Gospel Story Finder

The second of four boys in his family, Elder Wilcox was five years old when his father decided that he wanted to have something useful for his boys to do. “My father moved us out of the city,” Elder Wilcox recollected, “and into a nice home in the country, situated on two acres near Mt. Olympus in Holladay, Utah. We had an alfalfa field, lawns to mow, and a cow, chickens, and a currant patch to tend. There were plenty of chores to keep us boys busy, and I’m grateful to my parents for providing that good environment for us.
“Some of my choicest memories are of the foothills east of our home that provided a place for us to run and hike during the summer. In the wintertime it was beautiful, and we could ride about a mile and a half down a traffic-free road on our sleighs without stopping. Ski jumping was also a big thing then. We just put our skis on our shoulders and hiked up to the top of the hill, making a snow jump on the way down, then spent the rest of the day seeing who could jump the farthest. Safety bindings were unheard of then, and we fastened our boots to our skis with heavy rubber bands cut from inner tubes.”
Although Elder Wilcox’s father had to work seven days a week, he still found time to do things with his family. “I remember well his taking us kids swimming. On the way back we’d always stop at a certain shop to get ice cream. He also took us fishing. Every summer he would drive us up to Cache Valley, where all four of our grandparents lived. We would stay for three or four weeks. My grandparents were very loving, and, as a result, we loved them very much.
“Before the big dam was built near Hyrum, there was an open place called ‘the holler.’ That’s where my Grandfather Wilson had his pastures. One of the grandchildren’s duties was to take the cows down to pasture every morning. Nearby was a stream where we fished and swam. The ‘holler’ was located between Hyrum and the town of Paradise. The holler was truly a paradise for us kids. We’d get together there with our cousins and swim, fish, hunt, and play all day long. Toward evening we would get the cows and lead them back home to be milked.”
A large irrigation canal flowed near Elder Wilcox’s home, and the children were forbidden to go near it. One day, disobeying this rule, Elder Wilcox was playing near the canal and fell in. Although he immediately grabbed some low-hanging branches, he still couldn’t get out because the banks of the canal were too steep. He was too far away for anyone to hear him yell, but his mother came to his rescue because she had heard a “voice,” the prompting of the Holy Ghost, telling her that her son Keith was in trouble and where he was.
“The thing I remember most about my mother when I was a youngster was that she was the Primary president.” Elder Wilcox also recalls that a favorite Primary teacher, Sister Jones, was a Ute Indian whose father was a tribal chief. “Every year my mother and her counselors planned a huge Primary production for the ward. As part of it one year the Trekker class did an Indian show, wearing authentic Indian clothing and feather headdresses. We had real tomahawks, and Sister Jones taught us how to do an Indian dance. I can still remember the Indian war song we sang as we danced.”
Elder Wilcox’s interest in art led him into the field of architecture. “Art must have been born in me,” he said. “My mother told me that even before I could walk or talk, I drew a picture of a house on her wallpaper. She was so proud of it that she didn’t wash it off.
“My parents provided great role models for us. They were kind and firm, and we knew what the rules were. Our parents were very understanding; they disciplined us with love.
“My message to young people is to never let a day go by without telling your father and mother that you love them. Sometimes it’s hard for children to go up to a brother or sister and say ‘I love you,’ but that’s important too.
“Also, be obedient. Accept direction from your parents. And remember to do only those things that will bring honor to your father and mother, just as we are commanded by the Lord. Remember that no one loves you more than your parents.”

At age sixteen, I started to deliver newspapers. I had an old trade bike, a bike that has room to carry papers on the front. I loved cycling! One day I was cycling through the city, and in the bicycle-shop window, I saw a Coventry-Eagle bicycle. It was magnificent! It was lilac-colored with black trimming, and it had racing handlebars. I went home and told my father about it.
The next day, he said, “If you’ll save up half the price of the bike, I’ll give you the other half.” Great! It took me many months to get half the money together. I did not realize until long after the event that my father would not have had sufficient money to contribute to the purchase when I first asked concerning the possibility. He knew that as I was saving, he could also save. That way, between us, we could raise the amount needed. My father always kept his promises.

