Gospel Story Finder

Grandpa rolled down the window of the car and called, “Take good care of Casper for us while we’re gone, Chadwick.”
“I will,” Chadwick promised.
He waved as Grandpa and Grandma drove away. He scratched Casper’s neck. “See you later, boy. I’ve got to go to school now.”
Chadwick shut the gate and hurried off to school. When he reached home that afternoon, Chadwick went next door to his grandparents’ house to feed Casper. After the dog finished eating they played “chase the stick” until they were both panting.
“Chadwick,” Mom called. “Suppertime.”
Chadwick ruffled Casper’s fur. “I’ll come back to say goodnight,” he promised.
He ran up the steps and into the kitchen. “Casper and I have been having a lot of fun together! He likes me.”
Mom smiled. “Hurry and wash for supper,” she said. “We’re waiting for you.”
After supper Chadwick watched his favorite TV program. When it ended, he jumped up quickly. “I better check on Casper,” he declared.
“You played with him a long time,” Mom said. “It’s almost bedtime.”
“I promised Casper I’d see him before I went to bed,” Chadwick insisted.
Mom sighed. “All right, but be back in ten minutes,” she said firmly.
Chadwick raced down the sidewalk and into Grandma’s yard. Casper wagged his tail happily.
Chadwick checked the water dish. Then they both flopped down beside the doghouse. They were too tired to play and it was awfully dark by now.
Chadwick put his arm around Casper’s neck and gazed into the darkness at his grandparents’ house. “I better go,” Chadwick told the dog. “I’ll be over with your breakfast in the morning.”
After carefully shutting the gate behind him, Chadwick glanced up at the house. He gasped! Then he bounded toward home, opened the back door, and ran through the kitchen.
“What in the world’s the matter?” Mom asked in alarm.
“Grandma has a ghost,” he choked.
Mom stared. “Did you hear someone?”
He shook his head. “It didn’t make any noise but it was watching me from the window.”
Dad came into the kitchen carrying the evening paper. “What’s this about a ghost?”
“I saw it, honest.” Chadwick gulped. His throat was so dry he could hardly talk.
Dad looked puzzled. “Couldn’t be a prowler. Casper would alarm the whole town if a stranger tried to go in there. But maybe I’d better check anyway.”
“It’s not a man, Dad, at least not a real one,” Chadwick insisted.
Dad just smiled and went out the door.
Soon he was back. “Nothing seems to be disturbed. The doors are all locked and the windows are closed,” he said.
“You think I only imagined it,” Chadwick muttered.
Dad patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Grandma and Grandpa have never mentioned a ghost. Maybe it stays out of the way when they’re home. It could be a caretaker-type ghost when they go away.”
Chadwick knew Dad was teasing him. Chadwick smiled at Mom and Dad. He didn’t feel quite so scared now. Maybe he had let his imagination play tricks on him.
The next morning he felt foolish when Dad asked, “Want me to take Casper his breakfast?”
Chadwick shook his head. “Ghosts don’t come out in the daytime, do they?” he asked.
“Well, none that I’ve ever known,” Dad answered. “But then, I haven’t known many ghosts.”
Chadwick looked up at the window before he opened the gate, but he saw nothing there. He gave Casper fresh water and food. The dog was too busy eating when Chadwick left to even look up.
That afternoon whenever Chadwick went to see Casper, he looked at the window half expecting to see something there. But each time the window was empty.
Just before bedtime that night, he walked slowly toward the door. “I have to say goodnight to Casper,” he explained.
“I’m sure the dog is all right,” Mom said kindly. “You don’t have to go unless you really want to.”
Chadwick shook his head. “I promised to take good care of him. It’s my responsibility.”
“If you hurry you can probably catch up with Dad. He went to check the house just a minute ago.”
Chadwick ran down the sidewalk, but Dad was out of sight. He walked slowly around the house. When he reached the gate he peeked up at the window. There was something there! Just then Dad turned on the light in the kitchen. The ghost began to twitch and wiggle.
Chadwick screamed and ran toward the back door. “Dad, Dad,” he shouted.
Dad opened the door wide. “Chadwick! What’s wrong?”
“I saw it again, Dad. The ghost was going right toward you,” Chadwick cried frantically.
Dad sighed. “Let’s turn on every light in the house. Maybe we can find this ghost of yours.”
Chadwick trembled in fear. He followed closely behind his father. They went through the house, turning on the lights as they went.
Chadwick jingled the windchimes hanging from a curtain rod. “Funny place for Grandma to put her windchimes,” he said.
Dad glanced at them. “They could probably be broken on the porch if the wind started blowing very hard. I suppose she thought of them as she went out the door.”
They turned off the lights and went back outside. Dad locked the door. Chadwick checked Casper’s water dish. Then they turned toward home.
Chadwick glanced back over his shoulder. He clutched his father’s arm tightly. “There it is again!” he whispered. Then he began to laugh. “The windchimes! It’s nothing but those crazy windchimes with the streetlights shining on them.”
Dad chuckled. “And so another ghost is laid to rest.”
“You knew all the time that there wasn’t any ghost, didn’t you, Dad?” Chadwick asked.
Dad put his arm around Chadwick’s shoulders. “Well, let’s just say I had some mighty strong doubts. But everyone should meet a ghost at least once in his lifetime!”

