Gospel Story Finder

I once ordained a patriarch who was overcome with the responsibility. For months he could not get himself to give a blessing. Finally, he asked his stake president if he might write a paragraph as a model introduction to any patriarchal blessing. The stake president approved.
Later he told me this: “When the first young man came for a blessing, because I had memorized this prepared introduction, I felt comfortable. I laid my hands on his head, and I did not use one word of it. That day I learned whose blessings they are. They are not my blessings but are dictated by the Spirit.”

Some months ago I spent a week at a management seminar in Atlanta, Georgia. One of the guest lecturers was Dr. James Gill—a remarkable individual. He heads the Department of Health Services at Harvard University. He spent twelve years in preparation as a Catholic priest, went on to medical school to become a physician, and then pursued a specialty in psychiatry. He made the comment that, to many people, we are living in a time that is considered the age of entitlement. He said that all his life somebody was trying to make something out of him. His parents were trying to make a good boy out of him, his teachers were trying to make a good student out of him, his coaches were trying to make a good ball player out of him, and, in the military service as a navy pilot, they were trying to make a good pilot out of him. He went to Marquette University, and addressing that freshman class on the opening day the head physician said, “You want to be a doctor? You want to be a good doctor? All right, if you’re successful, this is what will happen. First of all you will have to spend at least four hundred hours in the library. You will have to cut up a cadaver at least once a week until you know every joint, every muscle, every bone contained in that human body. We have one of the finest faculties of anatomy anywhere in the United States. You will have to pick their brains and seek them out to try to gain from their experience. Now you should understand something,” he said. “We don’t check on you to see if you’re attending class. If you want to stay home and sleep that’s your business. We won’t call your folks. There are so many people waiting to take your place here that we couldn’t care less whether you attend class or not. And so, just remember that sometime you will have to certify as a doctor. You will have to pass some very stiff boards, and you must use every resource you have in order to make it.”
Dr. Gill said, “For the first time in my life I realized that somebody had put the monkey squarely on my back and I was almost entirely responsible for the results. I don’t mind telling you I was pretty frightened, but I was also thrilled and provoked by the opportunity.”

My wife has an aged aunt in Brigham City. She is the last of fourteen children. Perhaps seventy-five years ago, Millicent took her little brothers and sisters to town to see the Peach Days Parade. With excitement they walked the long way to town. They hadn’t been there long when a horse-drawn water wagon came along, sprinkling the streets to settle the dust. They watched it in awe and were greatly impressed. When it had passed they went home. They thought the parade was over. They were quite satisfied, until they learned the difference.

I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers in Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half,” to which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only 80 in my home town.”
That evening at our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted, but when it’s all over you will say, ‘These have been the happiest two years of my life.’” My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly: “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”
This young missionary was short in stature but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he soon called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the Spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”
The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.”
At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his “green” companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony born by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet; he did translate the Book of Mormon; he saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”
Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”

The young members of the Staines England Stake were studying the life and teachings of Jesus Christ when their teacher presented a lesson on parables with a new twist: based on experiences in their everyday lives, the students were to write their own parables.
Bishop David S. Baxter of the Kingston-Upon-Thames Ward, the course instructor for the young adults, explained that members of his class followed Christ’s example of looking at life around them and drawing analogies between what they saw and spiritual truths.
Both the students and the teacher were so satisfied with the parables written that they had them printed and stapled together in a booklet. Some of the parables included:
“The Manager and the Firm,” by Ivan Holding of the Addlestone Branch. This tells of a manager who left strict instructions about running the business with his assistants when he left on vacation. The assistants didn’t follow his instructions but tried to do things their own way. When the manager returned, he was angry because his workers hadn’t followed his guidance.
“The Parable of the Musician,” by Tom Smith of the Kingston Ward. Presented in his parable are two music students, one who practiced diligently and one who didn’t. The musician who didn’t practice was eventually dismissed from school.
“Parable of a Little Boy,” by Jill Greenfield of the Slough Ward. Jill wrote of a woman who watched a lady on the other side of the street send her five-year-old son to school alone each day. The woman thought the mother was negligent until she found out the mother was staying home to take care of another child who was an invalid.
“The Parable of the Centrifuge,” by Caroline Vincent of the Staines Ward. Described here are the difficulties encountered by a technician who tried to service the centrifuge himself instead of having a factory authorized service representative do the work. As a result he voided his warranty. “Anyone could have the (servicing) handbook, but only one company had the authority,” the story said.
Bishop Baxter says he plans to use the parable writing lesson again in the future.

