Gospel Story Finder

President Thomas S. Monson is a great example of this principle. In January of 2005, he was presiding over a priesthood leadership conference in Puerto Rico when he demonstrated how the Savior and His servants render service through personal ministry. At the conclusion of that wonderful meeting, President Monson began to greet all the priesthood leaders in attendance. Suddenly, he noticed that one of them was watching everything from afar, off by himself.

President Monson walked away from the group, toward that brother, and spoke to him. With emotion, José R. Zayas told him it was a miracle that he had approached him and an answer to the prayers that he and his wife, Yolanda, had offered before the meeting. He told President Monson that his daughter was in very poor health and that he had with him a letter from his wife that she wanted delivered to President Monson. Brother Zayas had told his wife that it would be impossible since President Monson would be too busy. President Monson listened to the story and asked for the letter, which he read silently. Then he put it in his suit pocket and told Brother Zayas that he would take care of their request.

In this way, that family was touched by our Lord, Jesus Christ, through His servant. I believe the words of the Savior in the parable of the good Samaritan apply to us: “Go, and do thou likewise.”4

Bishop Frías and his wife have been members since their youth. But for others, baptized later in life, Church service quickly becomes a concentrated course in leadership.
Ernesto Merchán, a member of the Church since 1988, is a counselor in the bishopric of his ward and previously served as elders quorum president. He tries very hard to keep his baptismal covenants because “the Lord told us, in the scriptures, to be a light to others.” (See Matt. 5:16.) Brother Merchán hopes that some of his relatives will see the light of the gospel.
His wife saw it, after two years of watching his growth in the Church and feeling the love Church members extended to her. Just one year after her own baptism, Carmen Merchán was called as ward Relief Society president. Her lack of experience and the poverty among members in her area are not daunting, she says, so long as she can feel the Lord’s help in her calling. If nothing else, she adds, “I can love them” as the Savior taught.
“Here in Ecuador, as in other countries, the Lord is the same,” Ernesto Merchán says. “The gospel is the same. We are one family.”

Permit me a personal story that illustrates the difference between the hard way of understanding the Constitution and the easy way out. The day after the Senate confirmed my nomination to the D.C. Circuit, I was the happy recipient of many congratulatory messages in my office in the Administration Building here on campus. One came from a friend who was a former law partner—a person whose experience I value. He had served as a law clerk first to a distinguished judge on the court I was about to join and later to a storied justice on the Supreme Court. My friend asked if he could give me some advice about being a judge. I was teachable and anxious to hear what he had to say.

“The first day of my clerkship on the D.C. Circuit,” he said, “my judge told me, ‘This is how we go about our work: First, we learn the facts of the case. Next, we think long and hard about the fair outcome, the equitable disposition, the just result. Then we go find law to support our conclusion.’ From what I have observed,” my friend continued, “that is how most judges go about their work, and rightly so.”

The purpose of the call was congratulatory. It was not an invitation to engage in a debate over the role of a federal judge under the Constitution, and so I simply thanked him for his words. But as I hung up the phone, I took a vow that I would never follow my friend’s advice.

So this is what I tell my law clerks their first day in chambers: We, the people, have elected representatives who make the laws that govern our society. When a federal judge is called upon to resolve a dispute, he must first understand the nature of the controversy (on this count my friend’s advice was sound), but then he must work to understand the meaning of the law that governs the disposition of the case. As Justice Felix Frankfurter put it, the judge is merely the “translator” of the law’s command.

When the Lord took me to Australia, I thought my heart would break because of the extremes in my experience. And, gratefully, it did break! It broke open when I started reaching to feel what my head knew was true. Before I left home, I knew the Church was true and understood the gospel well enough to live by it and teach it to others, but the pain of the separation from my family and friends made me want to feel the comfort of His love like I had never wanted it before. Even though I was with my best friend, my husband, I still needed to know and to feel that the Savior was with me--always, just like He promises. Facing little that was familiar to me, I needed to know that He would guide me no matter where I went. I understood that such a blessing of the Spirit's constant companionship depends upon my faithful living. Now my living took on new purpose and meaning. I wanted to be better at "always remembering Him." My heart broke open with the desire to reflect His light the way I could see His light reflected in others. My actions became expressions of my longings to belong to Him, and to be like Him.

