Gospel Story Finder

Rachel ran through the living room and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. She and her best friend, Becca, were going to the park to try out Becca’s new rollerblades.
As Rachel was pulling her own rollerblades out from under her bed, Mom came into the room. “I’m going over to Sister Heaton’s for a few hours, and I need you to stay with David.”
“But Becca and I are going to the park right now!”
“I’m sorry to ruin your plans, Rachel, but Sister Heaton still isn’t feeling well after her operation, and I promised to help take care of her today. David will be up from his nap in about half an hour, and then you two can play for a while until Dad gets home.”
“But I don’t want to play with David—I want to go to the park!”
“I know you do, but today you need to stay home and take care of your little brother. You can go to the park tomorrow. I’m sorry, but Sister Heaton needs me, and I need you to help me.”
As Rachel watched Mom going down the street, she was so angry that she almost cried. Why did she have to take care of David? It wasn’t fair that she had to give up a trip to the park just so her mom could take care of somebody.
She called Becca to tell her the bad news, and as she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. It was Aunt Pearl, her mom’s younger sister.
“Hi, Aunt Pearl. Mom’s not here.”
“That’s OK—I can’t stay. I just came to return your mom’s sewing machine. Mine is fixed now, so I don’t need hers anymore. And I thought that maybe I’d spend a few minutes with my favorite niece!”
Rachel gave her a weak smile and tried to seem happy, but Aunt Pearl noticed Rachel wasn’t really feeling happy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I was going to go to the park with Becca, but Mom told me I had to stay and take care of David so she could help a woman in our ward.”
“That’s too bad. If it were any other day but today, I’d stay so you could be with your friend. But I have a doctor’s appointment, and I can’t reschedule it.”
“I guess I’ll be OK. It’s just that I really wanted to go to the park today.”
“You know, there might be something I could do.”
“What?”
“Sit down with me, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Rachel wasn’t sure a story would fix things—a story couldn’t baby-sit for her. But Aunt Pearl usually knew what she was talking about, so Rachel followed her to the couch.
Aunt Pearl began: “When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.
“You see, Rachel, part of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is helping others. There’s even a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us how important it is to ‘bear one another’s burdens’ [Mosiah 18:8]. Heavenly Father wants us to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.”
“You mean just like Emily took care of the chicken and like the chicken took care of the ducks?”
“And just like the Lord took care of the pioneers and how He still takes care of all of us. He wants us to be happy, so He watches over us.”
“Why doesn’t He take care of Sister Heaton instead of having Mom do it?”
“That’s how He is taking care of Sister Heaton—through your mother. Most of the time Heavenly Father answers our prayers through someone else.”
“So Mom is Heavenly Father’s answer to Sister Heaton’s prayers?”
“Probably. Your mother is helping Sister Heaton rest and get her mind off her troubles, sort of like those ducklings helping the tired pioneers find a little bit of enjoyment at the end of their long days.”
“But why do I have to baby-sit?”
“So your mom can help Sister Heaton. The ducks wouldn’t have been able to bring some enjoyment to the pioneers if the chicken hadn’t cared for them. Your mom wouldn’t be able to help Sister Heaton if she didn’t know you would take good care of your brother while she’s gone.”
“So, in a way, I’m helping Sister Heaton too?”
“In a very big way.”
“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad about waiting until tomorrow to go to the park.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
As Aunt Pearl left, Rachel heard David waking up. On her way upstairs to get him, she thought more about what Aunt Pearl had said. Rachel was still a bit disappointed to miss out on the trip to the park, but it helped to know that taking care of David helped Heavenly Father take care of Sister Heaton.

While their youngest son was serving a mission in Germany, they received a call in the middle of the night telling them that their son had suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and was not expected to live. “Through the miraculous hand of the Lord, his life was spared after 12 surgical procedures,” said Elder Schwitzer. “Over a period of years, we have seen a full recovery. When you have the blessings of the Lord like that in your life, there is no way you could refuse Him any service He would ask of you.”

The weather was beautiful, and we were nearing the end of another marvelous week at girls’ camp. As youth camp leaders we gathered the rest of the young women and began the transition from the light-hearted fun of the afternoon to the more reverent atmosphere we desired for that evening’s program. One of the leaders suggested we sing some hymns.
We clustered together and started singing. As we sang, I noticed someone was a little out of tune. I thought someone was being silly, so I glanced sideways at those near me. But when I listened more closely, I realized who it was.
One of the youth camp leaders with us that year had Down syndrome. She had a tremendous spirit and loved each of us without reserve. And we loved her. She sang with all her heart, often being touched by many of the words that most of us mouthed without really thinking about them.
I reflected on how many times Alisa had been the one to go up to one of the girls who needed a hug. I remembered how dedicated she was to the gospel. I recalled her sweet testimony at the many youth conferences we had been to. And then I realized how many times Alisa felt the Spirit when the rest of us were too busy, too silly, or too tired.
I suddenly understood that Alisa was in tune where it really mattered. She was in tune with the Spirit. As long as she stayed on the path she was on and followed the guidance of the Holy Spirit, someday she would likely raise her voice in perfect harmony with a heavenly choir to sing praises to our Lord. For now, though, the most important thing was to be in tune spiritually.

