how much they loved their religion. One day, for example, during a difficult practice, priest Mark Lee seemed to be having trouble holding on to the ball.
“I said ‘Lee, hold on to that ball like it was the Book of Mormon.’ Mark caught the next five passes,” says Coach Savage.
At the end-of-the-year basketball banquet, Frankie, Mark, and Jason, seized another opportunity to share their religion. They presented their coach with a gift, a Book of Mormon.
“We hope you’ll hold on to this book like you would hold on to a basketball,” read the inscription from the three boys.
The coach did more than that. Not only did he hold on to the book; he read it and believed it. Not long after he received his gift, he and his family were baptized.
Whether serving the Lord full-time, as Frankie is now doing in Tempe, Arizona; awaiting a mission call like Mark; or simply setting an example for their friends and teachers at school like Jason, these boys know the meaning of the phrase “Every member a missionary.”

I used to leave the house at 8:00 a.m. and return at midnight after working all day and going to class at night. During the little time my husband, Daniel, and I had together, we argued. Things were bad. We were on the verge of separating.
One Sunday evening after an argument, Daniel said, “Maybe we should get closer to God.” The next day, while Daniel was home watching our son, missionaries knocked on our door.
When the missionaries started visiting us, I disagreed with everything they taught. But after a few lessons, we began to feel something. We didn’t know what it was, but we described it as “magical,” a feeling of peace and harmony. It would linger even after the missionaries left. We realized that we needed that feeling more often in our home.
Inspired by the missionaries’ message about the importance of family, Daniel and I came closer together in our marriage. I had hoped that going to school would lead to a better position at my work. But we decided to focus on our family, spend more time together, and have more children. I quit school, quit my job, and went to work as Daniel’s secretary at his pest control business.
Less than three months after the missionaries’ first visit, we were baptized and confirmed. Our life changed dramatically. We began living the law of tithing. We began praying at home and at work with Daniel’s employees. We began serving in the Church. Daniel’s business grew, and he needed to hire more workers.
A year after our baptism, we went to the temple to be sealed. A few days after our sealing, I found out I was expecting.
Sundays aren’t easy for us. Daniel leaves early for high council meetings. I have to prepare our three children for church by myself. But we are able to share a lot of time together throughout the week. So even if we are apart at times on Sunday as we serve the Lord, we know that we are blessed.
We have gained a testimony that when we do our part, the Lord can help us, and blessings come. We have received a lot more than we had ever hoped for from our own plans. The Lord had better things in mind for us.

President Clark: When I was about four years old, my mother took me shopping in downtown Salt Lake City. While my mother was shopping, I wandered off to explore the store. Very soon I was lost. I can still remember what I felt. I was frightened and worried and very sad. I must have started to cry because one of the clerks found me. It was not long before I saw my mother coming for me.
As my mother held me in her arms, feelings of happiness and joy flooded my little boy heart and soul. I was just a small child, but the Lord blessed me with a taste of the joy and happiness of heaven in my mother's love and in the safety of her arms.

While still serving in the Seattle mission, I received a phone call from my oldest son, Sunbeam, who is a pianist. He said he would have the privilege of performing at Carnegie Hall in New York because he won an international competition. We were so happy and very thrilled for him. However, that evening, while praying with gratitude, my wife recognized that we could not join him for his performance and said to Heavenly Father something like this: “Heavenly Father, I am grateful for the blessing Thou hast given to Sunbeam. By the way, I am sorry that I cannot go there. I could have gone if Thou had given this blessing either before or after this mission. I am not complaining, but I have a little feeling of sorry.”
As soon as she finished this prayer, she heard a clear voice: “Because you cannot go, your son has been given this privilege. Would you rather trade?”
My wife was surprised. She knew children would be blessed through their parents’ faithful work in the Lord’s kingdom, but it was the first time she understood her role with such clarity. She replied to Him right away: “No, no, it is OK for me not to go. Let him have that honor.”