Turning 16 brought more decisions. One of my Sunday School teachers warned, “You will marry someone you date. Make sure you date the kind of person you can marry in the temple.” I took his advice seriously and asked myself about each friendship, “Is this the kind of person I could go to the temple with?” Sometimes my judgment was off. Still I kept to my plan until I found the right person to marry in the right place.

He was deeply concerned about the well-being of others and praised the good he saw around him. He trusted others and encouraged them to strive to be disciples of Christ. Addressing a “stir in the Church” involving a young woman who had emigrated from England and was living in the home of Heber and Vilate Kimball, Joseph wrote a letter to Vilate. With grace and understanding, the Prophet encouraged Vilate: “I do not desire that you should turn the young woman out of doors; far be it from me to advise any such course. I think it would be well for her to remain with you … because I think that your advice may be a blessing to her, and your counsel and advice such as will tend to her future welfare and happiness.”8 Joseph trusted Vilate; she had chosen faith and continued in her belief that Joseph Smith was a prophet.9 Joseph’s trust in Vilate paid dividends as Vilate’s influence and counsel helped the young woman weather the storm and commit to her faith.

Our uncle Logan is on a mission. He said that miracles happen when you open your mouth and talk about the gospel as best you can. We gave away 10 copies of the Book of Mormon in one week by opening our mouths to people we met as we ran errands with our mom. Several people thanked us for the book and told us they were going to read it! Now we keep copies of the Book of Mormon in our van so we can keep being missionaries.
Eliza and Lucy B., ages 7 and 6, Virginia

I’m sure this couple will do a marvelous work in England. On the first day of the Asays’ mission to Canada, during my orientation interviews with them, Sister Asay told me that she was nervous and frightened to be a proselyting missionary. I told her it really wasn’t that bad; all she needed to do was talk to people about the Church. And we walked through a practice session asking the golden questions.
On their first day as missionaries, while her husband was paying for some groceries, Sister Asay asked the woman at the cash register if she knew anything about the Church and if she would like to know more. As a result of that question, the woman, Betti W. Guild, was baptized along with her husband and two relatives; at least seventeen others followed.

Susan (name has been changed), like many adoptees, had a great curiosity about her birth parents. She was sealed as an infant to her adoptive family and felt the power and confirmation that these were her people—the ones she was meant to be with forever. She felt blessed by doing family history and temple work for this family. However, that didn’t take away her curiosity or her desire to offer the saving ordinances to the people on her birth line. She worried that she was being somehow disloyal to her adoptive family for having that desire. But after a loving conversation with her parents, she was assured that feelings of love and loyalty would not be diminished by pursuing the sacred work for her birth line.

I saw a young man nearly overwhelmed by a new call not long ago. The Lord had inspired His servant to call him to be the president of a stake. The young man had never been a bishop. He had never served in a stake presidency. The stake had in it many men of greater maturity and experience.

He was humbled when he heard the call. His wife through tears said to the servant of the Lord who called him, “Are you sure?” Her husband said quietly that he would serve. His wife nodded her support, tears streaming down her face. As you might have done at such a time, he wanted to talk with his father, who was far away. He called him that afternoon on the telephone. His father has been a dairy farmer all his life. He raised the boy into a man through milking cows and letting his son observe him stop to talk with neighbors to see how they were doing. The next morning, in his first talk as a stake president, this is how he recounted the conversation with his father:

“Many of you that know me know I am a man of few words. I must have gotten that from my father. As I called him yesterday to let him know that I was being called as a stake president, his one response to me was, ‘Well, you better do a lot of praying.’ That was his counsel to me. What better counsel could he give?”