In the hospital one day I was wheeled out of the operating room by an attendant who stumbled, and there issued from his angry lips vicious cursing with a combination of the names of the Savior. Even half-conscious, I recoiled and implored: “Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.”
There was a deathly silence; then a subdued voice whispered, “I am sorry.” He had forgotten for the moment that the Lord had forcefully commanded all his people, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain” (Ex. 20:7).

Stelio Mauahiti lived next door to an attractive building in Paea on the island of Tahiti. He was told it was a church, but he didn’t really know what kind of church. The grounds were always neat, and people seemed to come nearly every day to participate in a variety of activities. On Sundays, he could hear the singing as the doors and windows were always open. Other days, he watched boys near his own age play basketball on the outdoor court. He paid particular attention to the two young men who wore white shirts and dark trousers.
Soon he was playing basketball with them. Then he started to listen to what they had to say. He and his mother agreed to be taught the gospel. At their baptism, Stelio made up his mind to serve a mission someday.
That day has come. Elder Mauahiti was called to serve in the French Polynesia Mission. One of his first assignments was to the village of Uturoa on the island of Raiatea. Mission life is very different from his life before his mission. Now he is the young man in the white shirt and dark trousers. Now he is the one who plays basketball on the outdoor court with those who are wondering about the Church. Now he is the one who does the teaching.
Best of all, Elder Mauahiti sees the same thing happening to his people that Elder Pratt saw 150 years ago. He’s seeing people change for the better. “I have seen the difference between the homes of members and the homes of nonmembers,” says Elder Mauahiti. “I have seen lives changed, hearts touched by the Spirit. I know that it’s not me who makes the difference, but the Spirit of the Lord working through his missionaries.”

Jenny jumped out of bed to the good smells of breakfast cooking. Mother must be feeling much better, she thought as she bounced down the stairs.
The January winds had carved a snowbank near the window, and as Jenny looked out, the lacy patterns of snowflakes appeared in the light of the kitchen. Mother greeted her with a cheery smile, and Jenny’s rosy-cheeked little brother sat in his high chair, demanding his cereal. Everything is back to normal, thought Jenny contentedly.
It had been a difficult December for the family. First, Jenny was down with the flu, then her little brother Clark, then Daddy, then the baby. Mother cared for all of them until one day she, too, was sick. Daddy took over, but he wasn’t feeling his best yet, either. So the holidays were almost forgotten. On Christmas Day there were some gifts from Santa and relatives, but the usual family gatherings and church parties passed while the family tried to get well.
Now the holidays were over, and today was the first day back to school after vacation. Jenny was eager to see her friends and teacher again.
As Clark came down the stairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Mother grew thoughtful. The happy expression on her face gradually changed, and she appeared sad. “What’s the matter, Mother?” asked Jenny as she ate her warm oatmeal with honey.
“Oh, I’m grateful that we’re all better now, that Daddy has returned to his job, and that you can go back to school, but I feel sad that the holidays passed us by.”
“You mean because we didn’t get a lot of presents this year?” asked Jenny.
“Not that, sweetheart,” Mother said. “I mean we didn’t give a lot of presents. Oh, we remembered our family, but we missed our special visits to our good neighbors—dear Sister Ruth, Mrs. Perkins, and Brother Billings down the road. I hope they had a nice holiday.”
Just then Jenny saw the school bus rounding the curve in the road. She quickly gathered her things, and ran to the door. “ ’Bye, Mother. I love you,” she yelled as she started for the bus, her boots making deep tracks in the snow.
At school Jenny kept busy at her assignments. Her teacher’s happy face reminded her of Mother, and Jenny remembered what Mother had said about the holidays passing them by. She kept thinking about it, even when she was playing with her friends at recess.
On the long ride home in the school bus, while Jenny gazed at rolling mounds of white that covered the farm and fields, Mother’s words were still on her mind. Then she thought, Why do we give Christmas gifts just in December? We could have our own Christmas in January! She was so excited at the idea that she could hardly wait to get home.
As she ran up the lane, Jenny could see Mother outside sweeping snow off their front steps. “Merry Christmas, Mother!” Jenny cried as she ran to greet her.
“What do you mean?” laughed Mother.
“I have the answer, Mother. We don’t have to miss the holidays, after all. We can have Christmas in January.”
Mother’s face brightened. Jenny could tell that she liked the idea.
When they went inside, Jenny smelled hot bread just out of the oven. As Mother gave her a big slice, Jenny said, “We could take something like this to give to Sister Ruth, Mrs. Perkins, and Brother Billings, just to show them we love them. You always say that we should keep Christmas in our hearts all year round.”
“You’re right,” said Mother, “but not just bread.” Her eyes twinkled as she went to the freezer and brought back a can of frozen orange juice.
Jenny was surprised. “We’re going to give them bread and orange juice?”
“Not orange juice,” Mother said. “Orange-Juice Jelly. At least, that’s its name. But we can call it January Jelly, OK?”
“OK!”
With Mother directing, Jenny added two cups of water to one box of pectin and stirred it in a pan. Mother put it on the stove, and when it had boiled for one minute, she added three and a half cups of sugar. She helped Jenny add three-fourth cup of frozen orange juice concentrate, and they let it simmer for two minutes.
In no time at all they were pouring the golden liquid into jars. As the sealing wax hardened, mother cut a piece of red ribbon to wrap around the top of each jar.
When Daddy came home, they bundled the boys up, stacked their gifts on the family sled, and started out.
As the family walked along with Daddy carrying the baby and Jenny pulling the sled, Mother began singing softly, “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” Jenny felt as if she would burst with joy. She knew that Mrs. Perkins, Brother Billings, and Sister Ruth would be happy to see them and would love the bread and January Jelly, and she couldn’t wait to surprise them.