I was 15 when I learned a truth about my talents—or more precisely, my lack thereof—in one particular area: I couldn’t sing.
I’d tried out for a community play, and my a cappella solo sounded so bad that halfway through an accompanist came up and started playing along out of pity. After that, I vowed nobody would hear me sing again. It was time to move on and find another hobby because one humiliating experience was plenty.
However, my big brother Dan, who was an incredible singer, had other plans. Months after my audition, he asked why I was so terrified of singing lately.
“I’m horrible,” I told him. “I can’t sing.” Dan didn’t believe me. Despite my protests, he convinced me to sing something right there. I was nervous.
I can’t recall what I sang, but it was short, barely audible, and seemed proof that I had no discernible singing talent. What Dan said next, I’ll remember the rest of my life. “There,” he told me, “I knew you had a good voice. You just have to practice.”
In Doctrine and Covenants 38:25 we are taught to “let every man esteem his brother as himself.” If Dan had made fun of me and my singing, as many older siblings might have done, he certainly would have ensured my singing silence, perhaps for a lifetime. Instead, Dan lifted me up. He encouraged me.
In the end, I followed his advice and practiced. To my surprise, I gradually improved. Singing became a great joy in my life. I sang in many choirs throughout high school and then in college and beyond. Singing remains one of my deepest joys.
The Savior taught: “Behold, do men light a candle and put it under a bushel? Nay, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light to all that are in the house” (3 Nephi 12:15). I’ve been able to let that light shine, enjoying and sharing music for many years now, but I never could have done it without the encouragement of my brother Dan.