President Boyd K. Packer illustrated this principle with his story of the little girl who prayed that her brother would not catch birds in his trap. After she prayed, she told her mother that she was positive her brother wouldn’t catch any more birds. Her mother asked her how she knew. The little girl replied that after she prayed, she had gone out and kicked the trap to pieces (see “Prayer and Promptings,” Ensign, November 2009, 46).

“Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna to God and the Lamb. Amen, Amen, and Amen.” Louisa was shouting as loudly as she could, but she couldn’t hear herself above the roar of forty thousand other Saints calling out the praises. Most of the Saints were excitedly waving white handkerchiefs; some were dabbing at tears rolling down their cheeks.
Just like Louisa, many of these people had waited their whole lives for this day. The building of the Salt Lake Temple was almost complete!
Families, dressed in their finest clothes, gathered to enjoy the moment. American flags draped the podium, where Joseph F. Smith had given a beautiful prayer. The Saints had watched carefully as President Wilford Woodruff pushed a button at the podium to swing the capstone onto the tallest spire. The capstone was the very last stone to go on the temple.
When the capstone was in place, the outside of the temple was finally finished. The crowd broke into beautiful song. Louisa was so thrilled and full of the Spirit that she had goose bumps.
She was proud of her papa and grandfather, who had spent many long, hard days hauling granite from the mountains to build this temple. She had never seen a more beautiful building.
“Get your handkerchiefs and wraps. It’s time to go,” Mama announced.
“Oh, Papa, please let me stay and watch what they do next,” Louisa pleaded.
“I will stay with you for a while longer, Louisa,” he said.
Most of the Saints left when Mama left, to get ready for their long trips back to their homes in Wyoming, Idaho, and southern Utah.
Louisa was glad that Papa let her stay. Even though she was only eight, she felt older and important. She was proud to have just been baptized into the Church that now had such a beautiful temple.
A few people stayed to fold flags and take down the podium. But Louisa was more interested in watching the workmen go back up onto the temple to place a huge statue of the angel Moroni. It took them a long time to get the large statue to the highest spire. “Do you think the angel Moroni could fall off the temple, Papa?”
“No, honey. The Lord has protected this temple for thirty-nine years. He will protect the angel, too.”
After the workmen finished placing the statue, Papa gathered his coat to leave for home. But Louisa saw a few people making their way to the corner of the temple. She tugged at Papa’s hand. “Oh, Papa, can we follow them?”
Silently Papa took Louisa’s hand and led her up to the temple. They followed the small group through the side door of the temple and up a corner staircase. At the top of the stairs, they went through a door onto the roof of the temple. Papa helped Louisa onto a wooden platform surrounding the spires. The platform was the scaffolding that the workmen had used when they built the spires. Louisa and Papa steadied themselves against it so that they wouldn’t fall.
Louisa couldn’t believe she was standing above the temple! The sun had just gone down, but it was still light enough to see the whole valley. Louisa could see for miles. She could see the road her family would take tomorrow back to their home in northern Utah. She could see the Tabernacle that was so close to the temple. She could see the mountains where the granite had come from to build the temple. She could see people below, and they looked very tiny.
Louisa grabbed Papa’s arm and hugged it, she was so happy. They inched along the scaffolding until they reached the tallest spire. On top of it was a ball. The top half of this ball was the capstone they had seen President Woodruff place earlier in the day. Standing on top of the ball was the statue of Moroni.
“Papa, I know that this is the Lord’s House, but do you think He would care if I touched the angel Moroni?”
“I think it would be all right.”
“I want to get married here when I’m older, and I want to be able to look up at the angel and remember this day.”
Papa smiled at her, then knelt for Louisa to put her foot into his hands. He lifted her off the scaffolding floor toward the Moroni statue. Louisa reached over the capstone and up as far as she could. She was so excited that she was shaking. She ran her hand across Moroni’s foot. The statue felt warm and smooth.
“Oh, Papa, the temple is wonderful! I’m going to come back after it is dedicated and I am old enough to go inside.”
“That will be another special day, Louisa. Let’s go home now and tell Mama what an exciting time we had here.”
Louisa was true to her promise. Ten years and four days later, on April 10, 1902, she returned to the Salt Lake Temple to marry George Campbell Miller. The ceremony was performed by President Joseph F. Smith. As she left the temple, she looked up at Moroni and remembered that earlier wonderful day with Papa.

There are many today who harbor in the deep recesses of their hearts a canker, a hurt, a feeling of resentment, a dislike, or in some cases even a hate because of unpleasant experiences with past and present associations. Some have been taken advantage of in a business sense. Others have had their feelings hurt by neighbors, or relatives, or friends. A few have been lied to or had a trust of long standing betrayed. Some children, young and now grown, have been offended by harsh or dictatorial parents. Husbands and wives may have deep schisms between them caused by criticism and a resulting resentment. The list of sad experiences goes on and on—yes, it is too long. To those of you who have been nursing the wounds of hurt feelings from the past, even from the little things, I would like to tell an experience which happened some time ago.
For much of our lives, we lived in central Arizona. Some years ago a group of teenagers from the local high school went on an all-day picnic into the desert on the outskirts of Phoenix. As some of you know, the desert foliage is rather sparse—mostly mesquite, catclaw, and palo verde trees, with a few cactus scattered here and there. In the heat of the summer, where there are thickets of this desert growth, you may also find rattlesnakes as unwelcome residents. These young people were picnicking and playing, and during their frolicking, one of the girls was bitten on the ankle by a rattlesnake. As is the case with such a bite, the rattler’s fangs released venom almost immediately into her bloodstream.
This very moment was a time of critical decision. They could immediately begin to extract the poison from her leg, or they could search out the snake and destroy it. Their decision made, the girl and her young friends pursued the snake. It slipped quickly into the undergrowth and avoided them for fifteen or twenty minutes. Finally, they found it, and rocks and stones soon avenged the infliction.
Then they remembered: their companion had been bitten! They became aware of her discomfort, as by now the venom had had time to move from the surface of the skin deep into the tissues of her foot and leg. Within another thirty minutes they were at the emergency room of the hospital. By then, the venom was well into its work of destruction.
A couple of days later I was informed of the incident and was asked by some young members of the Church to visit their friend in the hospital. As I entered her room, I saw a pathetic sight. Her foot and leg were elevated—swollen almost beyond recognition. The tissue in her limb had been destroyed by the poison, and a few days later it was found her leg would have to be amputated below the knee.
It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. How much better it would have been if, after the young woman had been bitten, there had been an extraction of the venom from the leg in a process known to all desert dwellers.