I have always very much liked the painting of the Savior in the wine-colored robe. For a long time that picture was how I thought of Him--as a picture. But then, in my thirst, I dug through the scriptures, I scraped away the false illusions as I prayed, and I stretched myself further to live what I was learning. Then, as the poem says, "after many days," He became real to me--He became a living, breathing being that I could feel. It is not that I have seen Him with my eyes. But my feelings for him run deeper than ever before. I feel so tender for Him. And I know how He feels about me; that He wants to be with me, too. This testimony is real, as real as the knowledge that I will be with Him someday--at Home. That was the jewel that I dug for and now live for. It was waiting for me to unearth it, with the Savior's help, from the landscape of my heart. And now, because I am always in this process, as my heart's opals are soaking in the Light of the Son, God's Son, I rejoice in what I feel for Him.

When I turned to him, He ran to me. If you will turn to Him, He will run to you.

To illustrate, may I share with you an experience which took place several years ago when Sister Monson had been hospitalized because of a fall. She asked me to go to the supermarket and purchase a few items. This was something I had not done before. I had a shopping list which included potatoes. I promptly found a grocery cart and placed a number of potatoes in it. I knew nothing of the plastic bags in which purchases are normally placed. As I moved the cart along, the potatoes fell out and onto the floor, exiting through two rather small openings in the back of the cart. A dutiful clerk hurried to my aid and called out, “Let me help you!” I tried to explain to her that my cart was defective. It was only then that I was told that all the carts had those two holes in the back and that they were meant for the legs of children.
Next the clerk took my list and helped me find each item. Then she said, “You are Bishop Monson, aren’t you?”
I answered that many years earlier I had indeed been a bishop. She continued: “At that time I lived on Gale Street in your ward and was not a member of the Church. You made certain the girls who were members contacted me each week and took me with them to Mutual and other activities. They were fine young women whose friendship and kindness touched my heart. I want to let you know that the fellowshipping you arranged for me led to my being baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. What a blessing this has been in my life,” she said, “and I thank you for your kindness.”

I was born and raised on a small farm in Waterflow, New Mexico. In that desert climate it took a lot of effort to make things grow. My father worked hard irrigating the orchard, garden, and hay fields so that the family and the farm animals would have food to eat.

Because water turns were regulated, when it was our turn for taking water, Dad would spend hours out with his shovel guiding the water through the ditches, letting it run for just the right amount of time onto each thirsty piece of the farm. There was no extra time to turn the water onto the yard for a lawn, so we had a yard of hard-packed dirt paths, sandstone, sagebrush, and a few lilacs and hollyhocks that my mother watered by carrying water from the ditch. A few cottonwood and elm trees grew beside the ditch in front of the house to provide us with shade. It was a wonderful playground.

But . . .
I always dreamed that some day we would move into town where we could have a yard with sidewalks and lawns. Then we could walk out of the house without getting our shoes muddy on a rainy day, and my sisters and I could practice our somersaults and cartwheels in soft green grass on sunny days.

One spring as we were playing in the yard, we could see off in the distance the alfalfa field where the new grass looked just like the beautiful lawn of which we had always dreamed. That field beckoned to us; so we found our way across the cattle pasture to the barbed-wire fence surrounding the field, and with some effort we were able to work the wire back and forth until it loosened enough so that we could squeeze through without ripping our clothes on the barbs. There we were in that beautiful sea of grass!

We learned quickly, however, that it wasn’t what it seemed. One attempt at executing a somersault revealed that the ground underneath that grass was uneven and full of ruts and gullies. We investigated a little further into the field and were unable to find what we were looking for. But we had a good romp in the grass there anyway.