I had often seen the battered old green truck sitting in the field under the big, scraggly elm trees that surrounded a broken-down cabin. Nobody lived on the ranch now, but I liked to explore the area, looking for old relics.
The day Sam went down there with me was one of those hot, lazy summer days when you’re restless for something to do. Sam had brought his BB gun. My dad would never let me have one. He said that they were only good for mischief.
When Sam and I came to the ranch lane, we turned in and wandered over to the pond, which was muddy around the edges and covered with algae.
“What this pond needs is some ducks,” I said. “They’d clean it up.”
“Right,” Sam agreed, raising his gun to his shoulders and aiming at nothing, “and I could clip them off with my trusty gun.”
We walked over to the truck and sat on the running board in the shade. We pulled up blades of field grass and chewed on the ends and looked out across the field.
“Who owns this truck?” Sam asked. “Your dad?”
“No,” I said, “one of my uncles.”
“Does it run?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sam stood up and walked around the truck, examining it. “It’s pretty old and beat up. I guess he’s just junked it down here.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I said as I looked at the truck. The tires still had air in them, and nothing looked broken, just old.
“Let’s take a few shots at it,” Sam said enthusiastically.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just for fun,” replied Sam. “The truck’s no good. It won’t hurt anything. Come on, move out of the way.”
I followed him out a little way into the field, where he raised his gun and shot a hole through the truck’s windshield. The sun glistened on the hole and the small sparkling cracks spreading out from it.
“Now, see how close you can come to my hole,” Sam said, handing me the gun. I hesitated, then raised the gun and shot. I made another hole, not very close to his. We took turns for a while until the windshield was full of holes. Sam shot a couple of times at the headlight. It was fun, in a way, to hear the craack! when one of us hit the mark, but a very uneasy feeling was creeping over me. “Let’s go now,” I said finally.
“We’re just getting a good start on this thing,” Sam said. “We can shoot it as full of holes as a sieve.” He laughed and raised his gun again.
“Look,” I said, getting a little angry. “It’s my family’s property, and I say we’re leaving.”
Sam lowered his gun, looked at me a minute, and shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say.”
The next day our family left for our vacation to Yellowstone Park. We had a great time on our trip, looking at geysers and boiling mud pots and beautiful scenery. The day after we got home, my dad asked me to go down to the ranch with him to clear out the irrigation ditch. We climbed into the old blue pickup and headed for the ranch. After turning off the dirt road, we bumped across the field in the direction of the old truck.
Suddenly Dad put on the brakes and leaned forward. “What in thunder happened to that!” he exclaimed, nodding toward the truck. He slowly drove over to it, and we both got out. I was as surprised as Dad was. The hood was open, and wires were hanging out on both sides. The carburetor was in pieces and scattered on the ground. Looking inside, we saw that the radio was gone and that the instrument panel on the dashboard had been smashed in. The seats had been slashed. My dad turned and looked at me quizzically, but surprise showed clearly on my face too.
“This must have happened while we were gone,” he said. “I drove down around this way before we left and didn’t notice any damage to the truck.”
I heaved a big sigh of relief. He didn’t suspect me at all. I wasn’t guilty, anyway, I told myself. I certainly hadn’t done all this damage. I thought that my dad might ask me if I had any idea who had done it, but he didn’t.
That night at dinner Dad told Mom about the truck. “This is going to make a hardship on Uncle Cy,” he said.
I looked up quickly, my roast beef dry in my mouth. “Did the truck run, Dad?” I asked. “I’ve never seen Uncle Cy driving it.”
“Sure it did. He drives his car to get around, but he uses—used—the truck for hauling hay and garbage, things like that.”
“It looked so old and worn out.”
My dad looked at me sharply. “It was old,” he said, “but it served his needs. He sure can’t afford to buy a new one. He only has his retirement, nothing extra.”
Suddenly even Mom’s gooseberry pie didn’t look very good. I picked at my dinner a little more.
“Sometimes, Son,” my father said, startling me, “something isn’t very valuable in itself, but it has value for the person who owns it.” He looked at me so closely that I wondered if he knew, after all.
I excused myself and went out into the backyard and sat under the spreading branches of the willow tree. Uncle Cy had always been good to me. He was my grandpa’s brother, and he lived by himself in a tiny house with a coal stove and a big sheepdog. Mom took dinners to him sometimes. I still had a little horse that he had whittled for me.
I kept telling myself that I hadn’t really ruined Uncle Cy’s truck. The windshield and the headlight could have been replaced. Still, I felt responsible and guilty. Finally I came up with a plan.
On Saturday I went up to see Uncle Cy as soon as it stopped raining.
“Michael!” he said, slapping me on the back. “Glad to see you. Sit down a minute. I need an excuse to rest.” He motioned to a weathered gray bench under an old apple tree, and we sat down. “The rain was refreshing,” he said, wiping his forehead with a blue bandanna, “but it’s still hot.”
It was hot, all right, but I felt a chilly feeling in my stomach as I mumbled, “I was sorry to hear about your truck.”
Uncle Cy stuffed his bandanna into his pocket thoughtfully. “I was too. I don’t know how I’ll get hay to my horses this winter. I like to pasture them down at the ranch, where there’s water.”
“Well,” I said, shifting my weight carefully on the splintered boards of the bench, “maybe I could help you with that. I thought that maybe I could haul the bales in our wheelbarrow.”
Uncle Cy looked at me, and his old blue eyes were shining. “Michael,” he said, patting my leg, “that’s mighty thoughtful of you. Maybe we can work that out if I can get my hay hauled down there and into one of the sheds.”
“Dad will do that with his truck, I’m sure.” I didn’t look right at him. “I thought I could help with the garbage, too—maybe help you dig a hole to put cans and stuff in. We could burn the rest.” I was talking fast, and my palms were wet.
“That would be wonderful, Michael, but I couldn’t pay you very much.”
“Oh,” I said, looking up quickly into his ruddy face, “I don’t want to be paid. I just want to help.”
He looked steadily at me, and I looked at the grass and dandelions. “You’re a fine boy, Michael. Your dad can be real proud of you.”
I glanced up at Uncle Cy and saw tears shining in his eyes. I smiled at him, then took off up the lane.
As I neared home, my mind felt easier. I would help Uncle Cy with his work, and no one would ever need to know about my part in damaging his truck. But as I remembered his face and how pleased he was with me, something uncomfortable stirred in the back of my mind.
The next week school started. I went up to Uncle Cy’s two nights after school, and we dug the hole. I helped him smash cans and dump them into the hole. I burned garbage and cleaned up around his yard. When I’d finished, Uncle Cy put an arm around my shoulders. “I always thought that you were a good boy, Michael,” he said, “but I didn’t know how good until now.”
On Saturday we hauled Uncle Cy’s hay down to the ranch. The three of us loaded it, and Dad and I took it down. After we stacked the bales in an old shed, we sat down on the end of the truck bed and took a drink of cool water from Dad’s canteen.
“Uncle Cy’s really touched by all the help you’ve been giving him,” Dad said, “and I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”
I said nothing. The battered truck sat nearby in the sunlight accusingly, its wires hanging out like some wounded thing.
“Anything you want to tell me, Son?” Dad said quietly.
Suddenly, in a big relieving rush, I blurted it all out. “I don’t know who finished it off for sure,” I concluded. “Probably Sam and maybe someone else.”
Dad didn’t say anything for a while. He looked out over the fields.
“I guess you’re pretty disappointed in me,” I finally ventured.
“Well,” he said, “at least I’m glad that you told me. I kind of wondered if you knew something about it. What’re you going to do now?” he said.
I swallowed hard. “I thought that I was doing something about it, helping Uncle Cy out and all.”
“Yeah, that’s something, all right. But I wondered if you were going to tell him too.”
“Oh, Dad, do I have to?”
“No, you don’t have to. You didn’t have to tell me.”
“He thinks I’m such a great kid. If I tell him, he’ll know that I’m just a vandal.”
Dad laughed a little. “Maybe his opinion won’t be that bad. What you think of yourself is the most important, and I have a hunch that you’ll like yourself better if you tell him. Another thing, Sam needs a chance to make amends too. Maybe the two of you can haul those bales this winter.”
Dad was right. I felt as though a big weight had been lifted off my chest after I talked to Uncle Cy later that afternoon. Blackbirds called from the pond, and a meadowlark sang from the power lines as Dad and I climbed into the truck and drove home.