Far away from home, Eric wraps himself in a blanket from Ghana as he prays. “The blanket reminds me of my earthly home,” Eric says, “and prayer reminds me of my heavenly home.”
When 21-year-old Eric Ayala of Techiman, Ghana, was 3, he and his mother were at a street-side market when a car veered out of control and struck them.
“It hit my mother first and broke her leg,” Eric says. “Then it dragged me a long way before my body rolled into the gutter. I was pronounced dead and taken to a mortuary. The mortician was preparing my body when he discovered I was still alive. I was rushed to a hospital.”
Now paraplegic, Eric faced challenge after challenge as he grew up without the use of his legs. He eventually obtained leg braces that allowed him to stand, but he soon outgrew them and couldn’t afford replacements. He was given a small wheelchair, but outgrew that too. His legs withered, sometimes shaking with spasms, and his feet became deformed.
In Ghana, those with disabilities are often considered a burden. Eric’s family had little money, not enough to pay for medical treatment. When Eric was about 10, he developed pressure sores caused by lack of movement and by sitting on wood and concrete. The sores festered, oozing constantly, and they smelled terrible.
The open-air shed where Eric lived for years still stands behind the family home.
As a result, Eric lived outside, on a bench in an open-air shed. His mother, Lucy, and his sisters brought him food, washed his clothes, and helped him bathe. Eric was often drenched by rain and shivered from cold in the night. He learned to love morning sunshine because it brought warmth. Too poor to go to school and unable to work, he spent years in that shed, occasionally venturing into the neighborhood on his wheelchair.
Rather than becoming resentful, “I started to love and believe in God,” Eric says. “Nobody taught me about Him, but I could see His creations, and I could see the good and bad in people. Sometimes it is hard to believe in Him when life is hard. But then I would see something good come into my life, and I would say, ‘See, God is here, and it is wonderful.’”
Eric had not been formally taught how to pray, but he began calling upon God. He received answers—when he was sick, an unanticipated opportunity to see a doctor; when he asked for relief from his sores, they went away; when he outgrew his small wheelchair, a kind stranger brought him a larger one. “God did many good things in my life,” he says.
Still, sometimes Eric would get discouraged. He found himself crying when he was in pain and hungry. “I decided if I was going to be happy, it was up to me,” he recalls. “I forced myself to smile. If I didn’t, I was afraid I would turn to something bad.” In particular, he saw friends using alcohol and drugs, and, “my heart told me that was wrong.”
Then, in what seemed a miracle, at age 14, Eric was accepted for school. His mother, by cooking for others, had scraped together enough money to buy him a uniform and pay for books and tuition. At school, “I couldn’t go out and exercise with the others,” he explains, “so I stayed inside and studied all the time.” He amazed his headmaster by receiving top scores in math, reading, and writing.
A nun from the hospital donated a new tricycle that Eric could pedal with his hands, making it easier for him to go to school. But as Eric went back and forth, pressure sores opened again. Infection returned, along with the putrid smell as the wounds leaked. Students complained about flies constantly buzzing around Eric. He was 17 when the headmaster told him to go home and get well, or he could not return to school.
Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.
When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’
“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.
“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”
Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.
Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.
Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.
Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.
A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”
The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.
A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.
The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.
While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.
Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.
Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.
“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.
Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”
He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”
Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

Just this week we received a letter from a mother telling of her Navy son, now stationed on a small island 1,200 miles south of India out in the Indian Ocean. It has only the military base and a small coconut plantation. This young man has located six other LDS boys and they are now holding regular Church services. He wrote his mother telling of his opportunity now to prepare lessons for their priesthood meetings—young men on a tiny speck of land in a vast ocean recognizing and using their priesthood authority. They are different.

When I was a child, my mother introduced me to the nature of God with a story from her own childhood: “As a little girl, I walked home from school with my brother. We always took a shortcut past a large black dog that chased us as we ran by his house. If we ran at just the right time, we could make it to a fence and to safety. My brother would tell me when to run.

“One day I was alone and didn’t run at the right time. The dog threatened me, and I froze on the sidewalk in terror. As he lunged toward me, I cried out as loud as I could, ‘Heavenly Father, help me!’”