James Sweeney taught psychiatry at Tulane University in New Orleans, Louisiana. He directed the school’s biomedical computer center. He had a staff ranging from data programmers to maintenance workers. Sweeney believed he could take even a poorly educated man and, with the right motivation, make him into a competent computer operator. He convinced George Johnson, a janitor at the facility, to spend his free afternoons learning about computers.
Johnson was progressing rapidly when a university administrator told Sweeney the project must stop. All computer operators must pass an IQ test before entering the center. Johnson took the test and flunked. The results indicated he did not have the capacity to learn to type, much less run a computer.
But Sweeney convinced the university officials to allow Johnson to stay on, promising positive results. Within months, Johnson was so proficient at programming that he was asked to train new employees.
Both Johnson and Sweeney succeeded because they were willing to stick with it. As you search for a career, you may find that there is something you feel compelled to do. You will also find that it will become easier as you work at it, that it will become something that you’re good at.

“About a year ago I was on assignment in Beirut, Lebanon. While there, I learned about a 12-year-old girl, Sarah. Her parents and two older siblings had converted to the Church in Romania but were then required to return to their homeland when Sarah was just 7 years of age. In their homeland there was no Church presence, no organized units, no Sunday School or Young Women program. After five years this family learned of a branch in Beirut and, just before I arrived, sent their 12-year-old daughter, Sarah, accompanied by older siblings, to be baptized. While there, I gave a devotional on the plan of salvation. With some frequency Sarah raised her hand and answered the questions.
“After the meeting, and knowing of her almost nonexistent Church exposure, I approached her and asked, ‘Sarah, how did you know the answers to those questions?’ She immediately replied, ‘My mother taught me.’ They did not have the Church in their community, but they did have the gospel in their home.”

It was 1888 and winter in Colonia Juarez, Mexico, and the Romneys were near starvation. Miles, Catherine’s husband, had been gone for several months, trying to find work elsewhere; and despite Catherine’s care and thrift, their food was almost gone. Prayerfully she considered her alternatives and then sent her twelve-year-old son, Thomas, and her fourteen-year-old son, George, hunting. Neither boy had ever fired a gun, and sending them alone into the mountain wilderness placed them in some jeopardy, but starvation was a reality. They took the family’s .44 Winchester rifle and enthusiastically went up Spring Creek.
About 1 1/2 kilometers up the creek they suddenly saw a large buck standing broadside about 70 meters away. Excitedly, George aimed and fired. Curiously, the buck turned his head and looked at them, apparently puzzled by the noise. The second shot struck him exactly between the eyes, even though George had aimed at the deer’s middle.
After their excitement subsided, they realized that they had no knife and no way of getting the buck home. George ran home for a knife while Thomas stood guard—not an easy task since he was barefoot and had to keep running and walking so that his feet would not freeze.
It was snowing by the time George returned with their two younger brothers, ages ten and eleven, all barefooted. They weren’t strong enough to cut up the animal, so they started dragging it home, six kilometers away. They had to rest every few meters; and even when Catherine joined them a little later, their progress was still slow. It was with real gratitude that they looked up to see a neighbor, Helaman Pratt, riding towards them with a pack mule. He had heard the shot and had come to help.
At the evening meal they feasted on the sweetest venison any had ever eaten.
This story became cherished by the family, told and retold to the children and grandchildren—among them grandchild Camilla Eyring, who would one day marry Spencer W. Kimball.

A young man came to me not long ago and said, "I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can't make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?"
I looked at him and said, "Keep your agreement."
"Even if it costs me my home?"
I said, "I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges."[1]

The Favaretto family attends church in the Florence Branch, some distance from their home. “It takes us about an hour and fifteen minutes to get to Florence, so we have to get up very early on Sunday mornings so we can get to church on time,” says Rebecca. Occasionally, some member of the family has other meetings or appointments after church on Sunday. When this happens, the whole family makes arrangements to stay in the city all day. For instance on the Sunday afternoon when Rebecca’s brother, Gianni, had his mission interview with the district president, her mother brought everything they needed to prepare their dinner at the church. Rebecca helped her mother prepare the meal and set the table in the kitchen at the church, and the whole family (plus a few guests) enjoyed dinner together.

