Gospel Story Finder

I was always the only Church member at my school. Sometimes classmates made fun of me for my beliefs, and at first I was a little uncomfortable. But I knew that they didn’t have the gospel knowledge I had been blessed with, and remembering that made me grateful to be a Church member instead of being embarrassed.
One time one of my teachers teased me about the Church, and I told him, “It’s not funny. This is something that I really believe.” After that he didn’t tease me anymore. When my classmates saw that I stood up for my principles, they respected me and even elected me as the class president. I learned that I would never regret standing up for my beliefs.

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt, I’ve asked you a thousand times to not play with my tools.
I didn’t Daddy.
My hammer’s gone and you’ve taken it before.
Not this time. I promise!
I’m sorry that you’ve chosen to lie to me, Matt. You’d better go to your room until you’re ready to tell the truth.
But, Daddy!
No “but, Daddies.” Go to your room!
Here’s your hammer back, dear. I just needed to hang a picture.
I’m sorry, Matt. I shouldn’t have accused you unless I was sure. Will you forgive me?
Sure. Can I play now?
I wish I were that good at forgiving.

During the summer months, the vacation period, I had to spend a few weeks at home with a little ailment. It gave me an opportunity to read a few books, and I read my patriarchal blessing and the blessings that I received from presidents of the Church when I was set apart as mission president twice; when I was set apart as the Presiding Bishop of the Church; and last of all when President David O. McKay, assisted by his counselors and the members of the Quorum of the Twelve, laid his hands upon my head twenty-four years ago last April in the holy temple and ordained me an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ.
In the blessing, President McKay gave me a charge that I should be a witness of Him, and that I should bear witness of His divine calling and the divine calling of His prophet Joseph Smith and of the truths of the restored gospel. And my, the joy I have had in these 24 1/2 years trying to respond and be obedient to the charge that President McKay gave me upon that occasion. I have had great joy and happiness therein.

To introduce my theme today, I want to tell you, in his own words, of a life-changing experience that happened to President George Albert Smith when he was a boy. His own words are as follows:
As a child, thirteen years of age, I went to school at the Brigham Young Academy. . . . I cannot remember much of what was said during the year that I was there, but there is one thing that I will probably never forget. . . . Dr. [Karl G.] Maeser one day stood up and said:
“Not only will you be held accountable for the things you do, but you will be held responsible for the very thoughts you think.” Being a boy, not in the habit of controlling my thoughts very much, it was quite a puzzle to me what I was to do, and it worried me. In fact, it stuck to me just like a burr. About a week or ten days after that it suddenly came to me what he meant. I could see the philosophy of it then. All at once there came to me this interpretation of what he had said: Why of course you will be held accountable for your thoughts, because when your life is completed in mortality, it will be the sum of your thoughts. That one suggestion has been a great blessing to me all my life, and it has enabled me upon many occasions to avoid thinking improperly, because I realize that I will be, when my life’s labor is complete, the product of my thoughts. [Sharing the Gospel with Others (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1948), pp. 62–63]

Another event that proved painful was when the Bain Marie had a broken plug. A Bain Marie is a large container filled with water and suspended over a small flame. Pots of various sauces stand in the hot water until they are needed. This way the sauces stay warm, but do not curdle or burn.

“I was working with three French boys when the leak started,” says Peter. “I stuffed my oven cloth over the hole, but the water began seeping through. Desperately I tried to think of the French word for bucket, but couldn’t. The boys stood looking blankly at me. Eventually, when my hand was three quarters burned, one of them found a small saucepan. We had to paddle out of the flooded kitchen.”

