Gospel Story Finder

It was almost Halloween. Each day on their way to school, Toby, Janie, Beth, Davy, and Ben passed Mr. Greevey’s farm. Just beyond the cabbages and the rows of tall corn they would stop. Here big green pumpkin leaves covered the ground like a rumpled blanket. Nestled among them—some still streaked with green—were dozens and dozens of pumpkins. There were big ones and small ones, fat ones and tall ones. Each one was just right for a jack-o’-lantern.
Every morning Toby looked to see if frost had touched the pumpkin leaves. When it did, Mr. Greevey would let each child choose a pumpkin for his very own. Then Mr. Greevey would haul the rest of the colorful vegetables to market.
“I’m going to pick a tall one this year,” Toby said.
“I want a little fat one,” said Janie.
“I want one this big,” Beth said, making a circle with her arms. “After Halloween, Mother will make it into pumpkin pies.”
“Mmmmm, pies!” Davy sighed.
Ben didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking at the pumpkins.
One morning when their breath hung like little puffs of chimney smoke on the chilly air, the children stopped again at the pumpkin patch. It had happened! The pumpkin leaves were shriveled and black on the ropy vines. They ran all the way to school to tell the other children.
When school let out that afternoon, Toby, Beth, Janie, Davy, and Ben hurried back to the pumpkin patch. Mr. Greevey would be waiting there to call out, “Tell all the children to come and choose their pumpkins tomorrow!”
But when they reached the patch, not one of the pumpkins had been picked, and Mr. Greevey was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Toby said.
“Yes, maybe tomorrow,” the others agreed hopefully.
However, Mr. Greevey wasn’t there the next day or the next or the one after that.
“Halloween’s almost here,” said Davy.
“Do you think Mr. Greevey’s forgotten?” asked Janie with a worried frown.
“Mr. Greevey grows the pumpkins especially for Halloween,” said Beth. “Why would he forget?”
“Let’s go find out,” said Toby.
“Who’s going to knock on the door?” Davy whispered when they reached the house.
“I will,” Toby said, marching up onto the porch. He knew it wasn’t polite to ask for things, but Halloween was getting awfully close.
Mrs. Greevey opened the door. “Why, children, how nice to see you,” she said.
“We came—” Toby began.
“The pumpkins are ripe!” Davy blurted out.
“It’s almost Halloween,” Janie said shyly.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Greevey exclaimed. “So it is. I’ve been so busy taking care of Mr. Greevey that I hadn’t noticed.” She smiled. “And of course all of you want to choose your jack-o’-lanterns.”
They nodded silently.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it by yourselves this year. Mr. Greevey is much too sick to come to the patch.”
“Will he be better soon?” Toby asked.
Mrs. Greevey nodded. “In a week or two he’ll be just fine. Tell the other children to come and choose their jack-o’-lanterns too.”
“We will. Thank you,” said Toby.
The five children raced each other to the pumpkin patch.
“Choosing a pumpkin isn’t much fun without Mr. Greevey,” Janie said. She stepped carefully over the stiff, prickly vines. “He always helps me find just the right one.”
“Who will take the rest of the pumpkins to the market?” Davy asked, stopping to examine a fat round one.
They all stopped and looked at each other.
“Could we take them to the market for Mr. Greevey?” Toby asked.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” cried Janie. “Mr. Greevey has always been so nice to us. It’ll be fun to do something nice for him.”
“How can we get the pumpkins there?” asked Beth. “None of us is old enough to drive Mr. Greevey’s truck.”
“I know how we can do it,” Ben said.
They all turned to look at him. Ben never spoke unless he had something important to say. “We can haul them in my dad’s hay wagon. I know how to drive the horses. I’m sure Dad will let us use it.”
“Hurray!” Toby exclaimed. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We can get some of the kids at school to help.”
Early the next morning the children were at the pumpkin patch. “Do you think we should choose our pumpkins now?” Janie asked.
“Mr. Greevey will be disappointed if we don’t,” said Toby.
Everyone picked the pumpkin he liked best and set it in a row along the fence. Then they started to work.
“The big ones are too heavy to carry,” Beth said.
“You have to roll them,” Toby explained, turning a big pumpkin on its side. He carefully rolled it to where Ben and a bigger boy were loading the wagon.
The load of pumpkins grew higher. At last only the biggest pumpkin was left in the patch.
“We’ll never get that one on the wagon,” said Davy.
“Mr. Greevey usually saves the very biggest pumpkin for its seeds anyway,” Toby said. “Let’s leave it here until we come back.”
Everyone climbed aboard the wagon. Some sat on top of the pumpkins. Others wiggled down between them.
“Giddap!” Ben called. The big draft horses strained against the harness as the wagon turned out onto the highway. Soon horns began to blow. Toby looked back at the long line of cars.
A patrol car passed the wagon and stopped. “You’ll have to get this wagon off the highway,” the officer told them. “You’re blocking traffic.”
“But we’re taking these pumpkins to the market,” explained Davy.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way,” said the officer. “Now let these cars pass.”
Ben turned the horses off the highway and stopped.
“Now what’ll we do?” Beth wailed.
Toby thought for a minute. “I know! Across this meadow is a dirt road that goes along the river to the other side of town. We can use that.”
“Giddap!” Ben shouted.
It was more fun riding on the river road than the highway. The trees along the dirt road were splashed with reds and golds and yellows. At last Ben stopped the wagon behind Mr. Colby’s market.
“I’m mighty glad to see you,” Mr. Colby said. “Everyone has been asking for Mr. Greevey’s pumpkins.”
The wagon was soon unloaded, and the children rode back to the farm.
“Now for the biggest pumpkin,” said Toby. “Listen.” He explained his plan.
“That’s a great idea!” the others all shouted. Everyone took turns helping to roll the huge pumpkin.
“It must weigh more than a hundred pounds,” said Davy.
Quietly they rolled the pumpkin up onto Mr. Greevey’s front porch. Toby slipped the check from Mr. Colby under the door, and they hurried away.
When Halloween came, there were jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. There were fierce ones and silly ones, funny ones and sad ones. But the biggest, happiest jack-o’-lantern was the one on Mr. Greevey’s front porch, smiling at everyone who passed by.