That night when Dad came in for dinner we were in trouble. He had noticed a trampled corner of the alfalfa field and on closer inspection discovered where we had loosened the fence. He explained, not too calmly, that a trampled field of alfalfa would yield very little hay and that the loosened fence might allow a breakthrough by the cows that would further trample the grass and they would become very sick from eating the green alfalfa.

We said we were sorry and that we wouldn’t do it again. “Besides,” we said, “that field is all full of ruts and gullies and is very bumpy—not at all good for playing in.”

I’m sure Dad chuckled at our naiveté—and was glad to know that his fields would be safe from us in the future.

I understand now that he was grateful for and appreciated those ruts and gullies in the alfalfa. They were absolutely essential to the health of the grass. They facilitated the efficient flow of the irrigation water through the field, allowing it to pool at just the right places where the grass roots could get their life-giving drinks.

During my childhood my father was an excellent example to me. He was as honest and honorable as any man I’ve ever known—completely just in his dealings with his fellowmen. I am convinced he would have walked ten miles to repay a debt of ten cents. If he gave his word, no written contract was necessary. He felt this was the only decent way to live. However, I must have wanted an outward sign as a child. I was confused. If he was religious, why didn’t we go to church? If he needed God, why didn’t I see him pray? It seemed to me, also, that there was an occasional inconsistency in his actions; for instance, at one time he caught me smoking and gave me quite a thrashing, but he had to lay down his own pipe to do it.
I really didn’t attend church regularly until was serving in the navy. We marched to divine services each Sunday evening in pre-flight training, and from that time on I attended regularly. Also, I read several books on religion and pondered a great deal on the subject.
The same contradiction or inconsistency I had felt at home seemed to run throughout this experience also—the difference between what is said and what is actually practiced. I noticed this in the churches whose doctrine I studied for many times their tenets did not square with scripture. For me there were many questions left unanswered.
“If you can’t explain it, then just believe it anyway,” a minister once told me. “Faith requires you to do nothing; faith lets God do it all. Just have faith.” This never did seem right to me.
One time while going through the St. Louis (Missouri) railroad station, I met a minister at the servicemen’s canteen. He invited me into a small conference room so that we could talk. He asked me if I belonged to a church; I replied that I did not. He said that in my career in the armed service I would, no doubt, find myself in company that would not be the best for me, that there would be girls who would desire my association and that my friends might try to convince me that it would be stupid not to take shrewd advantage of these situations. But he said that remaining clean and chaste was not stupid—it was very wise; and that although there were many who thought the life of Jesus Christ was a weak and senseless way to live, their opinion did not make it so. He said that a clean life was to be highly prized and that when I married—as I surely would some day—I should be as morally clean and virtuous as I would expect my bride to be. Living a pure life might be difficult, but it would be well worth my efforts; for one thing, I would be better able to draw strength and courage to meet the challenge of demanding situations in the military. He also said it would be best for me to make my decision about this right then, while I could still view it with a detached perspective.
That encounter was very impressive to me. I knew that what he told me was true, but I did not realize at that time that I had made a decision to follow his counsel. Afterwards I faced many dangerous moral situations, but somehow I came through unscathed, as though someone were protecting me.
The desire to know the truth was intensified as I studied and prayed and as I attended first one church and then another, but there was something missing in all of them.