When I was a student at BYU, I was required to spend two weeks observing a seventh-grade class at a local junior high. There was one young man in the class who was the embodiment of a teacher’s nightmare. He swore, he cut class, he smoked at lunch, he refused to work, and he was unruly. In short, his reputation as the school troublemaker was well deserved.
During my two-week tour of duty he turned in only one assignment, a short essay titled, “What I Want to Be in Ten Years.” When I picked up the wrinkled, stained, illegible paper, I expected ro read about his dream of leading a motorcycle gang or becoming a gangster. Instead he planned, as far as I could decipher, to be an orthopedic surgeon. How ironic, I thought, that a kid who’s rejected everything needed to meet his goal, would dream of becoming a surgeon. His ignorance prevented him from seeing that he was already choosing a path that would lead to a life very different from that of an orthopedic surgeon.
Successful people are knowledgeable, and although schooling doesn’t equal knowledge, it can be a useful prerequisite. Knowledge can be gained through schooling, experience, study, or a combination of all three. Some people ignore that and fall short of their goals because they are unwilling to learn how to be successful. Ignorance breeds failure.
Another stumbling block to success is lack of discipline. As a coach and as an athlete I’ve watched many young men who were blessed with superior talent fail to become great because they were undisciplined.
A BYU teammate of mine was a running back with tremendous ability. When we were freshmen he was moved up to the varsity team for several games. As a sophomore he became a starter and was named national back of the week for an outstanding performance in an early season game. Unfortunately, as the season continued, he started to get into trouble because he could not follow the team’s training rules.
Eventually he withdrew from the university and, as far as I know, never played another down of football. It was a tragic waste of talent, but undisciplined talent is largely useless.
More subtle than lack of discipline is lack of courage—not courage to face danger but courage to meet challenges. Great people became that way because they accepted challenges and worked to overcome them.
Many students fail to excel because they deprive themselves of academic challenges by enrolling in easy classes. I’m ashamed to admit that for two years I fell into that trap. During my freshman and sophomore years at BYU I was more concerned with finding easy classes than with learning anything. Prior to registration each semester I checked out my prospective professors with the “academic grapevine” to find out who was the easiest. I cheated myself out of many worthwhile experiences by dodging academic challenges.
Don’t you be lulled into the same trap. When everyone else is seeking the easy path, be brave enough to take on the challenging one. You’ll be glad you did.
Once you’ve overcome the blocks to success, you’re ready to develop a systematic approach for success.
First, decide what you want to do, to be, or to have. Examine your goal and make sure it is a realistic and practical one for you. Write it down and remember it.
Next, rank your goal with your priorities. Nothing will be accomplished if it’s not important to you. One reason I’m not an Olympic veteran today is that shot-putting never ranked high enough on my list of priorities. Other things—family, church, career—superseded my Olympic hopes. Before you start your road to success, decide how important the destination is.
Third, consider what the trade-offs are. Tradeoffs are things that must be given up in order to have something else. The adage, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” is an application of a trade-off. My Olympic goal wasn’t reached because I wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices required to become a world-class shot-putter. Likewise, if you decide to become a concert pianist, you should realize that you will exchange thousands of leisure hours for hours of practice at the keyboard. Is it worth it?
The fourth step is to plan your progress. Ask yourself, “What will it take to accomplish my goal?” If you want to become an orthopedic surgeon, you must plan now to do what’s necessary to accomplish your ambition. “Fail to plan,” the saying warns, “and plan to fail.”
Finally, when you’ve prepared yourself in every way, you must work, work, and work some more. Success does not generally come as a gift or a blessing; it’s a direct result of preparation and intense, continuous, patient work. There is no way around it.
You were born to succeed. When you do all you can do, the Lord will help you realize your righteous ambitions. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll be a concert pianist, an orthopedic surgeon, or even an Olympic shot-putter.