Toward the end of my studies, many of my friends were planning to continue their schooling and achieve a master’s degree. I loved studying and wanted to do the same thing, but the Spirit told me clearly that my mission in Hawaii was complete. It was time for me to return home to Hong Kong.
My wife and I followed the prompting. At the time I couldn’t understand why I was being directed away from continuing my education. But sometimes we follow the Spirit without knowing all the details. Though my wife and I didn’t know what to expect as we looked for jobs and an apartment, we were blessed and soon found success.
As I look back now, I understand why the Spirit was so strong in encouraging us to return to Hong Kong. It was very valuable to my family and me to be strengthened in the Church among the members there. I served as a bishop, as a counselor in the stake presidency, and as a stake president before being called as an Area Seventy. After retiring from my profession, I was able to earn a master’s degree. All of those experiences helped prepare me for my current calling.

A few days before my final year of seminary was about to begin, Brother Fernández, our new teacher, came to my house. He asked my sister and me to join with him and his wife in singing a hymn about the First Vision in sacrament meeting. I had never sung in public before. I had always felt that my voice wasn’t good enough. But I felt I couldn’t refuse, so I agreed to try.
The hymn was unfamiliar to me. A few days before the performance, Brother Fernández loaned us a cassette so my sister and I could learn our parts.
On the Friday before we were to perform, my throat started hurting. I went to bed early that night, but I couldn’t sleep and had a hard time breathing. My body hurt all over.
I got up the next day complaining of the pain, and my mother advised me to see the doctor. The doctor gave me some medication and sent me home to rest.
I spent that day in bed. My family was frightened because my fever wasn’t going down. I prayed a great deal, asking Heavenly Father to help me get better.
When I woke up on Sunday, I felt much better and went to church. After I shared my testimony about how seminary has blessed me, it was time to sing. I didn’t feel well prepared, but I knew that Heavenly Father knew my situation and would help me.
My seminary teacher, his wife, my sister, and I sang about the Prophet Joseph Smith’s vision of God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and how we are called to serve in Their work. Later the members complimented us, but my greatest satisfaction came from having sung to the Lord with all my strength.
I am so grateful for the gospel, because I know that when I pray, I’m talking to my Father in Heaven. He hears me. He loves me and knows my needs.