I was released from active duty in the navy in 1947 and returned to my home in Missouri. There I married the beautiful little dark-haired girl I had met and briefly courted four years previously. I well remember the first time I saw her. She was walking down the street. I was eighteen and she was fourteen—and I knew immediately she was for me. I spoke to her that day and we got acquainted, and I later told her she had four years in which to grow up because I was going into the navy but would come back and marry her.
So, four years later I kept my promise, and came back home to court my sweetheart, and we were married five months later. When we were married, we read and discussed the Bible together. After the births of our first two children I was recalled with other naval aviators to participate in the Korean conflict. I was assigned to a squadron based in San Diego, California, and then ordered to Hawaii for thirteen weeks of special training. I left my little family in San Diego.
No sooner had I departed and my wife had moved our possessions into our rented home than the Mormon missionaries came by and knocked on her door. They were tracting, and many of the questions that they discussed with her were the very questions we had pondered together, so she was very interested.
In one of her letters to me she mentioned that two young men had called on her and asked a lot of questions about religion, to which they seemed to have all the answers. Well, that made me a bit angry. What were young men doing calling on my wife, even in the name of a church, while I was away? I didn’t like it, especially since they were answering questions that I had been pondering all my life.
When I returned home from Hawaii, the first evening Connie, my wife, told me the Joseph Smith story. When she said that he had seen visions and had revelations, it seemed so ridiculous that I laughed in her face, and this made her cry. I then saw how much this story really meant to her, and I relented and said, “Well, the least I can do is read some of the material they left for you to study.”
No sooner did I start to read the Book of Mormon than I knew at last I had found that for which had been searching.
While reading First Nephi, I remember saying to myself, “Dear God, let this be true; please let it be the truth—for if it is, it answers all the questions I have been trying to answer all my life.” I hadn’t finished Second Nephi when I knew it was true.
I had prayed one simple prayer to the Lord for many years: “Dear God, please show me the truth. Please lead me to the truth.” I had sought truth in many places. Now here were two young men, bringing the truth right into my living room. And although they were very young, they had great powers with them—truth and God. I could not argue against what they offered, neither did I wish to.
I attended church for only a few Sundays before it became time for me to leave for Korea. When I went aboard ship on the last day of 1951, I took with me a triple combination and the Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage. I read the Articles of Faith during the first month at sea. One evening in February I heard it announced over the public address system aboard ship that Latter-day Saint services would be held in the crew library at 7:30 P.M. At the appointed hour I went to the library where I found four young men who looked very much like the two young missionaries who had knocked on my door in San Diego. I told them I was not a member of the Church but was interested in studying about it. They welcomed me with much enthusiasm.
When we arrived in Japan in the latter part of February 1952, the group decided that I was ready for baptism. So they accompanied me to the Japan Mission home where I was interviewed and received a recommend. On February 25, 1952, in the garden behind the Japan Mission home in 30-degree weather, seven thousand miles from my home in Missouri, I was baptized. Later I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife was baptized four days later in San Diego, California. Our search had come to an end.
Once again the Lord had stood by his word: “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.” (Matt. 7:7–8.)