The summer I volunteered at the animal shelter, I met Bobbie. He had sandy hair that flopped in his eyes, and he smiled all the time. Bobbie liked to feed the animals, and he played with them a lot. But he never took them for walks, gave them treatments, or talked to the visitors who came in.
“Bobbie can’t do anything too complicated,” Ray, the director, explained to me. “He has a mental handicap. But he has some special gifts that make him a great help.”
I nodded—I’d already noticed that Bobbie didn’t understand the simple directions for the flea treatment we used on one dog’s skin. It didn’t matter to me. Bobbie was friendly and listened well, so I figured I might be able to teach him how to do some of the different chores.
The next morning, Bobbie wanted me to open a kennel for him.
“Watch,” I said. “I’ll show you how.”
Then I used my thumb to press down a button while I flipped up a lever with my other finger. Bobbie tried, and I guided his hands until the latch clicked open.
“I did it!” He grinned, proud of his new accomplishment.
“Way to go,” I told him, feeling pretty happy myself. I liked helping Bobbie.
Ray didn’t say anything, but then I’d already discovered he wasn’t a big talker. I did catch a glimpse of a smile on his face, though, before he sat down at his desk to fill out some forms.
Later that day, someone brought in a small, stray dog that had been abandoned in a field outside of town. The poor animal trembled every time we came near it, and his coat was ragged and matted.
“Someone didn’t treat this little fellow right,” Ray said as we gave the dog a bath. “He’s almost afraid to breathe.”
Ray gently scrubbed the dog’s reddish coat; then I rinsed it. The whole time, the dog cowered with his tail tucked between his legs. I wondered how he could ever be a good pet for anyone.
“What should we name this one?” Ray asked Bobbie.
Bobbie came over and looked at the wet straggly dog.
“Call him Happy,” Bobbie said. “He needs a good name.”
“Happy it is, then,” Ray said, but I’d have named that dog Scruffy.
After Happy’s bath, Ray put him into an empty kennel. Happy went all the way to the far corner and curled into a tight ball. Bobbie sat down on the floor by the kennel door and quietly watched him. “He’s afraid,” Bobbie told me.
I nodded, thinking that terrified was a more accurate word.
Bobbie started talking to Happy. His voice almost sounded like a lullaby, but the dog didn’t respond. He just trembled in the corner. Bobbie kept talking softly to Happy for the next hour. Finally Bobbie had to leave, but first he put some treats near Happy. The dog still didn’t move.
Every day that week, I watched Bobbie with Happy. One day, he brought in a little stuffed bear for Happy to sleep with. Each day he talked and talked to the dog in that same soft, reassuring voice. Bobby started sitting inside the kennel, each day just a little closer to the shy dog, and Happy’s ears began to perk up every now and then.
“Bobbie really likes that dog,” I told Ray. “He’s spending hours with him. Do you think Happy will come around?”
“No doubt. I think Bobbie could talk the birds out of the trees if he set his mind to it.”
Ray was right. It took another week, but Bobbie finally had Happy going to the front of the kennel to greet him. In a few more weeks, I couldn’t believe Happy was the same dog. His tail wagged behind him like a furry red flag, and he came running to me when I called, nuzzling my hand so that I’d pet him. Ray even allowed Bobbie to let Happy out of his kennel all day, and the little dog stuck to him like a shadow.
One day, an older, quiet lady came to look for a pet. I noticed that Bobbie was really staring at her, and I wondered what the problem could be. Usually he didn’t pay attention to our visitors.
The lady looked at a few dogs, but she didn’t seem very interested. Suddenly Bobbie walked over and tapped her arm to get her attention. “I have a dog for you.” He bent down and scooped up his furry little shadow. The dog wagged his tail as Bobbie put him into the lady’s arms. “Meet Happy,” he said.
“Hello there,” the lady said in a gentle voice, and the dog tried to lick her cheek as she scratched his ears. Then he rested his head on her shoulder just like a little baby. “Oh, I like him!” The lady smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, she had signed the papers, and she and Happy walked out with Bobbie’s little bear. He had insisted that she take it. I just stood there staring after them.
“I thought you were going to keep Happy,” I told Bobbie. I’d figured that was why Ray let Happy follow Bobbie around.
“My mom’s allergic to dogs,” Bobbie explained. “She gets itchy spots and sneezes a lot.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, not sure what to say next.
“Happy will like the lady,” Bobbie told me. “She talked soft. She won’t yell at him. Happy will have a nicer home than the kennel.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Bobbie started filling dishes with dog food. I noticed he had to stop to wipe a few tears away with his sleeve. I turned around and stared at Ray. He was shuffling papers on his desk, and I wanted him to say he would call the lady and tell her there was a mistake and that she had to bring Happy back.
“Bobbie always helps with the animals that are timid and scared,” Ray finally said as I stood there unable to speak. “He likes to help them find good homes, even if it means his heart is a little broken each time they leave. I told you that he has some special gifts. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
I nodded and slowly began filling food dishes with Bobbie. We worked side by side, and neither of us said a word. It didn’t matter. I had thought that I had a lot to teach Bobbie, but the tears slipping down his cheeks were teaching me more about the true meaning of love than a million words ever could.