Let me explain a hard lesson I learned during the third year of our mission. Very unexpectedly, Heber was rushed to the local hospital in Richmond, British Columbia with what the doctors diagnosed as a life-threatening condition. A virus was attacking the valves of his heart. As he was wheeled into a hospital room on a gurney, I followed close behind praying every step of the way. There in the room was a very sick man sitting on the edge of the other bed. He looked emaciated. His eyes appeared to be crossed, his mouth was drooping, and his gown was off his shoulder revealing dark tattoos down both arms. I immediately turned my back. I didn’t like the feeling I had. He looked to me like a man who had made a lot of wrong choices. My thoughts told me I didn’t want to be in that room with him.
As soon as Heber was settled with medication that relieved the pain and put him to sleep, I took a seat in a folding chair and began pouring out my heart pleading with the Lord for my husband’s complete recovery. In my anguish I thought I heard the words, “You reach out to others and I’ll take care of you.” I immediately reflected on our total commitment to the missionaries, the members, the nonmembers, the investigators, and asked myself, “what more can I do?” Again the whisperings of the spirit, “you reach out to others and I’ll take care of you.”
I found myself turning to look again at the old man with the tattoos. Could he possibly be one of the “others” I wondered? I was prompted to get him a drink in a little paper cup. He thanked me and seemed appreciative. Later I took him a second drink. This time I had the Book of Mormon in my hand. He asked me about the book. When I told him it was the Book of Mormon he stumbled over his words admitting that he used to be a Mormon and asked if he could borrow it when I was through. When I handed the book to the patient he reached for it like a hungry man would reach for food, maybe remembering that it contained the bread of life.
I went back to my chair and found myself praying for the old man. When the night nurse came in he said to her in his muffled voice, “get the big chair at the end of the hall.” The nurse explained, “Oh Mr. Kapp is much too sick. He will not be getting up tonight.” The man insisted. “Get the big chair.” The nurse wheeled in the big chair and he said pointing to me, “it’s for her.” Can you believe that in his hour of struggle he was thinking of my comfort? I went once more to get him a drink of water, the only thing I could think to do in appreciation for his kindness. This time when I returned to the big chair he had arranged for my comfort, things were different. Not with the brother in the bed close by, but within me. He looked different than before. His eyes looked very tired but not crossed, and his speech was slow, but not slurred. And in an amazing way I realized that the tattoos, which had been so offensive to me, were not the ones on his arms but the ones in my heart.
During the long night I continued praying for Heber and also my new friend. In the process, I experienced a healing. Not physical, but spiritual. In the morning the curtain that had been drawn around the patient’s bed was opened and the bed was empty. He had passed away during the night. I realized in soberness that one of his last acts was for my comfort. Into my mind came the words of Elder Maxwell, “Empathy at a time of agony is part of divinity.” I realized then that this brother’s concern for me, was more Christ like than my first judgment of him. I asked myself, “why did I just loan him the book, why didn’t I offer to read to him?” But that opportunity was gone. I felt a love for this man, my brother, who had concern for my comfort when he was in need himself.
I related this experience to a group of sisters in the northern part of the province. When the closing prayer was given by someone who had been labeled, “less active,” she closed in a tone of deep emotion with these words, “Oh God, help us to love one another and look past each other’s tattoos.”

I was moving sprinkler pipes on a section of our farm in northern California, USA. This particular day was a treat because Dad was there to help me. When we finished, we jumped on our all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) and headed for home with dinner on our minds. Dad led the way.
Our farm was bordered on one side by the Pit River. We rode on the edge of the field so we wouldn’t flatten the alfalfa with the big tires on our ATVs. The field was on our right, and the river, at the bottom of a steep embankment, was on our left. We couldn’t see very well because it was misty.
We were cruising along fairly fast when I veered off the trail and hit a clump of sagebrush with my right rear tire. The impact forced me to turn the ATV sharply to the left toward the river and down the embankment. I tried stopping, but the bank was too steep and I was going too fast. I thought for sure I was going in the river. Fortunately, there was a tree on the bank right in my path. The next thing I knew, I was looking down at the ATV—from the tree! I was as scared as I had ever been.
I felt that I had just had a brush with death, but other than a few scratches and bruises, I was unhurt. After I calmed down and took a few breaths, I realized there was no way I was going to get the ATV back up the bank by myself. I kept expecting my dad to poke his head over the edge of the embankment, looking for me, but he didn’t. That made me feel even worse.
I scrambled to the top of the bank, but my dad was nowhere in sight. I said a silent prayer to my Father in Heaven, asking Him to send Dad back to get me. Then I started walking. Meanwhile, Dad was almost home when he thought he heard me call out to him. He looked back for the first time since we had left the field. Only then did he notice that I wasn’t behind him. He knew something was wrong and came looking for me until he found me.
Dad later told me that he had heard me say, “Dad, I need you!” At the time, he was more than two miles (3 km) away. I knew then that a loving Father in Heaven had heard my prayer and let my father know that I needed his help.
I am grateful for the Holy Ghost and the whisperings of truth and guidance that we receive from Him. I am also grateful for a loving father who had lived his life in such a way that the Holy Ghost could talk to him and be heard.