Some years ago I became acquainted with the story of a young family whose little son was tragically ill with cancer. Every night the father sat with his boy, holding him in his arms. The pain seemed less when daddy held him close. The father slept on a mattress on the floor beside his son so that he could reach him whenever the boy cried out. The parents bore their sorrow with courage. They prayed, they loved, they served. Faith gave them strength to meet the test.

When Leonie’s husband joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1965, she had little interest in the faith. Years later, her view of her husband’s church began to soften, and Leonie accepted lessons from faithful sister missionaries in Rockhampton, Queensland.
In 1968, although she still didn’t have much of a testimony, she decided to be baptised on her husband’s birthday, as a gift to him. It was probably not a great reason to take up a new religion, but Leonie said that joining the Church was one of the best decisions she ever made.
When she passed away in 2012, Leonie had been a diligent member of the Church for over 40 years. Her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren share precious memories of Leonie as they continue to be blessed by her legacy of faith.

“All seven of my cousins are going to be at my grandmother’s house for Mother’s Day,” Sarah said as she watered Mrs. Martin’s seedlings. “We always have a picnic lunch in the backyard.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Mrs. Martin replied, pulling a tiny weed from a pot.
Every spring Sarah and Mrs. Martin, who lived next door, planted pumpkin, watermelon, and squash seeds in clay pots on Mrs. Martin’s sun porch. Later they would move the little sprouts to the garden in the backyard.
“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?” Sarah asked.
“I’m not sure. When is it, anyway?”
Sarah couldn’t believe that a grown-up didn’t know the date of Mother’s Day. At lunch she told Mom what Mrs. Martin had said.
“Well, Sarah, Mrs. Martin no longer has a mother or grandmother who’s alive,” Mom explained. “And since she has no children or grandchildren, it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t think about Mother’s Day.”
Sarah chewed her tomato sandwich thoughtfully. She understood what her mother had said, but something still seemed wrong.
She looked out the window and saw Mrs. Martin feeding dog biscuits to Mr. Anderson’s cocker spaniels. Mrs. Martin didn’t even have a dog, but she always kept a jar of dog treats for any neighborhood dogs who might stop by. And for the dog owners, Mrs. Martin always had a big basket filled with apples or pears.
“It just isn’t right,” Sarah said. “Somebody that nice should celebrate Mother’s Day.”
“I think you’re right,” Mom agreed.
Sarah went up to her room. Her desk was covered with art supplies for the cards she was making for her mom and grandma. She had already sprinkled green and pink glitter on the edges of two cards. She picked up a fresh sheet of paper and started writing.
Mothers and grandmothers are nice.
They give us help when we need help.
They talk to us about important things.
They find fun things for us to do.
They make good things for us to eat.
They give us hugs.
You do all these things, so I am saying Happy Mother’s Day to you!
Love, Sarah
Sarah worked on the card most of the afternoon, drawing vegetables all around its edges. Mrs. Martin always said that she would rather grow vegetables than flowers. She thought pumpkins and watermelons were “gorgeous.”
Then Sarah decorated an envelope to match and carefully printed “To Mrs. Martin” on the outside.
“It’s almost ready,” she said to Scooter, the tabby cat who had been watching from his perch on the windowsill.
“Mom,” Sarah called downstairs. “I need to call Grandma.”
“OK.”
After Sarah made her call, she turned over the card for Mrs. Martin and wrote on the back. Then she put it in the envelope and bounced down the stairs and out the back door.
Mrs. Martin was putting seeds into the bird feeder. “Hello, Sarah,” she called.
“Hi,” Sarah said. “This is for you.” She handed the card to Mrs. Martin.
“Should I open it now?”
“Yes. It’s a Mother’s Day card.”
“For me?” Mrs. Martin asked with surprise. “But today isn’t Mother’s Day!”
“No, but this card has to be opened early.”
Mrs. Martin opened the card and read it slowly. Then she turned it over to read what Sarah had carefully written on the back:
You are invited to be
an Honorary Mother
at a picnic at Grandma’s house
on Mother’s Day—
which is next Sunday.
Please come.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. Now we both know what I’ll be doing for Mother’s Day!”

In an effort to accomplish all of my goals, I found myself overwhelmed with worldly pressures, decisions, and cares. I was staying up late and missing meals, working for many hours at a time. All of these things were taking their toll on my emotional well-being. I felt frustrated and unable to handle my problems.
I prayed, hoping to receive an assurance that all would be well. Instead, I heard the still, small voice say, “Keep the Word of Wisdom.” I felt puzzled and disappointed. I didn’t smoke or drink alcoholic beverages, and I had never drunk coffee or tea. How could the counsel to keep the Word of Wisdom apply to me?
I thought about the many times my friends had mentioned feeling discouraged and unequal to their tasks. Most of them had risen above those feelings and had carried on with their lives. But among those who usually felt inadequate, the common problem seemed to be their priorities—they put themselves last on their own lists. They never took time for regular meals, and they rarely got to bed before midnight. Reluctantly, I admitted that I was making the same mistakes and that I needed to change.
First, I stopped thinking about things that weren’t necessary and concentrated on the things that really matter. I worked on getting up early so I would be sleepy early. I ate nourishing food, and I exercised—consistently! As I developed these habits, I was able to plan better, and I began to feel in control of my life. Many of my previous worries now seemed unimportant, and I was free to direct my thoughts and feelings to other things.