Very often, too, freedom means packing a burden. Sometimes we want to escape the burden, thinking that freedom would lie in that. A few years ago, I took my truck into the mountains to get some firewood one late fall afternoon. The road up the canyon was covered with snow, and the higher I went, the deeper the snow. Soon I was far up, and the snow was deep. I pulled off the road and promptly got stuck. I moved several logs that were in front of the wheels, but I still couldn’t go. By this time it was getting dark. “Maybe someone will come along,” I thought. “While I’m waiting, I might as well cut up a little wood.” Soon I had a whole load of firewood, but still no one had come. “Well,” I thought, “I’d better start walking.”
Before I did, I decided to try just one more time to move the track. I put my truck in gear, and it slowly but surely pulled back onto the road. The load of wood had given the truck traction. What it could not do empty, it could do full.

The missionaries taught me for over a year. I attended church and continued to interact with the members. We played games together and talked about many things. I was encouraged to follow the Savior and be baptized, but I was worried.
My parents were devoted Buddhists and did not approve of my learning about the Church. Wanting to meet my family’s expectations, I told the missionaries that I couldn’t be baptized. But the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had been prompting me to go down a different path from the one most people around me pursued. I had to decide for myself which path to take.
The more I thought about it, the more I felt that I should pray. I knelt by my bed and prayed out loud for the first time in my life. Before I even finished, the Holy Ghost had made it clear to me that I had found the truth. But what would my parents think?
When my parents realized my desire to be baptized, they surprised me by agreeing to have the missionaries come for a visit. When they arrived at our home, my parents had a good feeling. After talking for a while, the missionaries invited us to sing a hymn, “Love at Home” (Hymns, no. 294). As we sang together, my mother had tears in her eyes. Everyone was touched.
This experience softened my parents’ hearts, and a year and eight months after I first met the missionaries, I was baptized. I later served a mission in Utah and have had many wonderful opportunities in the Church.
Have you ever stopped and thought about how the gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed your life? In doing so, you will be filled with love for God and come to better understand that He loves you so much that He sent His Only Begotten and precious Son, Jesus Christ, to the world to strengthen and uplift you as you come unto Him.
When you feel this love, I hope that you will respond by opening your heart to your loved ones and others and sharing what you know to be true. My life has been blessed because of friends who reached out to me and shared their love of the Savior and His gospel with me. I’ve also been blessed as I’ve continued to strengthen my testimony through prayer, studying the life and teachings of Jesus Christ, and choosing to be His disciple. You can do the same!
As you strive to remember the promises you made when you were baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, God has promised you that the Holy Ghost will “show unto you all things what ye should do” (2 Nephi 32:5). Please have faith in His promise. You can be guided in the right direction in all you do and say. You can reach out in friendship and invite others to hear your testimony. I know that this can make you happier than just about anything else ever could.

1 The Prophet Joseph Smith was a tall, strong man. He grew up on a farm and spent many hours clearing the land and planting crops with his father and brothers.
2 The Prophet loved spending time with young people. One of his favorite activities was wrestling. In those days, wrestling consisted mostly of trying to throw your opponent off balance.
3 One day Joseph noticed a crowd of enthusiastic young men and boys. When he got closer, he saw that they were wrestling. He decided to join them.
4 There was one especially large fellow who seemed to be the champion. He was proud of the fact that no one had thrown him, and he was eager to wrestle the Prophet.
5 The match had scarcely begun when the champion found himself being carried by his collar and the seat of his pants to a nearby ditch, where Joseph dropped him.
6 As the crowd yelled and cheered, Joseph helped the young man to his feet, patted him on his back, and said, “You must not mind this. When I am with the boys, I make all the fun I can for them.”
7 Although he was the first President of the Church and a very busy man, Joseph Smith knew that taking time to be friendly with others was important.

We all have concerns and needs that we can feel alone in. He cares about our concerns no matter how great or small. I have felt the need for His help when worrying about seemingly small things like the ever-present friend I call “house repairs.” Without a spouse to consult with, I can worry alone about the right contractor, fair costs, taking time away from work to be home, and being a good steward over my finances and home. It was a triumph the other day to get my garage door fixed! The Lord heard my concern. And though small in the grand scheme of things, He answered my prayer. How? Through a kind neighbor, the help of the Spirit, and a video on YouTube, I was blessed to know what to do to fix the door.