The dust chased the racing engine of the small import as it labored up the canyon road. It nearly succeeded in enveloping the car at the turn-around curve of each switchback only to be left behind as the gears changed and the complaining engine sped up. Near the top of the ridge the car turned sharply to the right, coasted up a slight incline to a small level opening overlooking the valley below, and stopped. The dust caught up with its now silent prey.
They sat in silence and watched the valley begin its transformation from day to early evening. After a few minutes, he opened the window, sniffed the last remains of the settling dust, and then opened his door to get out. “Well, here we are at Lover’s Leap. Ladies before gentlemen!” he said, as he opened the door for her.
They walked a short distance up the ridge to a large boulder. It was level enough near its base to serve as a chair for her as they attempted to find from this viewpoint the location of their homes among the orchards, fields, and tiny towns that made up their valley.
From that lookout the valley ran for fifteen miles to the north and twenty-five miles to the south. Its boundaries were fixed by the mountains that surrounded it on all sides.
“Brad, does it seem good to be home again?” she asked.
“You know, I think a large part of me is still back there giving discussions. It was, let me see, just twenty-six hours ago that I left my mission president and his wife at the airport. The plane flew home in about the time it took to figure out how to open the salad dressing lid on my supper. When the plane landed, I was in a different world. There was my mom and dad, brothers and sisters, my dog Smart, and you.”
“Listed in the order of their importance?” she teased.
“No, of course not. I’d rate Smart above my brothers and sisters. But what I want to know is, where on that ride did I change from Elder Roberts, missionary, to Brad Roberts, college dropout? Should I have asked the stewardess to help me drop my former identity out of the plane?”
“No. I think that if you ask for anything unusual on a plane now, they just fly you to Cuba.”
“This morning I woke up at six. I was racing for the shower to ace out my companion and just got to the door when I realized there was nobody to beat. I was home.”
“So you decided to get back to a civilized way of life and went back to sleep?” she asked.
“No, I went fishing.”
“And how did you do?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Brad Roberts, do you mean you were skunked?”
“Zero fish. It’s the full moon.”
She laughed. “That’s what my dad says when he doesn’t catch any fish—or else the river is too high or too low or under-stocked.”
“My old fishing hole, the one I kept secret from my brothers, the one you have to walk down the railroad tracks for a half mile and then into a bunch of trees to get to—I went there this morning.”
“By the way, how is it that you took me there once? Weren’t you afraid I’d tell everybody?”
“You are so bad at giving directions I knew that anybody you’d tell would wind up somewhere in the middle of a corn field in Nebraska.”
“Well!” she said, faking insult.
“So I tromp through the trees and what do I see across the river? A trailer camp with maybe a hundred campers and trailers. There’s no fish there now. All those guys from California or Montana or some place have taken my fish and gone. You know, I used to get my limit in an hour all the time there.”
“Has anything else changed, Brad?” The question, as she had intended it, should have evoked a discussion of the new motel, or the new stretch of interstate highway, or the addition to the ward chapel, or the way his brothers had grown in two years. But a certain edge in her voice betrayed her.
He caught the uncontrollable change in direction. “Whatever happened to Cathy Miller?”
“Isn’t she still waiting for Brad Roberts to get back from his mission?” she replied.
“All this time? Good grief, she waited all this time?”
“The happiest two years of his life,” she teased.
“What was it like for you?” he asked.
“The easiest thing in the world. I just called up all my old boyfriends and told them I was available.”
“Really? I knew you went and joined the Peach Fuzz Festival just for publicity; you know, for those guys who may not have been blessed to have been born in our fair town but could still read the paper.”
“It was the Strawberry Festival.”
“Cathy, what was it really like?”
She thought a while before answering. “After you left, I imagined I could wrap my life in Saran Wrap and let it sit for two years until you came back. But it’s a sterile existence to try to stop living and watch the clock tick. I couldn’t do it, Brad. I’ve had a busy life since you’ve been gone. But I always had a little comfortable room in my mind where memories of you hung like pictures from the walls. I often visited that room and remembered how good it was when we were together. That’s the way it was, Brad. You didn’t want me to tell you that I cried myself to sleep every night, did you?”
“No, Cathy. I never wanted that.”
They had walked back to the car. The sun had dropped down behind the mountain across the valley from them.
He reached through the window, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a small package. “Cathy, I’ve got something that I want you to have.”
She opened it up. An engagement ring lay mounted on a velvet cushion.
“It’s beautiful, Brad.” She spoke quietly, her voice nearly cracking.
“I bought it two years ago before I left.” In case she might not realize, he added, “Cathy, it’s an engagement ring.”
“I know, Brad.”
“Will you marry me?”
She touched his hand lightly. “Brad, could we sit down for this?”
The cold silence beat its fury on them as he helped her into the car and walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
“Brad, why did you do this?”
“Because I want to marry you.”
“Why do you want to marry me?”
“We’ve talked about this before, Cathy. We agreed we would get married if you were still here when I got back.”
“And so now you feel obligated to me for waiting for you?”
His words leaped out. “Have you decided to go into law, for crying out loud! Why have we been writing all this time? Why did you go to summer school while I’ve been gone? So that you could work while I finished school. Why have you spent so much time with my parents while I’ve been gone?”
“You do feel obligated to me for the last two years, don’t you?”
“You’re twisting my words! You do remember that you said you would marry me, don’t you?”
“That was two years ago, Brad! Maybe you can say that it seems like you just left yesterday, but I can’t say that. It seems to me like you left ten years ago!”
He was confused and off balance. “I love you, Cathy,” he said softly.
“Why, Brad, you don’t even know me now; how could you love me?” Her words seemed to hit him. “Do you know who you love? You love a girl that doesn’t even exist anymore—a girl with my name but two years younger than me. You go ask her to marry you. But she won’t. Because she loves someone with your name but two years younger than you. You wouldn’t stand a chance with that girl.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“That I can’t accept your ring. At least not now.”
“Is there someone else?”
“Not really.”
She touched his arm. “You don’t owe me a thing, Brad. Most of all, you don’t owe me a proposal of marriage as a payment for waiting for you. I am not going to hold that club over your head. When I kneel across the altar in the temple, I’ve got to be certain that it’s the right guy for me and I want him to be convinced too.”
She handed him the jewelry box containing the ring.
“Am I still in the running?” he asked quietly.
“You are if I am, Brad. But with no pressure because of what we’ve talked about or written in the past. And not because our parents wish it. And not because of what it was like two years ago. You can’t save cotton candy.”
“You can’t what?”
“I was just remembering something that happened to me when I was a little girl. My father took me to a carnival and bought me some cotton candy. It was pink and looked like the clouds at sunset. I just thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. When we got home, it was time for bed. I decided to save it so that every day I could have it and look at its beauty. I put it in a little box and put the cover on. The next morning when I woke up, I rushed to look at my beautiful treasure. There was just a lump of sugar and a sticky cardboard funnel. I cried because I thought someone had destroyed it. When I told my mother that I had wanted it to last forever, she said, ‘You can’t save cotton candy. If you want cotton candy forever, you have to make a little every day.’”
They took a long silent look at their valley. The several small towns could be seen as small clusters of light around the darkness defining the lake.
“Cathy?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes, Brad.”
“What is it?”
“I’m hungry.”
A hint of a smile swept across his face. “Well, at least that hasn’t changed.”
“Watch it, fella! That’s no way to talk to Miss Strawberry Festival.”
“Let’s go to the taco place we went to before I left.”
“We can’t. They tore it down last year.”
The car backed slowly down to the road, stopped, and then in low gear crept down the dusty road.