by Ugo Libardo, Brindisi [Italy] Branchand Stefania Zitelli, Rome West Branch
There we were—150 young Latter-day Saints from the Italy Rome Mission—invading Paestum, a beautiful town along the shores of the famous “Costa Amalfitania,” to hold our fourth annual conference.
A clear sky, bright sunshine, and a calm and limpid sea formed the scene at Paestum, an ancient town to the south of Naples. Young Latter-day Saints had come from 18 branches in the Italy Rome Mission to gather for their conference. Finally, an occasion to meet each other, a time to enjoy the pleasures ot each other’s company, to feel united in the same joy and cheerfulness!
With the help of an efficient planning committee, young Italian Latter-day Saints were able to spend three full days in activities, games, swimming competitions, and social seminars. Special programs, roadshows, talents, folk dances, and sketches all created enthusiasm. Seminary, institute, temple marriage, and personal development were a few of the themes that leaders stressed. Talent evenings and dances concluded each busy day. Many prizes were awarded for winning musical talents such as guitar, flute, and singing, both native and foreign songs.
And what a beautiful opportunity to visit the ancient grounds where our ancestors lived! Paestum hides within itself the secrets of a great and old civilization. Ancient temples, streets, and ruins testify to its splendor and art. What a cultural and unforgettable experience!
From the very day of our arrival there was an atmosphere of friendship and cordiality. We were also blessed, as an answer to our prayers, with a warm sun that enabled us to fully enjoy the time and the activities prepared by the conference planning committee.
It seems like everything contributed to the success of the assembly: the comfortable hotel; nice swimming pool; green, relaxing meadow in the back of the hotel; interesting ruins of the Greek temples nearby, and, most of all, the special spirits of the young people gathered there.
Almost all the branches of the mission were represented, and each of them had something to contribute with a striking abundance and variety of talents. Very few missed the sports contests, and no one skipped the long-awaited Saturday night dance.
Our last day together was Sunday—a day to be near to our Heavenly Father. After two separate sessions, one for young women and one for young men, a final and touching testimony meeting was held.
The conference was a great help for both members and nonmembers. One youth said, “Before coming to Paestum, I had no idea that Mormons were so talented and such a special people.” When parting time came, many of these special Saints were already wondering about next year’s youth conference. And with gentle thoughts in their minds, all the young men and young women went back to their home cities and branches thankful for the memorable experience.

Some missionaries struggled with the changes. Elder Ejodamen, from Nigeria, was called to serve in the Sierra Leone Freetown Mission. “I was supposed to report to the MTC May 24, 2020, and that was the period that COVID-19 really hit very hard. So, we were told we would attend the online MTC. It was literally like my dream has been shattered. I have heard wonderful experiences about the MTC. So, I was not going to the MTC. It was a very hard time.”
Ejodamen said, “The online experience with MTC, one thing that stands out for me is the experience I had to meet different people. It was something really very wonderful because we put our minds together, we studied together, we discussed together. But though it was not in physical contact, it was really wonderful. They were really nice people that I saw on the screen. We talked. We laughed, and they were cool MTC instructors that really helped us. My attending online MTC and someone attending real MTC is the same thing.”

One day Carson went to the doctor’s office with his mom.
Carson and Mom sat next to a lady in the waiting room. She had a baby with her. Carson said hello to the lady. He said hello to the baby. Carson loved making new friends!
Carson found a book with stories from the Bible. He showed it to his mom. Then he showed it to his new friend.
“Will you read me a story, please?” Carson asked the lady. “I want to read this Jesus book.”
The lady smiled at Carson and nodded. She looked at the book.
“Do you like books about Jesus?” she asked Carson.
Carson nodded. “Yes! Jesus is my friend.” Carson looked up at the lady. “Are you Jesus’s friend?”
The lady thought for a second.
“Hmm. I guess He’s my friend. I’ve never thought about it,” she said.
“Well, you can be friends with Jesus, because He loves you,” Carson said. “I like reading stories about Jesus because He loves me.”
The lady flipped through the book.
“I used to read the Bible sometimes. I should read it again,” she said.
“If you follow Jesus, then you’ll be happy,” Carson said. “If you follow the bad guys, you won’t be happy.”
Just then the nurse came to get the lady and her baby.
Carson waved goodbye. The lady smiled and waved back. Carson felt happy. He liked talking to people about Jesus!