“On a Friday afternoon an opportunity came up to go visit a new girl in our ward,” Emma H., 15, said. “No one wanted to do it, including me. But I think the idea of helping someone else and sacrificing my time was something I was more used to after the Fit Challenge and more used to saying yes to. I said I’d go, and I went and had a super great visit with one of the Beehives. We got her to come watch the general women’s session of conference with us. It was cool because she seemed to have wanted us to come by.”
“When you are asked to do something, whether it’s by a leader in your ward or your stake or a prompting from Heavenly Father, you should act on that,” she continued. “Try something new, work a little harder to be a little better. Those practices can really change your life if you let them.”

My father-in-law, Blaine Twitchell, one of the best men I have ever known, taught me a great lesson. Sister Rasband and I went to visit him when he was nearing the end of his mortal journey. As we entered his room, his bishop was just leaving. As we greeted the bishop, I thought, “What a nice bishop. He’s here doing his ministering to a faithful member of his ward.”
I mentioned to Blaine, “Wasn’t that nice of the bishop to come visit.”
Blaine looked at me and responded, “It was far more than that. I asked for the bishop to come because I wanted my temple recommend interview. I want to go recommended to the Lord.” And he did!

Haroon remembered the excitement of the day the announcement was made that the language would be written with the same alphabet he used to study English. Airplanes had dropped leaflets all over the city to tell the people the good news.
People began learning to read and write Somali at once.
Three months later Haroon’s father, who was a clerk in a government office, told him, “Next week I must pass a literacy test in Somali in order to keep my job.”
That same week Haroon and three of his friends sat at a sidewalk cafe sipping a spicy beverage. Jama ran up to them, waving the first edition of the Somali daily newspaper.
“Just look at this!” he shouted. Proudly he read the name “Xiddigta Oktoobar (October Star).”
Soon five heads were bent over the pages, sounding out familiar words that looked strange in print.
Radio Mogadishu began broadcasting literacy lessons daily. Everyone in town was learning to read now. Classes started all over the city.
In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.
Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.
“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is used as box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. Llaah ha ku barakadeya (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”
Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.
Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignore him.
Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And do you know what?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”
After they parted, Haroon thought about Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aquoon baro.” (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.)
That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.
Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”
But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.
Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.
Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.
One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.
Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”
Chief Abdi became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.
Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.
The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.
Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.
The man handed Haroon a letter showing signs of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.
Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”

The moon was big and round and bright, just as it should be on the night of the Moon Festival. I held my glowing paper lantern higher, hoping that the Old Man in the Moon would see me amid the other children. The whole park gleamed with our brilliant Chinese lanterns.
I ran up the hill to where my parents and sisters sat on a blanket, eating moon cakes. My eldest sister, Mei Lai, was gazing at the moon. I knew that she was probably dreaming about that boy who took her to the dance last Saturday. That’s a girl for you! I thought. I’m glad that I’m not a girl.
Not that Mei Lai didn’t have a right to think about love tonight. Everyone thought about love during the Moon Festival, or Mid-Autumn Festival, the proper name that my sister preferred to call it. On this night the Old Man in the Moon supposedly wove an invisible red thread around couples who would one day get married.
Even I was thinking about love. But not that kind. I was thinking about how I could love my neighbors.
My Primary teacher had told us last Sunday that we should, and ever since then, I had been wondering how I could ever do it. I couldn’t think of any neighbors in our apartment building that I even liked—especially not that new boy down the hall! He didn’t even speak Chinese! The first time I saw him, I just kept looking at his eyes. I had never seen such blue eyes!
Once I had tried talking to him in the English that I was learning in school. “Where are you from?” I asked.
Looking at me oddly, he lifted up his large nose and declared, “I’m an Aussie.”
Whatever an Aussie was, I certainly didn’t know. I went home and asked Mei Lai, who knew English well.
“An Aussie is someone from Australia,” she told me.
My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Sun Ling, it will soon be time to go home.”
“Oh, let me run once more through the park.”
“Well, you be careful with that lantern. Remember that you have a lighted candle in it.”
“I will.” As I sprinted down the hill, I looked up at the Old Man in the Moon to see if he was still watching me and my shining paper lantern. I ran and ran, with my eyes turned upward toward the beautiful full moon.
Suddenly—CRASH! Was it a wall? No, it was a body. Another person and I tumbled over and over each other. It was the Aussie. When we finally stopped, we raised our tousled heads and looked at each other. I blurted out, “What are you doing here? This is a Chinese holiday!”
It was a good thing that he couldn’t understand my Chinese. I indignantly grabbed my lantern, which miraculously lay unharmed on the grass. In my mind I grumbled, Even if I wasn’t looking where I was going, it wasn’t really my fault because he’s the one who doesn’t belong here.
A sizzle and a flare made us both jump up. His colorful paper lantern was in flames. My mother’s words flashed through my mind, “Be careful with that lantern.”
I looked at him. Then I tilted my head in amazement. There were tears in those blue, blue eyes! It had never occurred to me that an Aussie could cry too.
The boy’s lips began to quiver, and he said, “My dad gave me that Chinese lantern.”
I didn’t understand all his words, but I understood what he meant. And I felt awful! I tried to remember how to say I’m sorry in English, but all my words came out in Chinese.
Suddenly, in Chinese, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
I blinked with surprise. He did know some Chinese words. He smiled at me. I smiled back.
The next day I strode into the house, banging the door happily behind me.
“What’s that huge grin for?” Mei Lai asked.
“Oh, I’ve been learning to love my neighbor. Jim is my friend now.”
“Who’s Jim?” she asked.
“He’s the Aussie I told you about,” I replied, perching myself on a nearby stool. “Do you know what? Before he came here, Jim had never even heard of moon cakes. So I gave him one with an egg-yolk center. When he bit into it, he sort of wrinkled up his nose and tried to smile. I could tell that he didn’t like it.”
“So, do you think he’s still your friend?” Mei Lai laughed.
“Well, I did let him try a lotus seed moon cake after that, and he ate every bit of it and smacked his lips.”
“I’m glad that you gave him something he likes,” said Mei Lai.
“I did give him one other thing that I hope he likes. I gave him my Book of Mormon.”
“Your Book of Mormon!” exclaimed my sister. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, because it’s the most special thing I could share with a friend,” I answered.
“But how do you expect him to read it?” she said. “He doesn’t even read Chinese.”
I looked at my sister intently. “I don’t know, Mei Lai, but I’m still glad that I gave it to him.”
It was the week before Christmas. Someone knocked at our door, and Mei Lai opened it to blond-haired Jim. My friend didn’t see me sitting in the corner, so he spoke in English to my sister. “I read your book,” he said, holding up a blue book with Chinese characters Book of Mormon engraved on it.
“You read it!” she gasped. “But—but you don’t know Chinese, do you?”
“No. What I meant to say,” Jim explained, “was that my tutor read it to me. He comes every day to teach me Chinese, and so we have been reading it together. In fact, my tutor was wondering if he could get a copy of his own. Also, would it be possible to get a copy in English for my father?”
My sister finally closed her mouth from her astonishment. She smiled, motioning to me.
Jim turned and saw me. “Oh, Sun Ling,” he said in halting Chinese, “this book you gave me is very interesting. I am curious to find out more about it. Can you help me?”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” I replied slowly to make sure that he understood my words. “I can think of no better way to love my neighbor from Australia.”