Suddenly, my mother recalled, the dog halted as if his way had been barred, and she crawled through the fence to safety. She knew her prayer had been answered.
That story told me much about the God my mother worshiped. It gave me a sense of security, a comfort I could not have put into words.

—Abe was born in St. Louis, Missouri. His parents joined the Church when he was eight. “When I was 15, my dad got transferred to Massachusetts. I went from a seminary class of 18 and a lot of Mormons in my high school to a town where the only Mormons in our high school were me and my brother. In seminary there were only four people.”
Abe came to BYU as a walk-on football player, then went on a mission to Houston, Texas. He returned to play defensive back for a couple more years, but eventually gave it up to pursue an acting career.
—Ivey was born in Nashville, Tennessee. Her family moved back to Salt Lake City, Utah, when she was eight, to be near her grandparents. A student at East High School, she is the youngest of six children.
“My main talents are actually dance and violin,” Ivey explains. “Those are the things I’ve studied all my life.” But through hours and hours of lessons and rehearsing, Ivey has learned to sing and act.
All that variety comes into play each week as the four hosts present different segments of the show.
“We ad-lib (speak without a script) a lot, and we have to draw from our own experiences. That’s why it helps to have different viewpoints,” Tracey says. “We introduce a certain story or come back after we have watched it and talk about it. We just did a piece on a girl moving from Utah to South Carolina and the struggles that leaving a comfortable home and family can cause. We talked about, ‘Have you ever moved?’ and we shared experiences. It would be really fake if we didn’t share how we feel.”
“Just one experience can be enough for an idea to come to life. But when you have three other people who all have different experiences, it’s a lot easier to look at things in new ways,” Mike explains.
“You just know when something kind of clicks,” Tracey says. “You know when there is inspiration, when you have been blessed with more gifts and power than you would usually have on your own.”
The Center Street hosts offer these tips about finding your talents:
“My parents gave me this attitude to try everything,” Abe explains. “I tried out for basketball and didn’t make it. So I said, okay, I’ll wrestle. It was an attitude; if you can’t do this, go for this. There’s something you’re good at; you just have to find it.”
“A lot of times you don’t want to try something because you’re not very good,” Tracey says. “I was the last person picked on my eighth grade basketball team. But eventually I got the ‘most improved’ award. I learned that the most important competition is with yourself.”
One of the things Center Street does well is to show young people improving themselves and the world by doing good things.
“When you see somebody that’s 15 or 16 who is just like you, and they’re helping people in a community center, you see that you can do that too,” Abe says.
“We have a responsibility to share the gospel that Jesus Christ taught to the world,” Tracey explains. “One way we can do that is by allowing individuals to let their light shine. There are incredible people in the Church and in the world who are great examples of living what the Savior taught. We want people to have inspiring examples to lift their spirits.”
“God gave us all talents,” Mike says. “On Center Street, we show people that they can do good things with their talents instead of wasting them. We can help them make a choice for good, because they’ve seen other people who are doing good.”
“The first time we were in a shoot,” Abe says, “it was like, ‘You guys ready to start? Okay, let’s pray. All the cameramen, the sound guys, us, the directors, and the producers all came in and we prayed. We know what we’re there for, and we ask the Lord to help us.”
Ivey tells about going to St. George, Utah, and Valley of Fire, Nevada, to film on location. “We shot real film rather than video, so we could get the beautiful scenery. But real film is more expensive. The cameramen bought special equipment so they could film in the sun. There was a huge storm. But it had to be sunny. That day was the last time we could film.
“We prayed and the weather cleared up in time for us to do our shots. We finished our last take and then the clouds came in and it was totally cloudy and snowing. Our director said to remember to thank Heavenly Father for the break in the weather, because it had cleared just long enough for us to do what we had to do.”
In searching for talents and developing creativity, the Center Street hosts come back over and over again, just as Ivey has in her life, to the idea of work, work, and work.
“Persistence is the key,” Abe says. “Look at Nephi in the Book of Mormon. So many times he would try something and then go back and try again. Obtaining the brass plates. Solving the problem of his broken bow. That’s what everybody should do—‘I didn’t do well this time because I was so nervous, so I’ll go and do it again and see what happens next time.’”
“When you’re praying, you have to have faith that Heavenly Father will bless you,” Mike says.
“And give the Lord credit,” Tracey adds. “The scripture about letting your light shine (Matt. 5:16) ends with, ‘that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’ It doesn’t say, ‘Do your good works so others will think you are really cool.’”
Of course, the greatest creative challenge for the hosts of Center Street is how to include gospel principles in everything they broadcast. They show people living Christlike lives. They listen to suggestions from viewers, and they listen to each other. They use slogans, like “Remember, when you’re faced with choices, choose the right.” They make Mormonad posters available to non-Church members. They teach the gospel through the examples of service they present. And they remember that the Lord Jesus Christ should be at the center of everything they do. It’s a combination of talent and creativity that keeps them—and can keep anyone—right on center.
Another part of creativity is recognizing what abilities you truly do have. Not all talents involve being able to perform in front of others. For example, remember how Ivey talked about having a tough time fitting in at a new school?
“There was a girl in one of my classes that I didn’t know at all,” Ivey explains. “One day she said hi to me. I found out her name. We would see each other in the halls. She would ask me how I was doing or help me understand my homework. She was really nice and genuinely interested. She tried to learn a little about me. She invited me to a basketball game. I started going with her friends and integrated into that group. Because of what she did for me, I developed confidence. She had a talent for reaching out.”
You can also be creative in assessing your own abilities. “Everybody has talents,” Ivey says. “You may not think they are there, but you can find them. It may be you have the skill of being able to get along with people or to serve people. I know some people who work well with children. They have patience, love, and the desire to help. That is such a talent!”
And there are more talents, many more. Why not take a minute to make a list of abilities that may be hidden within you? Then go to work. Bring them out and use them to bless other people. (See Matt. 25:14–30.)