Now, lest you think I am immune to this, let me share an experience. This is the first iPod that my wife gave me. I felt like I was actually the last one in my family – or even on the earth – to get one. For many of the years I spent in the Church Office Building in Salt Lake City, I used public transportation to travel to and from work. A co-worker I associated closely with is now retired and serving a mission with her husband in Virginia. For the last several years before coming to Hawaii, she and I lived in the same area north of Salt Lake, so from time to time, we would end up on the same bus going home. One day, we had left separately for the elevators, but as I exited the building and was getting my iPod in place for the ride home, I ended up catching up to her. With my ear buds in place, she asked me if I ever had any quiet time. I told her that although the ear buds were there, often nothing was playing, and I just used them to send a signal to others that I didn’t want to have a conversation on the way home – and that actually did help me get some quiet time. However, I still reflected on her question. Just how much quiet time do I provide for myself, and how does this impact my responsiveness to the Spirit? Even now, if you visit my office, there will be music playing because I don’t like it to be “too quiet.” The same is true for you. How much “quiet time” do you provide yourself?

Years ago I read a Time magazine article that reported the discovery of a letter, supposedly written by Martin Harris, that conflicted with Joseph Smith’s account of finding the Book of Mormon plates.14
A few members left the Church because of the document.15
Sadly, they left too quickly. Months later experts discovered (and the forger confessed) that the letter was a complete deception.16 You may understandably question what you hear on the news, but you need never doubt the testimony of God’s prophets.

When I was 11 years old, I was baptized as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a decision that stands out as the most significant in my life. I am thankful for the gospel’s influence on me as a young girl. My dreams were always centered around having an eternal family. Because of the covenants I would one day make in the temple, I knew that I could be with my loved ones forever.
I met my husband when I was a young woman, and after he served his mission, we got married in 1999. We had our first child a year later, the same year that the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple was dedicated. We were sealed in the temple when our baby was just three months old. I remember when they brought him dressed in white into the sealing room. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, achieving the goal I had set as a young woman—to be sealed for eternity with my family.
Our second child was born four years later, and I was happy because everything I had planned and prayed for was coming true. We had faced difficulties, but I felt like I was a beloved daughter of God, blessed with an eternal family.