Just as Liola served faithfully because of her testimony, others have gained that testimony through obedience. Such was the case for ‘Anau Vuna Hala. ‘Anau was baptized as a young boy but became less active almost immediately. Although his sister was an active member of the Church, ‘Anau had no desire to return to church, and for many years he did not.
As a grown man he married Kinakuia (Kina) Hala, a Latter-day Saint. One day he discovered something that troubled him: his wife had begun paying tithing.
“I was disappointed,” ‘Anau says. “I did not make a lot of money as a schoolteacher. I didn’t want her to pay tithing anymore. We argued about it for several years.”
Kina tried everything to convince her husband that paying tithing was a good idea. “She had the home teachers teach us about the principle of tithing,” ‘Anau says. “I received many lessons about tithing, but I still said no.
“Then one day my wife challenged me to observe the law with her and see what would happen. It was a tough decision for me, but I wanted us to find peace, so I said OK.”
Not long after, ‘Anau began noticing little changes taking place in their lives. “When we paid our tithing first and then our bills, we had very little left over,” he explains. “But then we received blessings. Sometimes we’d receive help unexpectedly from family members overseas or help from elsewhere. We always had enough.”
The blessings weren’t just financial. ‘Anau says, “I became active in the Church. We were happier at home. We decided to adopt a baby, even though we knew the food and other needs would be costly. But we knew that if we were faithful and paid tithing, doing what the Lord required, somehow things would work out. I was even able to get a better job working for the Church school, Liahona High School. And we were sealed in the temple.
“We feel our greatest blessings are the peace and joy we feel in knowing that we can cope with our financial difficulties if we pay our tithing. From the moment I accepted that principle, the Lord has blessed my family. I know it to be true.”

One day our Primary visited the São Paulo Brazil Temple. The gardens were more beautiful than any I had ever seen. We learned that through the covenants we make in the temple, we can live with our families for all eternity. The president of the temple spoke to us in the waiting room, where we saw beautiful paintings. I had a very warm and happy feeling, and my mother told me it was the Holy Ghost testifying to me that what I was learning was true. I gained a testimony that the temple is the house of the Lord.
Renato B., age 8, Brazil