When I was growing up, I had a fantastic life. I remember thinking that life was perfect and nothing could ever go wrong. We were a happy family, and we lived the teachings of the gospel. I never thought anything bad would happen.
But then when I was 11 years old, it felt like disaster had struck. My dad brought us all into his bedroom and announced that my mom was having another baby, the eighth. I was so excited! But then he proceeded to tell us that he had just been diagnosed with a terminal cancer that may someday end his life.
It was hard to understand, and I really didn’t know what to do. Since then my dad has gone through many painful treatments and is now in remission. Through these difficult times, the Lord has helped and comforted me and my family countless times.
I also became closer to my dad through notes, calls, and walks. I used to leave little notes for my dad in his lunch box and on his desk. These little pieces of paper helped me more than I could ever dream. Now I call my dad almost every day during lunch and just talk. We also go on walks and talk about our day and our likes and dislikes. I’ve gotten to know my dad a lot better now, and I love to talk to him. He’s always interested in what I have to say.
My dad is not cured, and he probably never will be. But the simple gestures like little notes, a quick call, or a walk around the block have helped me understand, at least in part, why my family is going through this. I know that I’ve become closer to my dad, and so has my entire family. I love my Heavenly Father, and I know that He knows what’s best. My family’s love for the Savior has made me understand that I can keep going and that my family will be together forever. I know that this Church is true with all my heart.

As a young Primary boy, I learned that Heber J. Grant was truly a great man. He served as president of the Church from 1918 to 1945 and was ordained an apostle at age 25. In general conference in April 2000, President James E. Faust used examples from President Grant’s life in his talk “The Power of Self-Mastery”:
Part of [President Grant’s] strength was his great determination for self-mastery. His father died when he was only a year old, and his widowed mother struggled to raise him. He was conscientious in helping her and trying to take care of her.1
President Faust quoted Roderick L. Cameron’s description of Heber J. Grant’s struggle to become proficient playing baseball:
When he was older and wanted to join a baseball team, he found the other fellows laughing at him and calling him a “sissy” because he could not throw the ball between the bases. His teammates teased him so much that one night he went home and made up his mind that he was going to play with the nine who would win the championship of the Territory of Utah. He purchased a baseball and practiced hour after hour, throwing at a neighbor’s old barn. Often his arm would ache so much he could hardly go to sleep at night. He kept on practicing, and kept on improving and advancing from one team to another until he finally did succeed in playing with the [team] who won the championship!2
Another instance of his self-mastery was his determination to have readable handwriting:
His penmanship was so poor that when two of his [friends] were looking at it one said to the other, “That writing looks like hen tracks.” “No,” said the other, “it looks as if lightning had struck an ink bottle.”3
Heber realized at that point that he could not be much good to an employer or society if he did not improve his penmanship. He practiced and worked at it persistently. Over the next few years he was offered lucrative jobs because of his superior penmanship, won first prize in a contest against professional penmen, and taught penmanship and bookkeeping at the University of Utah.
Another challenge for President Grant was singing:
When he was a small child . . . he could not carry a tune. When he was ten, a music instructor worked and worked with him, trying to teach him the simplest song and finally gave up in despair. At the age of twenty-six, when he was an apostle, he asked a Professor Sims if he could teach him how to sing. After listening to him, the professor replied, “Yes, you can learn to sing, but I would like to be forty miles away while you are doing it.”4
This only made him try harder.
President Grant once said, “I have practiced [the hymn “Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow”] between three and four hundred times, and there are only four lines, and I cannot sing it yet.”5
Once, on a trip to Arizona with Elder Clawson and Elder Kimball, [President Grant] asked them if he could sing one hundred songs on the way. They thought he was joking and said, “Fine, go right ahead.” After the first forty, they assured him if he sang the other sixty they would both have a nervous breakdown. He sang the other sixty.6
President Faust concluded that “by practicing all of his life he made some improvement in singing but perhaps not as much as in baseball and penmanship, which he mastered.”7