Jenny reached for the nearest pans to put them into the water. “Oh, no!” she thought. “Not the muffin tins!” The muffin tins were always hard to clean. She would have to scrub out each section one at a time and keep checking to make sure they were completely clean.
As Jenny worked, she started thinking about muffins. Her mother had made banana muffins for breakfast that morning. Banana muffins were her favorite kind, and this morning they had been hot and delicious. Jenny had never made muffins before, but she knew her mother had to get up early to make sure they were ready before school. And her mother probably hadn’t gotten much sleep last night because of Elizabeth’s crying. Jenny rinsed the muffin tins carefully and set them out to dry. Somehow, washing the muffin tins didn’t seem like such a chore anymore.

During a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints, Elder Harold B. Lee and Elder Marion G. Romney took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church to the clothing drive and the preparations for sending the goods overseas. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President Smith removed a new overcoat that he had on and said, “Please ship this also.”
The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”
But President Smith would not take it back.
The Apostle Paul’s admonition surely was fulfilled that day: “Be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.”

How do we develop desires? Few will have the kind of crisis that motivated Aron Ralston, but his experience provides a valuable lesson about developing desires. While Ralston was hiking in a remote canyon in southern Utah, an 800-pound (360 kg) rock shifted suddenly and trapped his right arm. For five lonely days he struggled to free himself. When he was about to give up and accept death, he had a vision of a three-year-old boy running toward him and being scooped up with his left arm. Understanding this as a vision of his future son and an assurance that he could still live, Ralston summoned the courage and took drastic action to save his life before his strength ran out. He broke the two bones in his trapped right arm and then used the knife in his multitool to cut off that arm. He then summoned the strength to hike five miles (8 km) for help. What an example of the power of an overwhelming desire! When we have a vision of what we can become, our desire and our power to act increase enormously.