On a late spring day the telephone roused me from a peaceful sleep. I groggily looked at my alarm clock and saw that it was five in the morning. I knew that phone calls at that hour usually don’t bring good news. My father rustled downstairs and I listened.
“Oh no, Mom. I’m so sorry …” his voice trailed off, and I heard a long, deep sigh. Instinctively I wondered if my grandparents were okay. My father spoke again. “Yes, I can get there. I’ll leave this morning. I’m sure that Maryanne will come, too. You rest, if you can. I know there are things to arrange, but leave them to your home teacher. … The kids? Yes, I think they can make the trip.”
As he spoke those words, I knew that I would not go fishing again with my Grandpa McClary in the Windmakers.
As the weeks passed, I wondered if I would ever visit the Windmakers again. Grandpa McClary was so much a part of those trips, from the packing ritual on Saturday to the gingersnaps each evening at water’s edge. I knew how difficult it would be for me to look upstream and not see him smiling and waving, the old blue cap perched on his head The trip wouldn’t be the same; therefore, I reasoned, it wouldn’t be as good. And the secret of the Windmakers? Maybe Grandpa was just talking. Maybe there was no real secret. I made up my mind: no more trips to the Windmakers. It was a part of my life that was over. All good things must come to an end, and this was one of them. I congratulated myself on my maturity. I was learning some lessons early in life, or so I thought.
School let out, and I got a part-time job at a grocery store. August was coming fast, and to my satisfaction, nothing had been said about a fishing trip with my father. Certainly I wasn’t going to bring up the subject.
Then my mom stepped in.
I was at the grocery store one Monday afternoon pulling cans of corn to the front of the shelf, my thoughts a million miles away.
“Excuse me, sir, but where may I find the canned corn?”
“Right here—oh, hi Mom! I didn’t recognize your voice. Guess my mind was wandering.”
“Thinking of a vacation? Tahiti? Paris? Fishing with your father?”
“Tahiti sounds fine, but I don’t think I’ll be going to the Windmakers without Grandpa.” A slight look of disappointment flickered across her face, but she quickly recovered and smiled.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the same. But have you thought it might be a great trip for just you and your father?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I answered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
She turned her head as though looking for something farther down the aisle. “Do you have a break coming, Jason? I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”
“Sure, I can take a few minutes. Let me check with Bill. Then I’ll meet you outside.”
Mom was sitting on the curb along the store’s parking lot. “Pull up a chair,” she said, motioning to the space next to her on the curb. “You’ve been on your feet since you came to work, I imagine.”
“You’ve got that right. So what’s up, Mom?”
“I’d like to talk about Dad’s vacation. I know that he’s just waiting for you to drop a hint about going back to the mountains. He’d take you up on it in a second, if he thought you wanted to return to the Windmakers.”
“But that’s the point, Mom. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ve decided I don’t want to go back there. That whole trip depended so much on Grandpa. He did everything.”
Mothers everywhere, I’m sure, are among the most persistent people in the world, and mine was no different. I could see by the look she gave me that she wasn’t about to let the subject die.
“Do you know why Grandpa McClary always took your father to the Windmakers?”
“Well, the fishing was always pretty good.”
“Think, Jason. That was much more than a fishing trip, and you know it.” She straightened her back and looked directly at me. “Your great-grandfather McClary was a miner. He was a hardworking man, and I guess a little bit stern. Maybe he had to be, because there wasn’t much room for frivolity in those days. Don’t mistake me, he was a good person and provided well for his family during some very lean years. But there was a price. He didn’t get as close to his children as he might have, particularly his oldest son, your Grandpa McClary,” Mom explained softly. “There was a distance between them, even though I know they loved each other.”
I’d heard only a little about my great-grandfather. I knew he worked in the mines, and that not a man in the county could hold out long against him in an arm wrestling match. But that was the extent of my knowledge about him.
“Grandpa McClary very simply did not want any distance between him and his son,” Mom continued. “He wanted to be close, just as your father wants always to be close to you. The fishing trip was one way of accomplishing that. It wasn’t a gimmick, understand. It was a tradition—a family tradition, started with a purpose.” Mom reached over and put her arm around my shoulders. “Jason, I just don’t want to see a third-generation legacy end.”
My head was down. “I didn’t think of it that way,” I said. Maybe my newfound maturity was really no more than an old-fashioned case of selfishness. Strong families have strong traditions. And I was on the verge of ending one that began 30 years earlier with my grandfather and father. I looked at Mom. “I’ll talk with Dad tonight.”
“Thanks, Jason. This means a lot to him,” she said, standing up. “You’d better get back to work now.”
It was a family custom to talk about the upcoming week and make plans after home evening. When the lesson was over, Dad looked at each of us. “Business?” he asked. “How about you, Maryanne?”
“A stake Primary meeting on Tuesday. That’s it for me.”
“Melissa?”
“Kristin asked me to come to her house on Thursday. Mom said it was okay with her if it’s okay with you,” my sister said.
“I don’t see why not, as long as Kristin’s parents know about it. Jason?”
“I’m only working Thursday and Friday of this week, so everyone should see me around a little more,” I said.
“Good. We haven’t seen enough of you since you started your job,” Dad said. He closed the family home evening book and started to stand up.
“Dad, there is something else,” I said. “I was wondering what we were going to do about our vacation in August.” I spoke slowly. “I’d like to go fishing again in the Windmakers.”
My father sat back down in his chair, a startled look on his face. “Are you sure, Jason?”
“I’m sure. It’s something that I don’t want to give up.”
Dad leaned all the way back in his chair. “This comes as a surprise. I didn’t think you wanted to go, so that’s why I never asked.” He looked at Mom and Melissa. “How about you two?”
“I think it would be great if you and Jason went to the mountains,” Mom answered, not trying to conceal her excitement in the slightest way. “Don’t worry about us. Melissa and I don’t exactly sit around and mourn your absence. It’s a time when we can do some things together, too.”
Dad’s enthusiasm was bubbling like a pot of boiling water. “Of course I need to check with Grandma, but my guess is that her only question will be why it took so long to ask. I’m sure we can find all the gear. Yes, I think we can work it all out.” He took off his glasses and bound out of his chair. “I’m going to the garage to begin sorting through some of the equipment.”
I can remember few times when I’d seen my father as happy. He reached the door leading to the garage and turned back towards me. “Jason, we’re going to the Windmakers.”
And so we did. Two weeks later, we left for Springvale on a Friday afternoon. Saturday morning, Dad rummaged through Grandpa’s basement. He found everything we needed for camping. He even came across Grandpa’s fishing hat and tried it on. “Naw, let’s retire it,” he said while glancing in a mirror. “Only Grandpa could wear this thing and make it look right.” We spent all afternoon packing. The results weren’t up to Grandpa’s standards, but we guessed he would have approved anyway. Dad pointed the pickup truck toward the street, so that we wouldn’t lose precious seconds Monday.
On Sunday we went to church. In priesthood meeting, Dad stood and introduced us. “I’m Richard McClary, and I grew up in this ward. This is my son, Jason, and it’s a family tradition for us to go fishing here at this time of the year. We’ll be back in our home ward next week, but I’ll be sure to have my mother tell you who was victorious—the fish or the fishermen.”
Monday, we arose before dawn and ate a big breakfast with Grandma. We drove to the Windmakers and set up our camp just as we had in all the previous years. We fished all day. In the evening, Dad took over the cooking chores. “You’re not as good as Grandpa, but you show potential,” I told him between bites.
After dinner, we went to the edge of the stream. Right on cue, Dad pulled a bag of gingersnaps from his coat. We climbed a couple of boulders, munched on cookies, and talked for hours as the sun dropped below the ridge line and the stars took their places in the sky. The wind came huffing down the canyon, like an old friend calling.
“The Windmakers, Jason. I’m glad we came.”
“So am I.”
With the wind on my face, sitting at streamside, it seemed that Grandpa McClary wasn’t very far away at all.