While I served as a missionary in the Brazil Salvador South Mission, the eight missionaries in our zone usually ate together at the home of Paulo, a member of the Itapua Ward. We would eat with this same family every week on a certain day.
One particular day we were eating in the home of Paulo and his wife and daughter. It had been raining all week, and the streets were filled with rivers of water. Paulo’s home was modest, with a concrete floor that had been worn smooth over time. His family did not have enough furniture for all eight missionaries, so most of us sat on the floor.
Paulo was a convert to the Church who had not had the opportunity to serve a mission. As we finished our meal, he asked where our proselyting efforts would take us that afternoon. We told him we were headed to the mission office for our regular interviews with the mission president.
“Elders,” he said, looking at our mud-spattered shoes, “you cannot go see your mission president with shoes that look like that!”
He went into his bedroom and returned with a nearly empty can of shoe polish. Then he knelt on the floor and began to shine our shoes.
How could this man who had already sacrificed so much to feed eight hungry missionaries each week also shine our shoes? I was one of the last in line, and I resolved to politely decline when my turn came. But when he got to my shoes, I knew that if I rejected his offer, I would be rejecting a sacred gift from a truly humble man.
Because of Paulo’s Christlike service, I feel my heart burn with joy every time I think of him. He taught me about the gift of the Savior’s Atonement in a way that left a permanent impression upon my soul.

I recently met a remarkable young woman, 17-year-old Caylee, as she shared her heartfelt feelings in a stake conference. She declared that God is real, the Church is true, and President Russell M. Nelson is God’s prophet. She also bore strong witness that the negative things some say about the Church and the gospel of Jesus Christ are false.
I was impressed by Caylee’s conviction and her ability to discern what is true and what isn’t.
But I was even more impressed when I spoke with Caylee after the meeting and discovered that her discernment and conviction had not come easily. In fact, she had endured a serious challenge to her faith.
Here is what she shared.
Caylee has always been active in the Church. However, as she began to think deeply about the gospel and the Church, some serious questions arose in her mind. She felt guilty for questioning and began searching for answers.
“My problem,” Caylee says, “was I searched in all the wrong places. Rather than searching scriptures or conference talks and talking to my parents, I came upon different articles online claiming they had the answers to my questions.”
Initially, Caylee thought the online articles were shining light on her questions. However, she says, “As I continued investigating my questions, everything I read filled me with more and more questions and more and more doubt.”
Caylee began losing both faith and hope. “The light from my testimony was flickering,” she remembers, “and I gradually stopped doing things I had been taught—reading the scriptures, praying, and attending seminary.”
She eventually became overwhelmed by the darkness and confusion she felt. She says, “I couldn’t determine what was from God and what was a crazy idea twisted and created by someone to throw me off. I could no longer discern what was truth and what was deception. It was tearing me apart.”
Caylee compares her situation to Joseph Smith’s when he said, “At length I came to the conclusion that I must either remain in darkness and confusion, or else I must do as James directs, that is, ask of God. I at length came to the determination to ‘ask of God’ [James 1:5], concluding that if he gave wisdom to them that lacked wisdom, and would give liberally, and not upbraid, I might venture” (Joseph Smith—History 1:13).
At this critical point, Caylee reached out to her seminary teacher, her grandmother, and her mother. Her seminary teacher assured her that her feelings weren’t wrong and that she wasn’t the only person with questions. Her teacher shared her testimony and recommended reading material that could help Caylee in her search.
Caylee’s grandmother didn’t preach. She simply urged her to consider which sources of information uplifted her—the online information or Church doctrine? Caylee began comparing: “Which one uplifted me? Which one brought joy and peace to my soul? Which one taught me that I would be with my family forever in a state of never-ending happiness if I followed God’s commandments? Which one put nagging voices in my head?”
Caylee’s mother encouraged her to pray. Eventually, Caylee went to her room and poured out her soul to God. She explains: “Nothing happened. No angels came down. My heart didn’t fill up with peace and gratitude. I went back to my mom. We prayed together, and she encouraged me to read the Book of Mormon for 10 minutes. As I read, I felt a promise in my heart that if I continued to do this, I would see blessings. I would be able to see clearly and know which teachings were from God and which were not.”
Caylee began to pray every day and read the Book of Mormon. She stayed away from Twitter and the websites that started her doubts in the first place. She went to seminary with the intent to learn, not to look for negative things about the Church.
After about two weeks of consistent effort, she felt the negative voices get quieter. School went better. Work was more enjoyable, and she had a better relationship with her parents. She was happier.
Because of that happiness, she says, “I finally saw my answer. I was able to discern what was from God and what was not because I saw firsthand what He was doing for me when I did what He asks.”
“That,” she concludes, “is the only way you can truly discern what is truth from God and what is not. We can study and ponder and question all we want, but until we do as James directs and what Joseph Smith did—ask and act—only then can we truly know what is true and what isn’t.”