I had left the Church as a teenager because I didn’t believe it to be true. I even stopped believing in God. Then in my 20s, I had an experience of conversion, and I knew the Church was true. I remember feeling the excitement of realizing the truth of the gospel. That excitement lasted only about a minute before my stomach turned with the sobering reality that my whole life would require an overhaul because of my conversion. How do you change nearly everything about your life and become the person you know you should be?
On that day in my 20s, I called my grandpa. I knew I could trust his direction with this problem. He listened to my concerns about how to change my entire life when I was unsure how to do so. Then he said, “Just pick one thing. Pick one thing, work on that, and when you’re ready, pick another. That’s all you have to do.”
I don’t know what I had expected to hear, but that wasn’t it. I needed to be so much better than I was, and I thought that changing one thing at a time wouldn’t be nearly enough. But somehow, in some fleeting moment of spiritual maturity, I decided to follow his advice. With such a staggering number of changes I was facing at that time of returning to the Church, what one thing should I choose first? The weight of this list that we all know (go to church, read scriptures, pray, pay tithing, serve in a calling, etc.) was overwhelming all on its own.
There were so many things I knew I would struggle to change, and I hadn’t felt strong enough to tackle them yet. So I decided to choose something I could do—something important but small. It would put me on the road I wanted to be on, and I’d be able to build on that success.
Years later, when I lacked the strength to offer up a simple prayer after my second divorce, the Holy Ghost brought that memory to my mind.
As I continued to lie motionless inside my cotton cocoon of bedding and recalled that counsel, I knew the Spirit was providing me direction I could apply to my present circumstance. Maybe I could do one thing. It didn’t have to be anything major; it just had to be something. The first thing I needed to do was get out of bed. So that’s what I did—after a few minutes, I pulled back the covers and stood up. Then I went back under the covers. But that was OK because I had done the one thing that I picked. I kept that as my goal for a few more days before picking my next thing, and I continued to build upon that.
I now understand that Grandpa’s direction was more than just good advice. The scriptures teach, “For behold, thus saith the Lord God: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom; for unto him that receiveth I will give more” (2 Nephi 28:30). I tried it because I trusted my grandpa. It works because it’s a gospel principle. Learning how to become better by changing one thing at a time is how we learn and grow.
This would usually be the point in the story where I would tell you how great my life is today. The truth is things are better, but that’s not the only point. The point is that the Lord expected me to simply do the very best I could in each moment with His help. He understood that on some days my best was literally mustering up the strength to get out of bed. As Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught: “God will take you as you are at this very moment and begin to work with you. All you need is a willing heart, a desire to believe, and trust in the Lord.” 1
I felt love and acceptance from our Father in Heaven. My offering to continually improve myself line upon line is acceptable to Him. The effort, no matter how imperfect, is still acceptable if it’s my best effort. President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) taught: “Do the best that you can. That’s all we ask of you. … The Lord doesn’t expect you to do more than that. Just do the very best you can.” 2 I didn’t have to flip a switch and completely transform overnight. We progress line upon line.
Whether I’m striving to be better at ministering to those around me or just trying to stand up, it matters that I’m trying.
From my efforts to recover from two divorces—and from everything else that life has challenged me with—I have learned two key lessons. First, the Lord loves sincere effort of any kind. 3 Second, the Lord will meet you where you are. Regardless of where you are on the road to recovery and healing, if you’re on that road, He will be there.
Because the Savior has taken upon Himself all our pains and sorrows, He knows what we need no matter what it is. Even if we don’t know it ourselves, He does. And He will help us move forward.
I often hear others expressing their gratitude for the challenges in their life. I want to feel thankful for adversity. I’m not that person yet, but right now, that’s my one thing. I’m working on that, and when I’m ready, I’ll pick another.

Let me tell you of a young man who really understood these scriptures. He lives in Seoul, Korea. One day, when this young man was 15, his father received a call from a close friend who asked him if he were having financial difficulty. Being in affluent circumstances, he indicated “No, everything is fine.” He then wanted to know why his friend would ask such a question.
The man replied that he had seen his son selling newspapers on a street corner in Seoul.
The father couldn’t believe it because his son received quite a liberal allowance and would have no need to work for additional money. When asked if there couldn’t have been a mistake, the friend said, “No, I stopped and talked with him on the corner.”
When the son returned from school that evening his father asked him about the incident. The son said, “Yes, I was selling newspapers.”
“Isn’t your allowance sufficient to take care of your needs?” the father wanted to know.
“Yes,” he said, “but we had a lesson in seminary on the Good Samaritan, and I wanted to experience what it meant to be a Good Samaritan, not just learn about it. So I have taken my allowance and bought newspapers and asked some of my friends to join with me in selling them. We want to raise enough money to help one of our classmates, who is very poor, remain in school. Without the help, he would have to drop out.”
In addition to this, sometime earlier, this young man had asked his mother to double his lunch. She had done so without questioning him, thinking that as a growing teenager he was just extra hungry. He told his father that this other student would have to go hungry each day if he did not share half of his lunch with him.
This is what the Lord means when he encourages us to be doers of the word and to show our faith by our works. There are many experiences that would take on greater meaning if we made these scriptures a part of our lives.