Perhaps no one in my reading has portrayed this teaching of the Master quite so memorably or so beautifully as Henry Van Dyke in his never-to-be-forgotten “The Mansion.” In this classic is featured John Weightman, a man of means, a dispenser of political power, a successful citizen. His philosophy toward giving can be gained from his own statement: “Of course you have to be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results—no indiscriminate giving—no pennies in beggars’ hats! Try to put your gifts where they can be identified and do good all around” (See “The Mansion,” in Unknown Quantity: A Book of Romance and Some Half-told Tales, New York: Scribner’s 1918, pages 337, 339).
One evening John Weightman sat in his comfortable chair at his library table and perused the papers before him spread. There were descriptions and pictures of the Weightman wing of the hospital and the Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence, as well as an account of the opening of the Weightman Grammar School. John Weightman felt satisfied.
He picked up the family Bible, which lay on the table, turned to a passage, and read to himself the words: “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matt. 6:19–20).
The book seemed to float away from him. He leaned forward upon the table, his head resting on his folded hands. He fell into a deep sleep.
In his dream, John Weightman was transported to the Heavenly City. A guide met him and others whom he had known in life and advised that he would conduct them to their heavenly homes.
The group paused before a beautiful mansion and heard the guide say, “This is the home for you, Dr. McLean. Go in: there is no more sickness here, no more death, nor sorrow, nor pain; for your old enemies are all conquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all the strength and love that you bestowed upon the suffering, are here; for we have built them all into this mansion for you” (“The Mansion,” pages 361–362).
A devoted husband of an invalid wife was shown a lovely mansion, as were a mother, early widowed, who had reared an outstanding family, and a paralyzed young woman who had lain for thirty years upon her bed—helpless but not hopeless—succeeding by a miracle of courage in her single aim: never to complain, but always to impart a bit of her joy and peace to everyone who came near her.
By this time, John Weightman was impatient to see what mansion awaited him. As he and the Keeper of the Gate walked on, the homes became smaller—then smaller. At last they stood in the middle of a dreary field and beheld a hut hardly big enough for a shepherd’s shelter. The guide said, “This is your mansion, John Weightman.”
In desperation, John Weightman argued, “Have you not heard that I have built a schoolhouse; a wing of a hospital; … three … churches?”
“Wait,” the guided cautioned. “… They were not ill done. But they were all marked and used as foundations for the name and mansion of John Weightman in the world. … Verily, you have had your reward for them. Would you be paid twice?”
A sadder but wiser John Weightman spoke more slowly: “What is it that counts here?”
Came the reply, “Only that which is truly given. Only that good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in which the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labors in which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts in which the giver forgets himself” (“The Mansion,” pages 364–368).
John Weightman was awakened by the sound of the clock chiming the hour of seven. He had slept the night through. As it turned out, he yet had a life to live, love to share, and gifts to give.