I used to attend a school where it was really hard to be a Latter-day Saint. The LDS students were a minority, and there weren’t many who shared similar standards. It seemed especially frustrating for me because my parents divorced during my freshman year.
During that time life was pretty confusing for me. I guess that’s when I really discovered the scriptures. But my family wasn’t supportive of my scripture reading. Even my mother used to tell me it was a waste of time. But through the scriptures I found someone else who dealt with family contention.
Lehi counseled Laman and Lemuel “because of the stiffneckedness of Laman and Lemuel; for behold they did murmur in many things against their father” (1 Ne. 2:11–12).
My family was divided. We fought all the time, my parents couldn’t say anything kind about each other, and they discouraged me from attending church. Our home was full of conflict.
“And it came to pass that Laman was angry with me, and also with my father; and also was Lemuel, for he hearkened unto the words of Laman. Wherefore Laman and Lemuel did speak many hard words unto us, their younger brothers, and they did smite us even with a rod” (1 Ne. 3:28).
I tried to set a good example for my family. I went to church, attended Mutual, and prayed regularly. I even invited my mom to get active in the Church again.
“And now I, Nephi, … spake unto them, saying, … Behold ye are mine elder brethren, and how is it that ye are so hard in your hearts, and so blind in your minds, that ye have need that I, your younger brother, should speak unto you, yea, and set an example for you?
“How is it that ye have not hearkened unto the word of the Lord?” (1 Ne. 7:8–9).
Sometimes, in private, I cried. Sometimes I prayed for them. Always I felt lonely.
“But, behold, Laman and Lemuel would not hearken unto my words; and being grieved because of the hardness of their hearts I cried unto the Lord for them” (1 Ne. 2:18).
When I was sad, I knew that Nephi knew sadness. When I was discouraged, I knew that Nephi knew discouragement. When I was lonely, I knew that Nephi knew loneliness.
No, my story doesn’t have a nice, neat ending. I wish it ended “happily ever after,” but it hasn’t yet. My home is still unhappy. But Heavenly Father has given me the scriptures, and I know that he understands exactly what it is like for me at home. Though the conflict hasn’t stopped, at least I have found comfort and peace and ways to cope.
“I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).
Just as Nephi knew that the Lord would help him accomplish anything that was commanded, I too know that Heavenly Father will continue to strengthen and support me from my heavenly home as I struggle to deal with a torn earthly home. The scriptures are my lifeline to that heavenly home.

He once shared this precious counsel concerning both discipline and work with a group of missionaries. One missionary had said, “I don’t like to work. I don’t like to tract.” This great leader responded:
Oh, is that so? I thought every missionary just loved to tract. . . . Didn’t you know that the worthwhile things of life are not the things . . . you . . . want to do, they are the things you ought to do because they are right. Did you just love to study everything that was assigned at the University? . . . Isn’t there anything in the world you do because you ought to do it? . . . My goodness, my boy, you’re headed for a total loss if you are only doing things you want to do.
Then Elder Kimball shared an experience from his early life. He said,
I wanted to go on a mission. I was scared to death, a little fellow coming from a country district.
I wondered if I could do it. I was quite sure I would have difficulty and yet I began to . . . remember specific friends that had done it. I thought, I can play basketball better than they can, . . . maybe I can do it. At any rate, I decided I wanted to go on a mission as I had been taught all my life.
I pause here to emphasize this great secret in his life so you may use it to bless your own. He made up his mind only once to resolve a particular challenge. From then on he used his energy to keep the resolve, not to reanalyze it repeatedly under every new circumstance. Elder Kimball continued:
So when I got near the end of my high school, I went to Globe, Arizona, to get a job so I could begin to save money, because . . . my father was having a little problem with a large family to support. I had earned money for my school for my last . . . three years, and then I earned it for my mission.
He then described how he raised a black colt to become a handsome stallion. He sold it, putting every penny into his mission account. He then described his work at the dairy.
I found that the work at the dairy wasn’t easy. I didn’t like it. I would milk the cows and then go in and do the washing of the cans and bottles. We would use scalding water when our fingers would get somewhat used to it. Then when I would go out to milk the cows the next time, my fingers would crack and bleed.
I went . . . to the Globe Ward every Sunday night. I would walk about two miles down the railroad to get there. I would hold up my hands above my head as we walked so that the weight of the blood in my fingers wouldn’t crucify me. It hurt terribly . . . I guess people thought I was giving up, but . . . I wasn’t surrendering, I was just on my way.
So my fingers bled every day, but every night I went back and milked . . . somewhere between twenty and twenty-eight cows . . . every night and every morning with my hands, not with machines. In between, we would turn the cows into the field, and we took a square-pointed shovel, and you know what we did with that shovel, we cleaned up after the cows. . . . It was about the filthiest job I ever had, but I had to do it . . . it was part of my job.
So then Elder Kimball said to this boy:
So you don’t like to tract. Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you like to do that will pay dividends? Think about that . . . If tracting is hard and other visits are hard and teaching the gospel is hard, and study is hard, so what? It pays big dividends.