Charlie walked his dog, Paca, slowly along the uneven pavement that led home from Miguel’s house. Finding a new home for Paca was harder than he thought. “Even Miguel can’t keep you, Paca. His mother’s allergic to dogs!” The small, scruffy, brown-and-white dog panted in pace beside Charlie, her head tilted just enough so that he knew that she was listening. Paca always listened. “It’s not fair that my little sister can keep her dumb bird.” Charlie continued. “He makes more of a mess than you do. Mom even said so.”
Charlie picked a leaf from an old oak tree. “I don’t know why Dad had to accept a promotion. Who wants to leave California to live in Ohio, anyway? Especially in an apartment building that doesn’t take dogs!” He tore the leaf into little pieces, then tossed them away.
In less than a month Charlie’s family would be moving. Just thinking about it made him mad and sad at the same time.
“Ever since the missionaries came and started teaching Mom and Dad about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, things have been different!” he told Paca for the umpteenth time. “Dad says that the things that the missionaries have been teaching us can bring lots of blessings, but I sure don’t see any. Moving isn’t a blessing to me.”
Paca stopped to scratch, then they continued walking. Charlie slowed down when he came to Mrs. Sanchez’s yard near the middle of the block. She was sitting in her old rocking chair on the front porch. Her cats were out too.
The tabby was chasing a butterfly near the fence. Paca saw it and barked, startling Charlie so much that he jumped backward.
“You’d better watch that dog. I don’t want it chasing my cats!” Mrs. Sanchez declared.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie reassured her as he clutched the worn black leather leash more tightly. “She only barks at them.”
“What’s her name?” the elderly woman asked, her voice softening.
“Paca.” Charlie was surprised. In his whole life, Mrs. Sanchez had never talked to him. He’d always thought that she didn’t like kids.
Mrs. Sanchez pushed herself up, using the arm of the wicker rocker for support. “Would you like some cookies and milk?” She motioned to Charlie to come up onto the porch, adding, “Now, Paca, you be a good girl.”
Charlie couldn’t think of any reason to say no. As he pushed open the gate and walked up to the porch, for the first time he really looked at Mrs. Sanchez—at her lined and tired face, at the wrinkled hand that clutched at a worn shawl on the back of her chair. She steadied herself with her other hand.
A smile deepened the lines. “You’re Charlie Johnson from down the block, aren’t you?”
Charlie just nodded his head.
Mrs. Sanchez opened the front door, then called in her two cats before showing Charlie and Paca inside. The room looked like Mrs. Sanchez, comfortable and timeworn.
“Is she a good dog?” the elderly woman asked as she nodded toward an overstuffed chair for Charlie to sit in.
“Oh, she’s the best!” Charlie defended Paca. “But I have to find another home for her. We’re moving to Ohio, and I can’t take her with me.”
“What a shame,” Mrs. Sanchez said on her way into the kitchen. When she returned with a small plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Charlie, she asked, “Why can’t you take her with you when you move?”
Charlie bit into a cookie. It was chewy and good. “Because,” he said between bites, “the apartment we’re moving into doesn’t allow dogs, just birds.”
“Birds?”
“That’s what my little sister has, a bird.”
Mrs. Sanchez sat in a wooden rocker and pushed back a strand of white hair that had fallen across her face. She studied Paca, who was curled up by the boy’s feet. Then, looking up at Charlie, she said, “The missionaries stopped by to see me the other day, and they told me that you and your parents are going to be baptized. That will be a happy thing for your family. It will bring many blessings.”
Charlie gulped down some milk, then wiped the mustache from his upper lip with his napkin. “I suppose so.” He wiggled uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, “but I don’t feel very blessed right now.”
Mrs. Sanchez reached for a tray on the small table beside her rocker. Three small, dirt-filled plant pots were resting on the tray. She picked up one of the pots, saying, “Would you please hold this for me, Charlie?”
Mrs. Sanchez tore open a brightly colored packet of seeds. “Now,” she said, “take your finger and poke two holes in the dirt.”
After Charlie had made the holes, she shook several long, thin seeds from the packet into his hand. “Put these zinnia seeds into the holes, and cover them with the dirt.”
Charlie dropped the seeds into the holes and covered them.
Mrs. Sanchez smiled at him as he did it. “Blessings are sometimes like seeds, Charlie. You can’t see them until they grow. Now, when the time is right, I’ll have to transplant these seeds. Soon they’ll be as big and as beautiful as the ones by my front fence.”
Charlie nodded his head, wondering why she was telling him all this.
Seeing his puzzled expression, she continued. “Your family is a little bit like these seeds. Your father grew in his job and is ready to be transplanted to a better one. Soon you will grow and need to move on to bigger things, just like your father.”
Understanding now, Charlie smiled too.
“I think that you’re going to be a good member of the Church,” Mrs. Sanchez told him. “When you get baptized, will you send me a picture? I’ll put it here next to my new planters.
“And I understand how anxious you are for Paca to have a good home, so I’d be happy to keep her for you,” Mrs. Sanchez offered, “unless you find her another home. Even my cats seem to think she belongs here.”
Charlie looked at the sleeping dog curled up on the rug, looking almost as though she did belong there. Charlie couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have Paca live with.
“Come now,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Give me a hug, then go tell your mother that Paca’s taken care of.”
Walking home that day, Charlie had a contented feeling. It wasn’t just because Paca had a new home—it was also because he now understood that the missionaries had brought blessings, after all.