One summer, I participated in an internship on an island in Bicol, Philippines. The view of the ocean was wonderful, and I looked forward to each morning.

I dreaded the evenings, however. That’s when the people in the camp would start drinking and having parties. Invitations to such parties were frequent, and my fellow interns and I had to attend, since not attending would be disrespectful.

The first party was a welcoming party for new interns. I was afraid to attend, because I was pretty sure that they would offer us drinks and I wasn’t sure how to decline. I called a friend in my home ward, and he gave me some wonderful advice that boosted my confidence.

When the party began, they offered us drinks but, fortunately, did not compel us to drink. Since my fellow interns accepted my stand of not drinking, refusing the next offers to drink was now easy for me—until one night. During one of the parties, the president of the company came. He was carrying a bottle of lambanog (a local wine made from coconut). Soon after his arrival, I saw him pouring some of the wine. He then said, “You must learn how to drink” and gave the glass to one of the interns. She quickly drank it.

My heart began to pound heavily. It would soon be my turn. I was whispering silently to myself, “I will not drink it. I will not drink it.” Then I saw the president extending the glass of wine to me. I didn’t know what to do. My fellow interns were looking at me, waiting to see what I would do. I smiled at the president and humbly said, “Sorry, sir, but I do not drink.”

I knew he was disappointed. He asked why I didn’t drink. I said, “I am a Mormon.”

He said, “I haven’t heard of that religion. It sounds like a type of food.” Everyone laughed.

I smiled too, not because of his joke but because I knew I had done the right thing.

No one ever offered me a drink again. But still the ridicule did not cease, even from my own friends. One even said that I was lying and that it’s unimaginable that members of the Church do not drink. During this time I felt the pressures that come to members of the Church.

My stay on that island taught me a lot of lessons, not just academically but spiritually. I learned that mockery may never cease, but the Spirit of the Lord will always guide you to do what is right.

One Sunday morning some 30 years ago, while I was serving in a stake presidency, we received a telephone call from one of our faithful bishops. He explained that his ward had grown so rapidly that he could no longer provide a meaningful calling to all worthy members. His plea to us was that we divide the ward. While waiting for such approval, we decided as a stake presidency that we would visit the ward and call all these wonderful, worthy brothers and sisters to be stake missionaries.
About the third person I visited was a young female student attending the local university. After chatting for a few moments, I issued the call to serve as a missionary. There was silence for a few moments. Then she said, “President, don’t you know that I am not active in the Church?”
After a few moments of silence on my part, I said, “No, I did not know you were not active.”
She answered, “I have not been active in the Church for years.” Then she said, “Don’t you know that when you have been inactive, it’s not all that easy to come back?”
I responded, “No. Your ward starts at 9:00 a.m. You come into the chapel, and you are with us.”
She answered, “No, it is not that easy. You worry about a lot of things. You worry if someone will greet you or if you will sit alone and unnoticed during the meetings. And you worry about whether you will be accepted and who your new friends will be.”
With tears rolling down her cheeks, she continued, “I know that my mother and father have been praying for me for years to bring me back into the Church.” Then after a moment of silence, she said, “For the last three months I have been praying to find the courage, the strength, and the way to come back into activity.” Then she asked, “President, do you suppose this calling could be an answer to those prayers?”
My eyes started to water as I responded, “I believe the Lord has answered your prayers.”
She not only accepted the call; she became a fine missionary. And I’m certain she brought much joy not only to herself but also to her parents and probably other family members.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”

I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockeys answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.