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.

Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

I just had to write and tell you how much the New Era means to me. It is just as great a help out here in the California Los Angeles Mission as it was when I used to get it back home before that. I just love to read all the Church magazines and newspapers I can get my hands on.
I had glanced through the New Era from time to time after I joined the Church, but not being very strong in the Church for the first three years or so, I was not interested in reading it.
A few years ago I was given a very special home teacher who made the difference in my life. Both my spiritual and mental attitude had to change, a change I was ready to make when he walked into my life. We talked about my sudden strong interest to really find out about this church I had joined in 1979. I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to read all the Church books I had in my house, one right after another without worry about lack of sleep, reading most of the night. It took me no more than two weeks to complete my collection of 12 Church books.
One day while waiting at his home to go to some activity with his family, I picked up their copy of the New Era. I soon found myself engrossed with it. He asked if I received Church newspapers or magazines, as I was the sole member of the Church in the home. I mentioned that I got the Church News which was promptly put on my bed the day it arrived, but otherwise no.
A few months later I found that this special home teacher gave this hungry-for-knowledge member a gift of the magazine. The subscription ran out just before my mission began. I still enjoy the New Era here in the mission field.
Sister Robin FreemanCalifornia Los Angeles Mission

Thanks so much for the November New Era. I was inspired so much when I read “God Speaks with Our Voices.” I read this article many times because I was very impressed with the missionary work in Chile. It inspired me to achieve the same kind of success in my own mission. My companion and I (both of us are Indonesian) were finding it difficult to find sincere investigators to teach. But after reading this article, we decided that we must work harder than before, so we prayed humbly to our Father in Heaven that he would show us the pure in heart.
And as we went about our work, I also always remembered in my mind “God speaks with our voices.” Approximately two weeks later we found some investigators who were eager to know the Lord’s way. As we taught them, they were very happy because they could feel the Spirit of God. They asked to be baptized and brought to us their neighbors and friends to be taught the true gospel of Jesus Christ. Some of those friends have been baptized and are active in the Church. We are still busy teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful to the New Era.
Elder Eddy P. JudjionoIndonesia Jakarta Mission

There comes to mind an experience of Brother Boyd Packer. We attended a sacrament meeting in a little branch in Cuzco. The chapel was quiet. The opening exercises were finished and the sacrament meeting in preparation. A little Lamanite ragamuffin entered from the street. Calloused and chappy were the little feet that brought him in the open door, up the aisle, and to the sacrament table. Here was dark and dirty testimony of deprivation, want, and unsatisfied hunger, spiritual as well as physical. Almost unobserved, he slyly came to the sacrament table, and with a seeming spiritual hunger, he leaned against the table and lovingly rubbed his unwashed face against the cool, smooth, white linen. A woman in the front seat, seemingly outraged by the intrusion, caught his eye, and with motion and frown sent the little ragamuffin scampering down the aisle, out into his world, the street. A bit later the little urchin, seemingly compelled by some inner urge, overcame his timidity and came stealthily, cautiously, down the aisle again, fearful, ready to escape if necessary, but impelled as though directed by inaudible voices with a friendly and familiar spirit, and as though memories long and faded were reviving, as though some intangible force were crowding him on to seek something for which he yearned but could not identify. From his seat on the stand, Brother Packer caught his eye, beckoned to him, and stretched out his big welcoming arms. After a moment’s hesitation, the little Lamanite ragamuffin was nestled comfortably on his lap, in his arms. The tousled head against the great warm heart, a heart sympathetic to waifs, and especially the Lamanite ones.

Later Elder Packer, with a subdued voice, recalled this incident to me. As he sat forward on his chair, his eyes glistening, emotion in his voice, he said: “As this little one relaxed in my arms, it seemed it was not a single little Lamanite I held; it was a nation. Indeed, a multitude of nations, deprived, hungering souls, wanting something deep, good, and warm they could not explain. A humble people, yearning to revive memories all but faded out, of ancestors standing wide-eyed, open-mouthed, expectant, and excited. A people reaching for truths they seemed to remember only vaguely, for prophecies which surely would someday be fulfilled, looking up and seeing a holy, glorified being descend from celestial areas, and hearing a voice say, ‘Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. And in me hath the Father glorified his name. I am the Light and the Life of the world.’”