Gravel ground under the tires of my bike as I rode up our driveway in the dark. The front room lights were already glowing through the windows, and I knew that I was in trouble. Dad had told me to be home before dark. But Jerry and I had been having such a great time playing in Krammer’s old barn that I couldn’t make myself go home. Besides, we weren’t getting into trouble or anything.
Dad was sitting in his favorite chair when I walked in. “Danny,” he said calmly, “please come with me into my office.”
I followed him through the kitchen and into the small room that was his office.
“Sit down, Danny,” Dad said as he sat in a chair by his desk. “I think that it’s time that you heard the story of Brandy.”
I sat in the straight-backed wooden chair next to him.
“When I was about your age,” he began,” “we lived in that old farmhouse near your grandpa’s home, the house they use as a storage shed now.
“Your grandpa had been angry with me because I wasn’t doing everything that I should have been. I got all the lectures about obedience and responsibility. I was scolded, coaxed, and threatened, but still I did only what I wanted. I figured that I was old enough to make my own decisions.
“One morning your grandpa told me to be home right after school because he needed me to help him and my brothers irrigate the fields. He said that if I didn’t help, I would lose all privileges.”
“You mean that Grandpa was going to ground you?” I asked.
“Something like that,” Dad answered thoughtfully. “Well,” he continued, “I tried. I really did. But one of my friends asked for some help with our math assignment. By the time I got home, Dad and my brothers were already down at the irrigation canal, starting to turn the water into the fields.
“That canal was about two miles down the old gravel highway. When we lived in the old house, that highway was the only way through town. Oil tankers used it to get from the refinery to the storage tanks on the other side of town.
“I didn’t want to walk two more miles after having just walked home from school, so I went to the barn to get a horse. Well, Dad and my brothers had taken all the horses except one—Brandy.
“Dad had always told me, ‘Brandy is too spirited to ride with a nose loop. If you ride her, use a bridle.’”
“What’s a nose loop?” I interrupted.
“A nose loop,” Dad explained,” is made by wrapping a rope around the horse’s nose, then using the ends of the rope as reins. It isn’t the best way to ride a horse, but it’s all right when you ride a gentle one and you’re careful not to hurt it.
“I looked all over the barn for a bridle,” Dad continued his story, “but I couldn’t find one. I decided that I would risk riding Brandy to the irrigation canal with a nose loop, then trade horses with one of my brothers.
“I caught Brandy, put on the nose loop, climbed the fence, and jumped onto the horse’s bare back.”
“Weren’t you afraid of riding Brandy that way, Dad?” I asked.
“I think I was more afraid of what Dad would do if I didn’t make it to the canal,” he answered, “so I headed down the highway.
“Everything went pretty well for the first mile. I held the rope tightly, pulling Brandy’s nose in toward her neck. That was a mistake, but I didn’t know it then.
“She started getting restless. Soon she was skipping and jumping around, and I knew that I was losing control of her. I was within a half mile of the canal, though, and thought that I could make it. Then one of those oil tankers came up the highway.”
“Did the truck hit you and the horse, Dad?” I broke in, forgetting to even wonder why Dad was telling me a story about Grandpa’s horse.
“No, Danny,” Dad replied. “The driver blew his air horns, which was probably the worst thing that he could have done.
“Brandy spun around and headed for home at a full gallop. I grabbed a handful of her mane and held on for dear life. I bounced on her back, only managing to stay on because of my death grip on that handful of mane. Brandy never slowed down.
“As we got closer to the house, I knew that I would never make it. Your grandpa had just put up a barbed wire fence on the road to the corral where Brandy was sure to turn.
“When we reached the road, she made the turn at a full gallop. All I can remember after that is that I came off her back and headed for the wire. But instead of hitting the wire, I hit a fifty-five gallon metal drum.”
“Were you hurt bad?” I asked.
“Yes, Danny,” Dad said. “I remember waking up in a hospital bed. I hurt all over, my arm was in a cast, and my head throbbed. Your grandma and grandpa were both there.
“Your grandpa came close to the bed and smiled. ‘I’m glad that you’re back with us,’ he said. ‘You had a pretty nasty fall.’ Then he handed me this hunk of horsehair.”
Dad handed me a picture frame that had been in his desk. It held a bunch of coarse brown hair.
“It was part of Brandy’s mane,” Dad continued, “the part that I had been holding onto. ‘You might want to keep this as a reminder,’ your grandpa said to me. ‘Maybe it will help you remember to never ride Brandy with a nose loop.’
“That’s all that he ever said about that day. I knew what he meant. If I had obeyed, I wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.
“I’ve kept that hunk of hair ever since to remind me that there is always a reason for obedience.”
I stared at the brown hair, then looked at Dad. I knew then why he had told me about Brandy. I knew also that I wouldn’t be late getting home again.