Last year, I damaged my ACL so badly that I had to get major knee surgery. When I found out the surgery was one of the most intensive knee surgeries, I was terrified! I asked for a priesthood blessing and fasted. My family members fasted for me too. My recovery ended up being smooth and quick, and I was so grateful for that.
Fasting can be hard, but for me, the blessings from fasting always outweigh the hunger. It’s a small sacrifice we get to make, and the blessings you receive from giving up two meals and donating fast offerings are totally worth it, no matter how inconvenient it seems.
In this world, we like instant gratification. But if you fast consistently and do other things while you fast, like read your scriptures or work on Personal Progress or Duty to God, you dedicate time to the Savior. As you’re consistent with that, you will be blessed. NE
Elaina K., 17, Washington, USA

In the late 1820s, Brigham Young, as yet untouched by the restored gospel, was a somewhat discouraged young man. He found himself disapproving of much of what he saw in the world and wondering if he had a work yet to do. His loving brother, Phineas, gave Brigham prescient counsel: “Hang on, for I know the Lord is agoing to do some thing for us.” (Sermon of Heber C. Kimball in minutes, 8 Jan. 1845, Brigham Young Papers, Historical Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.) What then happened is Moses-like history!

All young men over the age of 18 in Finland are required to serve in the military for 6 to 12 months. As I began my required service, I found that the opinions and attitudes of many of my army buddies conflicted with my principles. As a result, I took steps to stay close to the Spirit, praying at least twice a day and reading the scriptures.
At first I was nervous because I didn’t know how my buddies would react, but they didn’t seem to care, so I relaxed. After a while my bunk mates asked what I was reading. “The Book of Mormon,” I told them directly. Their next question, of course, was whether I was a Latter-day Saint. I told them I was, and for a while, they let the matter drop.
In time a few of my army buddies began to ask about the Book of Mormon—its origin, contents, and so forth. Later their questions ranged from the purpose of life to principles of the Church. My religion became a natural part of our discussions, and it popped up in almost any situation.
One fellow in a neighboring bunk asked if he could read from my Book of Mormon. Of course I said yes. On another occasion, after a roommate had returned from attending a funeral for a friend, he told me that the funeral had raised many questions in his mind about life and its purpose. He asked me what the Church believed about those things. We had a long discussion about the purpose of life, the Atonement, the Creation, and other gospel topics. Afterward, other roommates became interested in the Church’s teachings and standards.
During the rest of our time together, we had many discussions that always seemed to turn to the Church’s teachings. My roommates called these discussions “Ask the Mormon” sessions. Later, after we had graduated from our training, one roommate told me he had decided to quit swearing.
Throughout my time in the military, I noticed that the more open I was about my Church membership and the more faithfully I followed gospel teachings, the more open others were toward me and the more opportunities I had to share the gospel.
I am thankful for the blessings and opportunities I had to talk about the gospel during my army service. I testify that if we are bold in standing up for our values, we will be blessed with opportunities to do missionary work. And if we let the light of the gospel shine freely in our lives, we can protect ourselves from darkness and have a positive influence on the world around us.

“Dear Eva, do you really think that my life is perfect?” Aunt Rose sat with Eva on the overstuffed sofa. “There was a time when I was so discouraged I didn’t want to go on.”

“You?” Eva asked.

Aunt Rose nodded. “There were so many things I wished for in my life.” As she spoke, a sadness entered her voice that Eva had never heard before. “Most of them never happened. It was one heartbreak after another. One day I realized that it would never be the way I had hoped for. That was a depressing day. I was ready to give up and be miserable.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothing for a time. I was just angry. I was an absolute monster to be around.” Then she laughed a little, but it was not her usual big, room-filling laugh. “‘It’s not fair’ was the song I sang over and over in my head. But eventually I discovered something that turned my whole life around.”

“What was it?”

“Faith,” Aunt Rose smiled. “I discovered faith. And faith led to hope. And faith and hope gave me confidence that one day everything would make sense, that because of the Savior, all the wrongs would be made right. After that, I saw that the path before me wasn’t as dreary and dusty as I had thought. I began to notice the bright blues, the verdant greens, and the fiery reds, and I decided I had a choice—I could hang my head and drag my feet on the dusty road of self-pity, or I could have a little faith, put on a bright dress, slip on my dancing shoes, and skip down the path of life, singing as I went.” Now her voice was skipping along like the girl in the painting.