Frederick W. Babbel, who accompanied Elder Ezra Taft Benson on his postwar visit to Europe to assist the struggling Saints, recounts in his book On Wings of Faith one heartrending account. A woman, even the mother of four small children, had been newly widowed. Her husband, young and handsome, whom she loved more than life itself, had been killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland of East Prussia. She and her children were forced to flee to West Germany, a distance of a thousand miles. The weather was mild as they began their long and difficult trek on foot. Constantly being faced with dangers from panicky refugees and marauding troops was difficult enough, but then came the cold of winter, with its accompanying snow and ice. Her resources were meager; now they were gone. All she had was her strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. She awakened with a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed her. With great effort the mother prepared a shallow grave and buried her precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old perished, and then her five-year-old. Her despair was all-consuming. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her travel, the baby died in her arms. She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up all her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
From the depths of her despair, she knelt and prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed in her life: “Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in thee. I feel amidst the desolation of my soul an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of thy Son, Jesus Christ. I know that because he suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because he broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again in the flesh and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return, together, to thee.” This prayer, this testimony sustained her until finally she reached Karlsruhe, her destination.

I had the same problem. Nothing interesting ever seemed to happen to me. Then I was challenged by my Young Women leader to keep a journal. She gave us a jar of questions to answer whenever we couldn’t think of anything to write. Slowly I found that my life was interesting. Now I write in my journal constantly. I look back and read my old journals, and I’m fascinated at how much I have grown.Katie Grover, 18, Chula Vista Third Ward, Chula Vista California Stake

Isaac bounced up and down in his seat. He looked out the car window. They were going to visit Grandma and Grandpa. They were going to see something else special too.
“When will we see the new temple?” Isaac asked Mom.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
Isaac smiled.
Finally Isaac and his family were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
The next morning, Isaac got dressed in his Sunday clothes. It felt funny to wear his tie in the middle of the week. Isaac ate breakfast with his family. Then they drove to the temple open house. They were going to see inside the new temple before it was dedicated.
“I see the temple!” Isaac said. He pointed to the white building with the angel Moroni on top.
There was a Church building next to the temple. Isaac and his family went there first. They watched a video. Someone helped put white covers over their shoes.
Finally it was time to go inside the temple! Isaac walked through the temple doors. His heart felt happy.
Isaac saw lots of paintings on the walls. Some paintings showed people praying. Some paintings showed beautiful plants and animals.
Then Isaac saw a painting he liked best of all. It was a painting of Jesus! Jesus was standing with His arms stretched out.
“It looks like Jesus is opening His arms to me,” Isaac whispered to Dad.
“Jesus always has His arms open for you,” Dad whispered back. “He loves each of us.”
Isaac had a good feeling in his heart. He imagined walking next to Jesus in the temple. He imagined Jesus giving him a hug.
Jesus loves Isaac. And Isaac loves Jesus too!

The story is told that on one occasion, a traveler asked a farmer who was seated in the doorway of his humble cabin, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest!”
“Nope. Not any; I didn’t dare plant them because I was afraid of insects.”
With frustration, and somewhat impatiently, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Boy Scout Christian Washburn, inspired by the strength and courage of his younger sister who has had cystic fibrosis since birth, decided to organize a fund-raiser for cystic fibrosis research as his Eagle Scout project.
“Laura Beth has a continually positive attitude,” says Christian. “During all those times in the hospital, good or bad, Laura Beth would always have a smile for you.”
Christian’s project, a walk-a-thon, raised more than $50,000 for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation’s research.
Christian and ten other Scouts in the Orange Sixth Ward, Orange California Stake, all received their awards at the same time.
“I’m proud to have been a part of this great effort, and I’m proud of my sister,” says Christian.