When it was time for me to go on a mission, I was very excited to serve the Lord. Just before I was to leave, however, I found out that I had bone cancer. The chance of living long enough to serve a mission wasn’t very high. I had faith that the Lord would provide a way if he wanted me to go. My father gave me a blessing in which I was told that I would serve my mission in Mexico, serve in the Church all my life, and have a family. My right arm had to be amputated above the elbow, but my life was spared, and the promises I was given have all been fulfilled.

The following story may help those of you who might question if you have the talents we speak of.
The famed naturalist of the last century, Louis Agassiz, was lecturing in London and had done a marvelous job. An obviously bright little old lady, but one who did not seem to have all the advantages in life, came up and was spiteful. She was resentful and said that she had never had the chances that he had had and she hoped he appreciated it. He took that bit of a lacing very pleasantly and turned to the lady and, when she was through, said, “What do you do?”

She said, “I run a boarding house with my sister. I’m unmarried.”

“What do you do at the boarding house?”

“Well, I skin potatoes and chop onions for the stew. We have stew every day.”

“Where do you sit when you do that interesting but homely task?”

“I sit on the bottom step of the kitchen stairs.”

“Where do your feet rest when you sit there on the bottom step?”

“On a glazed brick.”

“What’s a glazed brick?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Fifteen years.”

Agassiz concluded, “Here’s my card. Would you write me a note when you get a moment about what a glazed brick is?”

Well, that made her mad enough to go home and do it. She went home and got the dictionary out and found out that a brick was a piece of baked clay. That didn’t seem enough to send to a Harvard professor, so she went to the encyclopedia and found out that a brick was made of vitrified kaolin and hydrous aluminum silicate, which didn’t mean a thing to her. She went to work and visited a brick factory and a tile maker. Then she went back in history and studied a little bit about geology and learned something about clay and clay beds and what hydrous meant and what vitrified meant. She began to soar out of the basement of a boarding house on the wings of words like vitrified kaoline and hydrous aluminum silicate. She finally decided that there were about 120 different kinds of glazed bricks and tiles. She could tell Agassiz that, so she wrote him a little note of thirty-six pages and said, “Here’s your glazed brick.”

He wrote back, “This is a fine piece of work. If you change this and that and the other, I’ll prepare it for publication and send you that which is due you from the publication.” She thought no more of it, made the changes, sent it back, and almost by return mail came a check for 250 dollars. His letter said, “I’ve published your piece. What was under the brick?”

And she said, “Ants.”

He replied (all of this by mail), “What’s an ant?”