Aunt Rose reached over to the end table and pulled her well-worn scriptures onto her lap. “I don’t think I was clinically depressed—I’m not sure you can talk yourself out of that. But I sure had talked myself into being miserable! Yes, I had some dark days, but all my brooding and worrying wasn’t going to change that—it was only making things worse. Faith in the Savior taught me that no matter what happened in the past, my story could have a happy ending.”

When I was a young missionary serving in Mexico, I was called to serve as branch president in a small town in the state of Veracruz. When my companion and I were reviewing the membership records of our little branch, we found the record of a brother who had been ordained a deacon but had not been attending the meetings.
We arranged to make a visit with him. While visiting him, we invited him to come to the meetings and serve in his priesthood responsibilities. The following Sunday he came but was not properly dressed and was unshaven. So we taught him about being clean and neat when he officiated in those sacred priesthood responsibilities, which included passing the sacrament. His life changed considerably as he served faithfully. That branch was my last assignment in the mission before returning home. When I was ready to leave the branch, this good brother came and put his arms around me, picked me up, and with a big hug swung me around. As he did, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said, “Thank you for coming and helping me.”

One day I was in the bus line with my friend Mike.* We try to get in line first so we can sit in the very back of the bus. There is this girl named Savannah that is kind of rude to other kids. I’ve known her since second grade. Something I found out was that if you are nice to her, she’s nice back. Mike, on the other hand, thinks that if someone is rude to him, he should be rude back. I admit I’ve done that sometimes.
That day we were at the front of the line. When our line was heading to the bus, Savannah tried to sneak in front of everyone so she could sit in the back. When she was right behind us, we tried to tell her that she couldn’t cut, but she made an excuse that most people make. “We’re all going to the same place,” she said.
When we got to the bus, there was some shoving. Savannah got in first. She quickly ran to the back and put her backpack where she was sitting. “I got here first,” said Savannah. Mike and Savannah started arguing a bit. I told Mike that we could sit somewhere else, but he didn’t listen. I started arguing with Mike. Then I remembered a line from a movie that said when we have a choice between being right or being kind, we should choose to be kind.
So I asked Savannah nicely if we could sit in the seat next to her. Mike doesn’t like sharing seats, but he thought about it. “Only if you guys don’t bother me,” said Savannah. “Fine,” Mike said. On the way home, I had a good feeling inside. You should always be kind, even if it’s hard.

Even before class started the next day, Rhett was cracking jokes and cutting other students down. Jarom leaned over, smiled wryly, and whispered, “This isn’t the day that’s going to make a difference.” He put his head down.
“It’d make a difference if you did something too. That’s why your mom made you promise,” I retorted warmly.
That day the class was a disaster. Rhett and Randy both sang loudly off key during the devotional hymn. Rhett muttered wisecracks through Cindy Mason’s spiritual thought while Randy snickered his approval. They even laughed in the prayer. It didn’t matter how Sister Batson pleaded and reasoned with them; they wouldn’t cooperate. Halfway through the lesson the two of them started laughing out loud after making a rude comment. I wanted to walk over and slap them both.
“Torbett,” a voice barked, “shut up or get out.” Startled, I turned to see Jarom glowering at Rhett.
Rhett’s laughter faded. “What’s it to you, Wade?” he sneered. “Did we wake you up from your morning nap?”
Slowly Jarom pushed up from his desk and strolled stiffly to where Rhett sat. Rhett stood up, prepared for the challenge while Sister Batson and the rest of us held our breath. “If you don’t want to listen,” Jarom said in a low, cold, cutting voice, “get out so somebody else can.”
“All you do is sleep, Wade. Isn’t that rude? Have you been listening?”
Jarom considered the accusation. “All right, I won’t sleep and you shut up.” They glared at each other. Jarom returned to his desk, sitting up in his chair. The rest of the period was quiet.
“Thanks for what you did back there,” I ventured as we left the church. I bit down on my lower lip. “I’m sorry what I said about your promise.”
He shrugged. “It was true. Rhett was right too.” He grinned. “Now I’ve promised Rhett I’ll stay awake.” He looked at me. “Why do you Mormons have to do this seminary thing so early in the morning?”
“You Mormons?” I asked. “You’re Mormon but don’t know it yet.”
“Fat chance.”
Seminary changed after that. A few days later Rhett started to get out of hand. Jarom grumbled from the back, “I’m still awake, Torbett.”