Eric was different from the other children and he knew it. But he wasn’t sure whether he liked being different. He often thought about it when he woke up early in the morning and had to stay in bed and be quiet so he wouldn’t wake up his brothers. Sometimes he would turn on his lamp and read. Other times he would lie in the dark and listen to the cars and trucks whizzing by on the highway or to the roosters crowing. Then he would think about how far away the cars and the rooster were and why he could hear them so well in the morning, when he never even noticed them in the daytime while he played.
Sometimes Eric would think about his curly red hair and how the other children called him “Red, Red, the Fire Head” and how he had to share a room with his three brothers instead of having a room all by himself like his friend Andy Rogers. Those were times he didn’t like being different.
It wasn’t just his red hair and waking up early that made Eric different. And it wasn’t just having seven brothers and sisters when his friends had only one or two.
Eric was the only one in his school class who went to Primary and the only one in his neighborhood who couldn’t play boisterous games on Sunday.
Mostly, Eric decided, it wasn’t much fun to be different, but lately he was thinking about something else. In two weeks it would be his birthday and he’d be eight years old. Sometimes when he’d wake up in the mornings, he’d think about being baptized. He tried to imagine how it would be when he put on the white clothes and walked down the steps into the water. He could picture his dad standing in the water waiting for him and holding out his hand for Eric to take. This thought made Eric feel good.
One day on the way home from school Eric talked to Andy about being baptized. “Are you going to be baptized when you’re eight?” he asked his friend.
“I don’t think so,” Andy replied. “I don’t know much about those things.” Eric thought, I am different again!
Then Andy asked, “Will you be baptized when you’re eight?”
Eric looked at Andy for a moment and decided, Andy won’t tease me if I tell him about it because he’s a good friend. “Yes, I will,” Eric answered. “In two weeks it will be my eighth birthday. And that’s old enough to be baptized. I can hardly wait.”
Then an exciting idea came to Eric. “Andy,” he asked, “would you like to come to my baptism. My dad’s going to baptize me. I get to wear all white clothes and sit on the front row with my dad. You could come and bring your dad, too, if you’d like.”
When Eric’s baptism date finally came, his whole family went with him. Andy and Andy’s dad, Mr. Rogers, were there too.
Before the baptism all the people participated in a brief service. First there was a song and then a talk about Jesus being baptized and about the importance of following Him.
Jesus was different too, Eric realized. It was a very comforting thought.
When it was time to be baptized, everything happened just like Eric had imagined. But now he could really feel Dad’s strong hand reach out for his. He could feel the cool water pushing softly against his waist. For a few minutes Eric didn’t think of anything at all except the sound of his dad’s voice and the warmth of his dad’s hand and the cool water all around him.
After the baptism and after he and Dad had changed clothes, Eric shook hands with everyone and his mother gave him a tight hug. Then Eric and his dad walked to the back of the room to see Andy and Mr. Rogers, who were both looking pleased. Dad shook hands with Mr. Rogers and said, “Thanks for coming, Frank.”
Mr. Rogers waited a moment before he answered. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “It was a lot different than I expected. I’m glad we were here to see it.”
Then he turned to Eric and shook his hand. And Eric knew that something very important had happened not only to him but to Andy and his father too. And then Eric knew that in some ways it was good to be different.

I remember a touching testimony by a mother with three little children. Speaking at the pulpit, she carried her new baby. Another was tugging at her skirt. She said:

When I see on TV little children and mothers suffering, when I see their emaciated and starved little bodies, it’s like a knife in my heart and I cry out ‘what can I do, I am poor, far away, with three needy children of my own. I am helpless.’ But then it dawns on me that there are two things I can do. I can pray and I can cry and the Lord will consecrate my tears in their behalf.

Daggi Ramirez de Vargas has been blind for 15 years, but in many ways she sees quite clearly. “Physical vision is very entertaining,” says the 70-year-old. “But it can get in the way of our spiritual vision.”
Sister Daggi, as she is known, lost her eyesight when her retinas detached following cataract surgeries on both eyes.
“At first I wondered how I was going to do everything,” she says. “But I can get around just fine. I iron, I sew, I cook. No one comes in while I’m cooking,” she laughs. “I use some big knives.”
As worried as Sister Daggi was about maintaining her physical independence, she was just as determined to remain spiritually self-reliant, living by the light of her own personal testimony of Christ rather than depending on another for a knowledge of the truth.
Before she joined the Church in 1962, Sister Daggi, now a member of the Miraflores Ward, Viña del Mar Chile Archupallas Stake, found herself newly married and wondering which church was right.
One night she dreamed about people from around the world, and she saw unusual white clothing. The next day, at the home where she was employed to help with cleaning, she recognized the same clothing drying on the clothesline.
Her employer told her the clothing was associated with the temples of the Mormon Church. Sister Daggi was soon meeting with missionaries who had come from around the world to open her spiritual eyes to the light of the gospel.
Sister Daggi loves the gospel of Jesus Christ, and she used to read her scriptures faithfully until she went blind.
“When I lost my sight, I prayed to be able to retain His word,” she recalls. Retaining His word was important to her as a symbol of spiritual vision.
And though she must now study the gospel in other ways, Sister Daggi believes “the word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path” (Psalm 119:105). She is a living example of the Savior’s promise: “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12).
According to her husband, Juan, the Lord honored her sincere request. “Her mind captures things well. She could discourse for hours,” he smiles wryly.
“If you ask, you will receive,” she replies. “My spirit still has very good vision.”
The experiences Sister Daggi has had seeking to maintain both her physical and spiritual self-reliance since losing her eyesight bring to mind the blind man in the Gospel of John about whom the disciples asked, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?”
The Savior replied, “Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” (John 9:2–3).
The works of God have been made manifest in Sister Daggi’s life. Despite being without sight, she has seen many miracles and can testify that “we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7).
One Sunday evening the family’s home teachers visited. The family was struggling through unemployment at the time, and that night she had only a half cup of rice, a little bit of oil to cook it in, and two small tomatoes. But appreciative of these faithful home teachers, she asked them if they would like to stay for dinner.
“My daughter asked how I could do that,” Sister Daggi recalls. She told her daughter to set the table. Then she went into the kitchen and prayed, “Lord, Thou fed 5,000. I’m asking only for seven.”
“That rice fed seven people,” she testifies.
Sister Daggi knows that though her physical eyesight has gone dark, there is a greater light by which to see.
Isaiah taught that “the sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light” (Isaiah 60:19).
“Jesus talked about people who could see but were blind. It is the same today,” Sister Daggi laments. “There are miracles all around us, but so many don’t see them.”
Sister Daggi is grateful for the many blessings she enjoys and strives to live Peter’s admonition to “shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light” (1 Peter 2:9).
“I’m content. Heavenly Father gave me a wonderful companion. We went to the temple and were sealed,” she says. “My life is full of miracles. Spiritually, I can see just fine.”