It all started when Brandon, my two-year-old brother, got in the fridge and began dropping eggs onto the kitchen floor. Actually, things had been pretty crazy all morning. Mom, who is usually up and dressed by 7:00 every day, was still in her robe and slippers at noon, waiting for a chance to slip into the shower. The phone had been ringing all morning, the new baby was fussy, my little sister, Emily, had broken two glasses while setting the table for breakfast, Brandon had tried to be a “big helper” by washing out his oatmeal bowl in the toilet, and I had been whining all morning for Mom to drive me to my cousins’ house so that I could go roller-skating with them.
Mom had finally gotten the baby to sleep and was picking up the broken glass, when Brandon got into the eggs. Before she could do anything about him, the phone rang again. Sister Halvorson wanted to talk over Primary stuff with Mom, who is her first counselor. But Mom couldn’t hear a word she was saying, because Emily was prancing around, hollering that she needed to go to the bathroom. (The door was latched up high to keep Brandon from getting into it again.)
Mom told Sister Halvorson that she’d call back when things were calmer—in about fifteen years—and hung up. She dove for Brandon, who had run out of eggs and was trying to improve the color of the gooey mess on the floor by adding catsup, and called for me to unlatch the door for Emily.
But I was still mad about not being able to go roller-skating, so I just stood there pouting. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You get to do whatever you want whenever you want just because you’re a grown-up. I never get to do what I want. I wish I were the mom!”
That’s when it happened.
“Boingo!” Mom sang out, plopping Brandon back down in his egg and catsup concoction. “That’s it. I quit.” And with that, she turned and slid through the egg slime, out the back door, and calmly crawled inside the doghouse. (We had a large dog.)
I followed. Squatting, I peered in. “Mom, why are you in the doghouse?”
“Because I couldn’t climb the tree in my robe,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“Are you going to clean up the mess Brandon made?”
“No,” Mom replied sweetly. “I’m going to let you have your wish. Abbra-ka-doobra-ka-broccoli-boop!” she chanted, ceremoniously tapping my shoulders with the dog’s bone. “There! You are now officially ‘Mom’ for a while! You get to clean up the mess!”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “We’re going to switch roles. I read a book about this!”
“No, no. You wished to be a mom. I didn’t wish to be a kid again. I’ve been there. That’s not so easy, either. No, I think I’ll just be a dog today.”
“Oh! This is going to be fun!” I shouted, envisioning myself filling shopping carts with frozen pizzas and Popsicles, serving ice cream and doughnuts for supper, and staying up all night watching TV.
“But, Megan,” Mom interrupted my daydream, “you have to take the whole package. I’ll be fair and take care of the baby, but you’ve baby-sat Brandon and Emily before, and it’s time you learn that you can’t just take the freedom without taking the responsibility too. Understand?”
I nodded and waited for Mom to tell me to start by cleaning up Brandon and the eggs, but she just barked, circled around a couple of times on her hands and knees, and settled herself comfortably in the doghouse.
I hesitated a moment, then headed for the house. As I reached the back porch, Mom stuck her head out and called, “Please leave the door open so I can hear if the baby wakes up.” She barked again and disappeared.
One look at the kitchen was all I needed to repent real fast. All my wonderful visions of endless roller-skating and unlimited ice cream exploded like a blitzed video arcade target. Brandon had discovered a bowl of leftover spinach in the fridge and was gleefully draping the limp, greenish globs over his head as he jumped up and down in the catsup-streaked egg mixture.
I almost went right back out to the doghouse to beg Mom to forsake her canine ways and be the mom again, but I didn’t. Not because I was too stubborn to admit that I was wrong, but because I suddenly realized that being a grown-up really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And Mom was stuck with it twenty-four hours a day, whether she liked it or not. The least I could do was let her be a dog for a few hours.
I unlatched the door for Emily, checked on the baby, who was sleeping peacefully, then tackled the job of getting Brandon and the kitchen cleaned up. A couple of times I thought I saw Mom peeking in the window, but I wasn’t sure.
Sopping up all those eggs gave me a lot of time to think about what Mom had said about freedom and responsibility. I was still getting used to the idea that maybe grown-ups sometimes got tired of being grown-up. I guess we all need a break sometimes, no matter who we are, I mused. I remembered reading in the New Testament that even Jesus had grown weary on occasion and had gone into the mountains where he could be alone for awhile.
I was fixing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Emily and Brandon, when I remembered that Mom hadn’t even had any breakfast—someone had come to the door just as she was about to eat her bowl of cereal, and by the time she got back, it was soggy.
With great care I made a sandwich for Mom, adding extra grape jelly, which I knew she adored. I carried the sandwich outside and knelt down by the doghouse. “Shall I put this in the doggy dish, or will this plate do?” I asked, giving Mom a big “everything is OK” wink.
Mom winked back. Then she crawled out of the doghouse, yawned, stretched, and brushed the dog hair off her robe. “Now that’s what I call a good vacation!” she declared, taking the sandwich and marching toward the house.
When Dad got home from work that evening, I took him aside and told him all about Mom’s morning. He was extra helpful that night. After dinner, while Dad was helping Emily and Brandon with their prayers and getting them to bed, I sat by Mom on the sofa as she nursed the baby.
“Megan, why don’t you call your cousins and tell them I’ll drop you and your roller skates off for a few hours in the morning,” she said, putting her free arm around me.
I thought for a moment before answering. “Thanks, Mom, but there’s something else I need to do tomorrow. I think I’ll give that old doghouse a good cleaning. After all—” I grinned— “you never know when you might need it again!”