Once in Utah, Dan Jones settled in Manti, where he was elected the first mayor in 1851. A year later, however, he was called to serve a second mission in his native land. Again he responded without hesitation. With a few others, he began the long trek east. When about eighty miles out of Salt Lake City, he met a group of Welsh Saints coming to the Valley. They had been baptized during his first mission, and they could scarcely contain their feelings when they met their beloved leader, they on their way to the valleys of the West, and he on his way to the valleys of Wales. They sang; they wept; they spoke with words of true affection. They spent a happy day together before parting. As they were separating, Elder Jones gave William Morgan a letter to be delivered to the Presiding Bishop of the Church, Edward Hunter. It breathes the spirit of this remarkable man and his love for his Welsh brethren and sisters:
“Esteemed Bishop Hunter.—Many of my compatriots are coming across in the 13th Company; I do not know their condition; perhaps their money and their provisions are scarce. If so, when they reach the Valley, I shall be grateful to you for furnishing them their needs, through the hand of [Brother Morgan], and I shall pay you in Manti, San Pete Valley.”7

Two boys in the Olathe Second Ward, Olathe Kansas Stake, recently completed unusual projects in order to earn their Eagle Scout Awards.
After visiting the Haun’s Mill Massacre Site in Caldwell County, Missouri, David Shumway wanted to do something to honor and remember the 17 Church members who were killed there in 1838. He hung signs so that visitors could find the site, and he organized the Scouts in his ward in beautifying the area around the historical marker.

During the last six months of his life, President Joseph F. Smith suffered from the effects of age and spent much time in his personal study in the Beehive House in Salt Lake City. He did, however, gather enough strength to attend general conference in October 1918. In the opening session, he arose to address the Saints, and with a voice filled with emotion said:
“I will not, I dare not, attempt to enter upon many things that are resting upon my mind this morning, and I shall postpone until some future time, the Lord be willing, my attempt to tell you some of the things that are in my mind, and that dwell in my heart. I have not lived alone these last five months. I have dwelt in the spirit of prayer, of supplication, of faith and of determination; and I have had my communication with the Spirit of the Lord continuously.”
According to his son, Joseph Fielding Smith, writing his father’s biography, The Life of Joseph F. Smith, the President was expressing in broad terms the fact that during the past six months he had been the recipient of numerous manifestations, some of which he shared with his son. He had received one of these manifestations, the Vision of the Redemption of the Dead, just the day before, on 3 October 1918, and recorded it immediately following the close of the conference.
Months later, on Thursday, 3 October 1918, President Smith, largely confined to his room because of illness, sat reading and meditating about the universal nature of the Atonement and about the Apostle Peter’s allusions to Christ’s post-mortal ministry. The stage was set: preparation of a lifetime and preparation of the moment were recompensed with a heavenly endowment—the Vision of the Redemption of the Dead.
“As I pondered over these things which are written,” the President writes, “the eyes of my understanding were opened, and the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I saw the hosts of the dead, both small and great.” (D&C 138:11.)