“If you do this right, Darryl, they never know what hit them.” Jason paused to let the whole weight of his words sink in, then added, “Only don’t get too confident—Mr. Christensen came out of his house last summer and chased Kyle around a tree for ten minutes. Wasn’t that so, Kyle?”
Kyle rolled his eyes and looked miserable. Jason and Bret laughed until their stomachs ached.
I have to be honest—it sounded like incredible fun. A warm evening, just past sundown, people all settling down in their living rooms after supper. Then, totally unexpectedly, the doorbell rings.
“Of course, that’s why we call it R.A.D.A.R.—Ring A Doorbell And Run,” Jason continued. “While we’re hiding in the bushes or across the street, laughing our heads off, the neighbors are out searching around on their front porches for nothing!”
I was the new kid in the neighborhood, and I was still finding it hard to believe that they all seemed to like me and had included me in their group right away. Jason was the most popular boy in the sixth grade! Things like this just don’t happen to me. I didn’t even think to ask what for when Kyle told me to meet them about eight o’clock that night.
Only R.A.D.A.R. didn’t turn out to be all that great. Megan Andrews, a girl in our class, answered the first door. When she didn’t see anybody there, she yelled out really loud, “Jason, Bret, and Kyle, I know it’s you!”
And things went downhill after that.
In the first place, nobody told me how angry some of the people would be. I knew right away that if Mom and Dad ever found out about this, my new friends would be history. Even worse, R.A.D.A.R. was done to a lot of old people, and I could tell that it was hard for some of them to get to the door. Then they waited and waited there like they were really hoping that this time it wasn’t a joke.
I kept seeing Mrs. Bartholomew in my mind, long after we left her house. She crept along with a walker, and her hands were all gnarled up. My grandma has arthritis, and I’ve seen her in a lot of pain. Mrs. Bartholomew looked the same, like she was really hurting. She turned the porch light on and stood there for a long time, saying over and over, “Hello? Hello?”
I didn’t sleep well that night, mostly because I had a feeling that things weren’t ever going to be the same. I could try to Ring A Doorbell And Rationalize—that it was really important for me to be part of the group in this new school. (How could I ever convert them if they all got mad at me for refusing to carry on the neighborhood tradition?) I wished that I could Ring A Doorbell And Reappear—at my old school, with my old friends, who never knew anything about this crazy game.
In the end, though, my thoughts returned to Mrs. Bartholomew on the porch—and to an old CTR ring that didn’t fit my finger but still fit me just the same.
So the next night it was Ring A Doorbell And Repent. By myself, of course. Jason told me that I was the biggest jerk he ever saw. I went to every door, anyway, and told the people I was sorry and offered to do some chore for them to make it up. Nobody took me up on the offer except Mr. Christensen, who had me mow his lawn three weeks in a row.
Some good things happened, too, though—besides my feeling a whole lot better about myself. Megan Andrews’s parents invited our family over for a cookout. Jason and Kyle and Bret were afraid to Ring A Doorbell again—and they did simmer down after a while. And since we have the only decent basketball hoop in the neighborhood, I figure it will only be a matter of time before they come around.
But the very best thing happens every Tuesday and Thursday night. That’s when I go over to Mrs. Bartholomew’s. Sometimes I take her some of Mom’s biscuits, or some flowers from the backyard. I go over there and R.A.D.A.R.—Ring A Doorbell And Receive—lots and lots of good feelings!

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt: My snowman will be twice as big as yours!
Mandy: In your dreams!
Matt: OK, we’re even so far. But my snowman’s tummy will dwarf yours.
Mandy: Keep dreaming!
Matt: Uh, Mandy? I can’t seem to lift mine.
Mandy: I can’t lift mine either.
Matt: I guess maybe we’ll have to work together.
Mandy: Looks that way.
Matt and Mandy: Heave ho!
Matt: It’s just like I told you, Mandy—It’s better to work together than try to beat each other.
Mandy: You are so wise.