That kind of harvest is being enjoyed throughout Brazil. It extends even to the far reaches of the Amazon. On a map, the Amazon River appears to slice off the top of South America in its 6,400 kilometer course from the Andes Mountains in the west to the Atlantic Ocean in the east. This great river, 145 kilometers wide at its mouth, is deep enough for ocean-going vessels to navigate upstream approximately 1,000 kilometers.
One of the many who rely on the river for a livelihood is Brother Honorato Bruce Rolim, a member of the Itaporanga Branch in the small Amazonian town of Itacoatiara. A fisherman, Brother Rolim was himself gathered into the gospel net when he invited the full-time missionaries into his home and then accepted the baptismal challenge. His wife, Nilza, a member of another church, was fearful of taking such a step.
“My friends warned me against The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she says. “They told me that if my husband joined the Church he would go to hell, and if I followed him, I would go there, too.”
But Brother Rolim had a strong testimony that the Church was true, and he wanted Nilza and their oldest boys to be baptized. So he made a plan. Itacoatiara is a town of relatively few motorized vehicles. Horse-drawn carts are fairly common, a bus circles the outskirts of the town, and bicycles are pedaled over bumpy or unfinished roads. But most people walk. It is a 3.2 kilometer walk to church from the Rolims’ home.
“I was sure my wife would never make the effort to go to church if she had to walk there for the first time,” he says. “But I felt that if I could get her to church just once, she would feel the Spirit. My plan was to hire a taxi to take her for that first visit.” It took more than three months to save the (U.S.) $7.00 taxi fare.
Nilza was impressed by her husband’s thoughtfulness. “Once I got to church, I felt at home,” she remembers. “I felt comfortable with the members. I learned more about the gospel that one morning than I had ever learned in all the time I had attended my own church.” Soon, she and two sons, Helio, 14, and Euciney, 8, were baptized. The third son, Honorato, was baptized when he came of age.
Like many Brazilian Saints, the Rolims gladly share their testimony of the gospel by inviting friends into their home to meet the missionaries. Their fellowshipping efforts have resulted in at least 35 baptisms.
“Brother and Sister Rolim are typical of the Brazilian Saints,” says Elder Matthew Connelly, a returned missionary who served in Itacoatiara. “They are eager to share the gospel. For example, a member family invited my companion and me to their home to meet with a few nonmember friends. We expected maybe two or three people, but the family had more than 20 people there for us to talk to.”

A story by Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf illustrates how both the giver and receiver are blessed with light:
A man . . . lived in Africa. Because of a disability, this man had never been able to walk. He was forced to spend most of his time in his parents’ home. He could not work; he could not go out with his friends; he could not do even the simple things we take so much for granted.
Then he heard something remarkable! The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was bringing wheelchairs to an event not far from his home!
He asked a friend to take him to the event, and there he watched as dozens of disabled men, women, and children were lifted into new, gleaming wheelchairs. . . .
He waited in line until finally, it was his turn.
Two men lifted him into a chair and for the first time in his life, he was able to move freely!
At first he moved about hesitantly. But as he got the feel of the wheelchair, he moved more courageously.
He turned, twisted, and sprinted. He waved enthusiastically with both hands as he raced past his friend. . . .
The look on his face was one of joy.
After a time, however, he slowly wheeled the chair back to the others and with an expression of calm resignation he prepared to be helped out.
“What are you doing?” his friend asked.
The man smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “It is someone else’s turn now,” he said.
The Church humanitarian missionary knelt beside him and said, “This wheelchair is yours.”
The man couldn’t believe it. He had assumed this event was only to demonstrate what it was like to ride in a wheelchair.
“Is it truly mine?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But I have no money.”
“It is yours. It is a gift from people who love you.”
When the reality of what was happening finally sunk in, this humble man looked at his friend.
He looked at the missionary.
He tried to hold back the tears, but it was in vain. And as he wept, he laughed at the sheer joy of what he felt.
His friend and the missionary wept with him.29

William R. Palmer once shared an experience of one who had traveled in the Martin handcart company:

In an adult Sunday School class, . . . some sharp criticism of the Church and its leaders was being indulged in for permitting a company of converts to venture across the plains with no more supplies or protection than a handcart caravan afforded. . . .

An old man in the corner sat silent and listened as long as he could stand it then he arose and said things that few of those who heard him will ever forget. . . .

He said in substance, “I ask you to stop this criticism for you are discussing a matter you know nothing about. . . . Mistake to send the handcart company out so late in the season? Yes. But I was in that company and my wife was in it. . . . We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation. But did you ever hear a survivor of that company utter a word of criticism? . . .