I can’t believe that my parents named her Angela! They’re both teachers, so you’d think that they’d know better than to call the terror of the kindergarten an angel. Being her eleven-year-old brother is hard. I have to baby-sit her on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. The other days I have soccer or my first-aid class for Scouts. That and my homework keep me “legitimately” busy until suppertime.
The thing is, Angela has a vivid imagination. She’s always pretending to be a world-famous astronaut or world-famous ballet dancer or something else “world-famous.” She also likes to talk a lot, which drives me bonkers. And she loves animals. You’d think they were people, to listen to her.
Last Tuesday Mom was just leaving for a class as I walked in the front door after school. She gave me a quick kiss and said good-bye. I sighed and headed for the kitchen. It was too quiet! Angela was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a gooey peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Except for the grape jelly around her mouth, she looked like one of those kids in a TV commercial. But she didn’t fool me! I looked around the kitchen for signs of damage. I didn’t have to look far. Max, our sometimes-troublesome mutt, was under the table, having a great time finishing off the grape jelly—right out of the jar.
“He was hungry, too, Jeff. How could I eat in front of him?” Angela asked as I glared at her.
I shooed her next door to play with her friend Carrie so that I could clean up. Carrie has a swing set, and I figured it would help if Angela wore off a little energy. I used some wet paper towels to mop up the rest of the grape jelly, then curled up with my latest book, Invader from the Unknown.
Not even five minutes later I heard Carrie screaming at the top of her lungs. “Angela’s stuck! She’s going to fall! Hurry, Jeff!”
I tore out of the house and over to Carrie’s swing set. Angela wasn’t making a sound, but she had a panicky look on her face. She was hanging upside down from the swing set by one foot.
As soon as I helped her down, she gave me a mischievous grin. “The swings were gone, so we’ve been practicing for the Olympics. We’re going to be world-famous gymnasts.”
I gave Angela a threatening look. “You’re going to be a world-famous prisoner if you keep it up. One more caper like that, and you’ll stay in your room until Mom gets home.”
“I’m sorry, Jeff. I’ll be really good now. Carrie and I will have a tea party for our dolls.”
A few minutes later, all was quiet. Keeping one ear tuned for trouble, I stretched out on the couch with my book again. The alien ship had just set down on planet Earth, and billows of smoke were rising from the craft. …
All of a sudden I realized that there was real smoke and that it was coming from the kitchen! I made it there in record time. Carrie was hightailing it out the door for home, and Angela was staring sadly at a cookie sheet with several little black mounds on it.
“I did it just like Mommy did the peanut-butter cookies the other day,” she told me, “but I didn’t know what number to put the oven on, so I just turned the knob as far as it would go. I guess that was wrong, huh?” Seeing the fury on my face, she added quickly, “I turned it off as soon as I saw the black smoke.”
I looked at the clock, and my anger turned to panic. Mom would be back soon! “Angela,”—I spat out the ultimate threat between clenched teeth—“if you don’t help get this kitchen cleaned fast, I will never give you a piggyback ride again!”
Angela’s eyes widened, and she grabbed the sponge. She started wiping the counter, making big doughy streaks in the flour she had spilled while making the cookies. While we worked to get the worst of the mess cleaned up, Angela talked a blue streak about how she and Carrie were going to be world-famous cooks. I looked at the black blobs in the garbage can and had to admire her optimism. I was awfully glad that I had my first-aid class the next day, though. I didn’t think I could take another afternoon like this one.
“Angela, how about another snack?” I figured food would keep her quiet, and I didn’t know how much more of her jabbering I could take. I opened a can of little hot dogs. The food didn’t slow her down a bit; she was still talking a mile a minute. I growled, “Angela, if you don’t stop talking while you’re eating, you’re going to choke.”
All of a sudden, Angela got very quiet. She had a funny look on her face, and she was turning blue!
Without thinking about it, I reached over and whacked her on the back. Nothing happened. Then I remembered the Heimlich maneuver. It’s to help someone who has something caught in his throat and can’t cough it up. I’d just learned it last week in first-aid class.
I was scared. I’d only tried the maneuver on the dummy there, and I knew it should only be used in a real emergency or the person could be hurt badly. But Angela looked like she was going to pass out any minute. I heard my voice saying, “Don’t be afraid, Angela. I know what to do. I’m going to stand behind you like this. …”
I put my arms around her in a bear hug from behind, right below the rib cage, as the instructor had demonstrated. I made a fist with my left hand, thumbside against her stomach, and grasped the fist with my other hand. Taking a deep breath, I gave a sudden squeeze.
Angela made a funny choking sound, and the meat popped out onto the floor. She started breathing and crying at the same time and wrapped herself around me like a pretzel. That was OK with me—I was so glad to hear her breathing again that I wouldn’t have cared if she’d hung on all day.
Now both Mom and Angela think I’m terrific—or, as Angela says, “a world-famous hero!” And Mom said that as a reward for my heroism I don’t have to do the dishes for a week.
I’ve decided that Angela isn’t such a bad kid after all. She’s just different. “Unique,” Mom says. But then so am I. Unique, I mean.
And I’ve decided something else: Angela can have all the piggyback rides she wants—this week anyway.