In 1994, I was called to serve as a mission president in Manchester, England. In that mission, we had missionaries from all over the world. Many of those young missionaries had never seen the prophet or heard him speak, yet they loved and followed him.
One of these missionaries was Sister Kita, who was from Albania. When she heard that President Gordon B. Hinckley was planning to visit Liverpool, where she was serving, she begged me, “President Richards, please don’t transfer me until after the prophet’s visit.” When the prophet came, I remember watching tears stream down her cheeks as she reached out to shake his hand when he walked down the chapel aisle. Sister Kita truly loved and followed the prophet.

I’ve had many jobs in my life. When I was seven, I sold rocks to the neighbors. Then there was the time I took care of a neighbor’s dog for three whole months. But the paychecks for those jobs were nothing compared to the joy I received from my special “job.”
I always went to church each Sunday, but I wasn’t really there. My mind always seemed to be on something else. I enjoyed going but only because I got to see my friends. Church had always been a place to hang out, but after my job it was completely different.
One Sunday morning, I woke up feeling the day was going to be out of the ordinary. My friends and I had plenty to talk about in Sunday School; sadly, none of it related to the Old Testament. Then, right before sacrament meeting, my mom said she had a job for me. I complained for a minute, and then she said, “It will be worth it.”
“A little money never hurt anyone,” I said. But Mom said it wasn’t that kind of pay. She asked if I would walk Sister Clove home from church. I couldn’t believe that she would ask me to do such a dumb job. I wanted to tell her no, but something inside of me made me agree.
After sacrament meeting I went to get Sister Clove, and I told her I wanted to walk her home from church. We both enjoyed it so much that my mom didn’t even have to ask me the next week. I volunteered. After that, Sister Clove and I became good friends. We would walk home together every week, and I loved to hear her stories. Once she even gave me a jar full of candy to let me know I was appreciated.
I know now why the job my mom gave me would be “worth it.” The pure joy of service was so much better than any reward my parents could ever have given me.