“Was I sorry that I chose to come by handcart? No. Neither then nor one moment of my life since. The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay and I am thankful that I was privileged to come to Zion in the Martin Handcart Company.”

When I was six years old, my parents divorced. Though I continued to live with my mom, my dad was still present in my life after the separation. I stayed at his house on weekends and for one day in the middle of the week.
Despite his efforts to be a good father, when I was seven, he betrayed my trust in a very serious way. This breach of trust marked the beginning of a growing distance between us. When he called the house, I would avoid answering the phone. When I was older, I demanded that I be able to choose when I went to stay at my dad’s house, rather than be forced to go when the custody order mandated me.
When I was in high school, visits gradually became a lot less frequent. I saw him only two or three times a month. When I went to college, the space between calls grew, until I would talk to him about once a semester. My relationship with my dad had become more of a formality than a true parent-child connection.
During my second year of college, I decided to talk to him about the incident from my childhood that I felt had damaged our relationship so many years ago. I hoped for closure, forgiveness, and a chance to start over. I e-mailed him my thoughts and waited for a reply.
Some time later I received his e-mail in reply. Before I read my father’s response, I prayed and asked Heavenly Father that His Spirit be with me as I read the e-mail. This was such an important moment in my life—I was about to see what my dad had to say and what direction our relationship would take. I was scared and felt very alone.
Indeed I was alone, sitting in my room with my computer. I needed support. I continued to pray to Heavenly Father and felt His Spirit. At last I had the courage to read.
My dad replied with a very short e-mail in which he denied any memory of what I was saying and said that it was a really bad time for him to discuss our past.
The way he dismissed something that was so important to me and didn’t seem to want any sort of reconciliation hurt me deeply. I felt deserted by my father, racked with grief over the troubled relationship we had had for more than a decade.
As I sat in my chair sobbing, I felt the Spirit around me. I had never felt my Heavenly Father’s presence so strongly. I literally felt “encircled about eternally in the arms of his love” (2 Nephi 1:15). I felt reassured and loved as I sat crying.
My relationship with my earthly father may have been lacking, but my Heavenly Father was with me. His presence is strong in my life. I know He loves me, cares for me, and will always want a relationship with me. I know that He is my Father. And He is not going anywhere.

Some years ago in our meetinghouse in Darmstadt, Germany, a group of brethren was asked to move a grand piano from the chapel to the adjoining cultural hall, where it was needed for a musical event. None were professional movers, and the task of getting that gravity-friendly instrument through the chapel and into the cultural hall seemed nearly impossible. Everybody knew that this task required not only physical strength but also careful coordination. There were plenty of ideas, but not one could keep the piano balanced correctly. They repositioned the brethren by strength, height, and age over and over again—nothing worked.
As they stood around the piano, uncertain of what to do next, a good friend of mine, Brother Hanno Luschin, spoke up. He said, “Brethren, stand close together and lift where you stand.”
It seemed too simple. Nevertheless, each lifted where he stood, and the piano rose from the ground and moved into the cultural hall as if on its own power. That was the answer to the challenge. They merely needed to stand close together and lift where they stood.

As a bishop a few years ago l held a temple recommend interview with one good brother; a really fine member of the ward. All went well until we got to the question, “do you pay your tithes?” Then he began to stammer; words could not come out clearly. I looked him straight in the eye and asked a second time, “Do you pay your tithes?”

The answer then came out rather quietly, “l am not consistent in paying my tithes, because many times when I get my pay, l have a lot of pressing needs and the money seems not to be enough to cover all the expenses or commitments.” I knew that this was an opportunity to teach him about the principle of paying an honest and full tithe, as commanded by the Lord. He then asked for time to go and make good on his promise to become a full tithe payer. It took six months before l could have another interview with him to ascertain his worthiness. Indeed, he had begun to take baby steps in the right direction.

There is a man I hope someday to meet—a brother of yours and mine in the kingdom. He lives somewhere behind the Iron Curtain. Another man, a priesthood leader behind the Iron Curtain, was told that there was such a man, who had not seen another member of the Church for many years. This good brother, moved by the Spirit, saved his money (which he didn’t have much of), made his way through the red tape of crossing borders, and found this brother of yours and mine; he learned that he who was found had not seen another member of the Church for over twenty years. And when the man who was the finder indicated that it was possible, because he had been so authorized, to give this brother a patriarchal blessing, this good brother demurred momentarily until he got the tithing which he had saved for over twenty years and gave it to this other man so that he would be fully worthy of that blessing!

I don’t know what the divine design is in the challenge of that kind of solitude. I know that this man, our brother, is meeting that challenge. Some of us will have to be most courageous, not when we’re alone, but when we’re in a crowd. Whatever the form the test takes, we must be willing to pass it. We must reach breaking points without breaking. We must be willing, if necessary, to give up our lives—not because we have a disdain for life as some do, but even though we love life—because we are the servants of him who did that in such an infinite way for all of us.