Learning to rely on the Lord in Church callings can bring the Spirit in abundance. Rachel Murdock, a Primary president in American Fork, Utah, found that when she needed to recommend someone to fill a vacant position in the Primary, she often simply submitted the name of the person who had most recently been released from a calling in another organization or who had just moved into the ward. But now she prays about each calling. “I don’t know that the results have been any different,” she says, “but I have given myself the opportunity to receive confirmation from the Spirit that the choice is acceptable to Heavenly Father.”

It was a scene much enjoyed and appreciated by President and Sister David O. McKay whenever they had the opportunity to rest during visits to southern California. Often they would sit for hours, holding hands, entranced by the changing panorama.
On one occasion, as nearly as I remember it, I was visiting with the President and his wife and we observed a huge sea lion struggling from the water, slowly moving above the high-tide line. We could see its sides heaving as it gasped for breath and finally collapsed from exhaustion on the beach.
President McKay took an immediate interest in this event and shared with me the knowledge that this great seal had been in a fierce battle to protect its mate and herd from a marauding band of pirate seals. After successfully fighting off the attackers, the sea lion sought the refuge of the cove to nurse its wounds and possibly to die in peace.
I listened in stunned silence. How did President McKay know all this? He seemed so certain and precise in his description.
At his suggestion we walked out to the point of the hill overlooking the ocean to get a closer look. What President McKay had said about the alleged battle appeared true; the seal was bleeding profusely from wounds on its back and side. Except for laborious breathing, the animal did not move or blink its eyes.
Becoming impatient with its inaction, I picked up a rock to hurl at the beast with the intention of making it move back into the water and swim away. As my muscles flexed I felt President McKay’s restraining hand on my arm. He didn’t say a word, but in his touch I felt a powerful, silent exhortation to be kind to God’s creatures.
We continued our way down to the beach and gave aid to this slick-skinned animal. I shall never forget President McKay’s kindly words and gentle touch as he seemed to soothe the suffering and torment of that sea lion.
He was not afraid of the animal, and the sea lion seemed to know that President McKay was a true friend. When the bleeding had stopped and the sea lion was sufficiently rested, it slipped back into the water, gliding away to rejoin its mate.

One night after the molasses making was finished, he kissed my sisters and me goodnight and said, “God bless you.” That night he went to sleep and never awoke again.
My heart broke. I didn’t want Ma to see me cry so I went out to the stable. Later she found me and, putting her arm around me, said, “George, you’re the man of the house now. You have six sisters and your Ma is depending on you.”
Well, pretty soon it was seven sisters. Just two weeks after Pa died, LaVern was born.
One evening when I saw Ma slip out alone and go toward the cemetery I followed, and found her kneeling by Pa’s grave, weeping.
Tugging at her arm, I said, “Ma, you mustn’t come here to cry. Come on home.”
Getting to her feet she drew me to her. “My little man,” was all she said.
“If Pa got permission to come for a visit, do you think he’d come to this cold old graveyard?” I asked.
Thoughtfully, she said, “No, he wouldn’t. He’d want to come home.”
Hand in hand we walked silently through the twilight.
Shortly after that, Ma put Pa’s picture on the easel in the living room. “Children,” she said, “in this home we will live exactly as Pa would want us to do. Because he loved the Lord we have been blessed.” Her voice broke, but only for a moment.
We knew she missed Pa, but she kept herself busy making our home happy. As we grew, it became the gathering place for all of the young folks in town, especially on Sunday afternoons when Ma would sing with us around the organ.

Jackie Harrison Skaff just graduated last June and got her first job to teach this summer in a local high school, famous for its tough, rowdy students. A haole from Alaska, in her first teaching job after college, in a classroom full of local kids, Jackie was filled with anxiety. Would they accept her? Could she love them, help them? When the class roll was sent to her, she pored over the different multi-ethnic names and then humbly knelt and prayed over each name, pronouncing it the best she could before the Lord and asking Him to help her love that child and to know what he or she needed. The result was marvelous miracles. When she walked into the class, there was instant rapport. And love has prevailed ever since.