It was cool inside the Western Presbyterian Church of Palmyra on Sunday, that twenty-first day of September, 1823. Fall had just come blowing in, laying the smoke flat on the chimney tops, but there was no fireplace inside the frame meetinghouse on Church Street. It was not considered necessary to provide comforts in a house of worship.
Joseph and Don Carlos, who were not Presbyterians, had accompanied their mother, Hyrum, Sophronia, and Samuel to meeting. The other members of the family attended the newly built Methodist church in the eastern part of Palmyra. As Joseph passed the Reverend Daniel C. Hopkins on the way out, he smiled and was about to comment on the sermon when the minister abruptly turned away. Joseph and his family had almost grown used to being treated with a shrug and turn of the head, so they quietly walked on through the doorway. On several occasions, men of high standing in the most popular churches of the day had instigated bitter persecution against Joseph and his family. Joseph thought often of the intense bitterness that would cause someone to try to kill him in the dooryard of his home.
He had struggled to sort out an answer. Discussing his concern one evening with his mother, he asked, “Why should professors of religion excite people against me? I went to God in prayer to ask which church I should join. God the Father and Jesus answered my questions in person.”
“The Lord told you not to join any of the churches,” his mother answered. “He even went so far as to say that some of their doctrines were wrong. In the minds of the ministers, that would seem to challenge their position, their authority as leaders of the churches.”
“But the words are the Lord’s, not mine!”
“I know, Joseph. They’re trying to discredit your vision, to smother with ridicule and abuse that which they find themselves unable to silence with argument.”
Joseph recalled his mother’s words as he walked down the meetinghouse steps that morning. A red-headed boy with a splash of freckles taunted in a whisper that was meant to be heard, “Had any visions lately?”
When Joseph turned and caught his eye, the boy snickered and ran down Church Street.
Suddenly chilled, Lucy hugged a shawl to her shoulders as a husky, weather-beaten farmer called out, “Well, I do believe that’s young Joe Smith coming out of our meetinghouse!”
The men began joking about visions, taunting Joseph to argue with them. But he walked on in silence, his mouth tightened around a reply that he would not utter. No use starting a war of words, especially when he wasn’t right sure of the answers.
Lucy’s heart cried out to her son, Joseph, Joseph, don’t let them hurt you. Alvin, noticing his mother’s anguished expression, took her arm and said comfortingly, “Remember that Father has often said that Joseph has a lot of courage for a stripling. He can take it on the chin. If he had a mind to, he could wrestle the two of them to the ground with one arm tied behind his back.”
Lucy knew it was true. She also knew it took strength and courage to bear the humiliation in silence.
But six-year-old Don Carlos was flushed with anger. He backed away from the men, fretting like a cornered owl. Then suddenly he stopped for a moment, his face curiously without expression. When he caught up with Joseph again, he was smiling broadly. In guarded tones he confessed, “There’s one good thing about having four front teeth missing at once. You can stick out your tongue with your mouth closed.”
Joseph chuckled all the way to the wagon. “I’ll never tell,” he promised.
After picking up the rest of the family at the Methodist Church, the Smiths headed their horse down Canandaigua Road toward home. Joseph watched the dirt spill from the back of the wagon wheels in gritty whispers. If only the haunting questions would leave his thoughts as easily. But they kept rolling around in his head. And the constant creak of the wheels echoed the swallowed cry in his throat—Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard from the Lord?
Since his vision, Joseph had worked with his father on the farm as usual, waiting for further instructions from the Lord. But three years had passed and there had been no word. Strange, he thought; or is there a reason? It troubled him to think there might be something he should be doing—or not doing.
If, however, the heavens seemed closed to Joseph, the world about him was opening up. During those years Joseph watched the village of Palmyra grow from about seven hundred settlers to almost one thousand. He helped his father and Alvin build a lean-to on the back of their log house. It served as a sleeping room and somewhat relieved their crowded condition. Not long after it was completed a baby sister was born, the last of ten surviving children. So, under the direction of Alvin, who was by then a very able carpenter, a much larger frame house was begun nearby.
In 1822 the Erie Canal that had been started five years before reached Palmyra. The waterway was nearly parallel to Mud Creek and Main Street, and all three ran through the entire length of the village that extended for about a mile.
Whenever he could, Don Carlos accompanied Joseph on his weekly trips into Palmyra. “Let’s go see the big ditch,” Don Carlos would plead, almost before the wagon wheels began to roll. Then his six-year-old eyes would fill with such anticipation and hope that Joseph somehow always managed it.
One day as the two of them leaned on the fence, watching the long, shallow boats move along the canal, they sensed that this was indeed one of the great wonders of their age. “Just think, Don Carlos, when all the sections of the canal are finished it’ll stretch from the Hudson River to Lake Erie, over three hundred and sixty miles,” Joseph said.
Don Carlos didn’t much care about all that. He just wanted to walk beside a team of mules and pet them as they pulled the boat through the water. He didn’t like the way the mule driver rode on his horse behind them, cutting them with his long whip and scowling and cursing.
“Palmyra will soon be one of the most important canal towns in western New York,” Joseph explained to his younger brother.
But Don Carlos was still thinking about mules. “Some day I’ll have my own mule team. I’ll ride a horse behind them and crack my whip in the air and they’ll pull the boat up and down the big ditch. And I’ll see Buffalo and Syracuse and even the Atlantic Ocean.”
Joseph smiled. Don Carlos had his future all planned out.
“I wonder what I’ll be doing?” Joseph mused aloud. “Three years ago when I talked with the Lord, He seemed to have something in mind for me. I wonder why I haven’t heard what it is.”
Don Carlos looked up at his seventeen-year-old brother and shrugged. “Maybe the Lord’s forgotten,” he said.
Joseph had to laugh at that, but his heart yearned for answers.