She went to work and this time she was excited. She found 1,825 different kinds of ants. She found that there were ants that you could put three to the head of a pin and still have standing room left over. She found that there were ants an inch long that moved in armies half a mile wide and destroyed everything in their path. She found that some ants were blind; some ants lost their wings on the afternoon they died; some milked cows and took the milk to the aristocrats up the street. She found more ants than anybody had ever found, so she wrote Mr. Agassiz something of a treatise, numbering 360 pages. He published it and sent her the money and royalties, which continued to come in. She saw the lands and places of her dreams on a little carpet of vitrified kaolin and on the wings of flying ants that may lose their wings on the afternoon they die. [Jeffrey R. Holland, “Borne upon Eagles’ Wings,” in Speeches of the Year, 1974 (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1975), pp. 402–3; see also Marion D. Hanks, The Gift of Self (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1974), pp. 151–53]

First you’ll have to have a desire to quit. I’m a convert, and before I joined the Church I had this problem myself. After being baptized, I got a strong feeling of meekness, so I pulled the swearing down to zero. But my resolution started wearing thin as I continued being exposed to the world. At that point I had to remind myself that our Savior was always with me. I was his host, and I resolved to do my best not to offend him by my language.
Jeffry Adams, 17Salt Lake City, Utah

One day at school before I was eight, they were inspecting our hands and nails to see if they were clean, and the principal saw my CTR ring (“HLJ” in Spanish). After the principal checked the rest of my row, she came back to me and said, “Rebeca, come with me to the principal’s office.” Then she said to my teacher, “Can I take Rebeca for a while?”
In her office, she asked me what the ring meant. I said, “Choose the right.” I explained that at church they teach us to do good, pray, and read the scriptures. She asked which church I went to, and I said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Then she asked me what that church was about, and I told her about Joseph Smith going into a grove to pray and seeing the Father and the Son. I told her about going to the temple to be sealed to my parents and that I would be baptized when I was eight. She said, “You can tell me more later.”
Later I took the principal a copy of the Book of Mormon with my testimony inside.

I live with my family in Bacolod City on the island of Negros, one of the many islands that make up the nation of the Philippines. Our home happens to be located near a rehabilitation center for people with disabilities.
I will never forget something that happened in 1992, when I was in the sixth grade. I had gone home for lunch, and I was in a hurry to get back to school. While crossing the street, I happened to notice some nursing students from one of the local professional schools. They were laughing. I wasn’t sure why until I saw him—the blind man. After I had crossed the street, he was almost at my side.
I had to wait there for the jeepney, a public transportation vehicle, to come. The blind man realized I was there and called out, “Friend, could you call a taxi for me?”
For some reason, I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. I thought that if I helped him, the people across the street might make fun of me, too. Besides, I was afraid of him. In addition to being blind, he had other physical disabilities; he couldn’t seem to control one side of his body. I moved away from him slightly. Maybe he won’t hear me, I thought. Maybe he will decide he just imagined someone was here.
But it didn’t work. Even after I distanced myself from him, he knew I was still there. Over and over, he asked me to help him. I tried to be even quieter. If I could only stop breathing! I thought.
I was grateful when I saw the jeepney approaching. I got in quickly and left the blind man standing in the street. I told myself: Nobody knows about this. Nobody knows except me and that man, and he doesn’t even know who I am. But I knew I had acted very inconsiderately.
After I got to school, I couldn’t stop thinking about the blind man. I tried to concentrate on my lessons, but my mind was uneasy. Nobody knows. There’s no way he could ever recognize me.
When I went home, I decided to tell my mother what had happened. “Why did you let that opportunity pass?” she asked. “There is Someone who always knows. He expects us to help one another.”
Later I remembered my sister. She is mentally disabled. How would I feel if someone treated her like that? I cried as I remembered what I had done.
When I was in my first year of high school, I was given a chance to correct my mistake. As before, I was preparing to cross the street. I was really in a hurry because I could see an old friend on the opposite side. I wanted to catch up with her, and I called out to her.
To my surprise, I heard a voice behind me, a familiar voice. I looked back and saw the same blind man. He had heard me calling to my friend. Of course, he did not know I was the same person who had refused to help him once before. He asked again for my help.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I called a taxi for him and helped him get in. He thanked me briefly. When he was gone, I looked across the street. I had missed my friend, but I didn’t mind. I was happy that Heavenly Father had given me a second chance to help that man.
I’m in my third year of high school now, but I still remember what I learned from the blind man. I know that God loves all of us. And even if we think nobody can see the things we do, he always knows what choices we make—and he is always willing to help us make the right ones.