A few months back, some acquaintances of mine, Bill and Jean, a young married couple still in their teens, went to their bishop to seek help. They were being evicted from their apartment because they had failed to pay their rent. Their first child was to be born within two months. They had no food. Bill had not worked for three months after being laid off from his job as a filling station attendant. Because he lacked technical training he had been unable to secure employment.
It was obvious that Bill and Jean were unprepared for marriage and its accompanying responsibilities. They had failed to plan ahead. The pattern of their life is typical of many young people today who start dating early. Early dating often leads to steady dating, early marriage, dropping out of school, pregnancy, and, all too often, divorce with its inevitable damage to the children as well as to the husband and wife.
Since whatever occupation you choose will have such a decided effect on your life, it will be to your advantage to explore some of the thousands of choices available. The best time to study an occupation is before you make major decisions about school, military, marriage, and so forth. If you wait until you are in a circumstance like Bill and Jean who were mentioned in the beginning of the article, it may be too late or, at least, extremely difficult.

Emma K. came from Midvale, Utah, to interview Sister Cheryl C. Lant, Primary general president. Emma and Sister Lant talked about the purpose of Primary while they toured the Relief Society Building. The Relief Society Building is where the offices of the general presidencies of the Primary, Young Women, and Relief Society are. It has beautiful displays about the purpose and history of these organizations.
Emma: “What good things are the children of the Church doing?”
Sister Lant: “One of the best things they are doing is learning from their scriptures. Every Sunday, we see children bring their scriptures to Primary. They open them, they read them, and they’re learning directly from the words of the Lord about what He wants them to do.”
Emma: “What do you hope they can learn to do more often?”
Sister Lant: “We need to be more kind to our brothers and sisters, to our parents, to our friends, and to everybody around the world.”
Sister Lant had a question for Emma. She showed Emma a painting of Jesus with children. “Can you think why that’s my favorite thing to look at every day when I come into my office?”
Emma: “Maybe because it shows the love Jesus has for children.”
Sister Lant: “That’s right. In Primary, the most important thing that we want to teach the children is that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love them. All the children in this picture come from different places, so they represent all the children around the world. Heavenly Father and Jesus love all of us, no matter where we live. We’re all His children.”

“Quick! His back is turned!” Paisley said, looking at the sales clerk. Ann swiftly reached up and grabbed the small stuffed giraffe from the shelf. The giraffe would look so cool with the rest of her animals. She almost had a complete set.
“Got it,” Ann whispered as she stuffed the soft object into her jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”
The two girls strolled past the clerk, out of the toy store, and into the mall to meet Paisley’s mother. Ann had a funny feeling in her stomach. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. She kept one hand in her pocket, curled around the animal.
“You know,” Paisley said, holding up a small stuffed kangaroo, “we wouldn’t have to steal these if they didn’t cost so much money!”
When Ann got home, she ran upstairs to her room. She was excited to put the giraffe with her other animals. She took the miniature animals lovingly off the shelf—the horse was the first one she had bought, then the camel. She had been able to buy the dog, elephant, lion, and bear with money she earned from her summer job of weeding the garden.
Her mother opened the bedroom door. “Ann, the bishop called. He would like to interview you next week for your baptism.”
Ann’s face went white. She knew that after she was baptized, she would be accountable for her actions and would have to repent of her sins. Would Heavenly Father forgive her for stealing the giraffe?
Mom noticed the nervous look on Ann’s face. “Oh, honey, don’t be scared. Your dad and I will be there with you. The bishop just needs to make sure that you want to be baptized.”
“I know, Mom,” Ann replied. She was glad that Mom didn’t know about the giraffe.
“Can you play today?” Paisley asked Ann as the two girls walked to school the next morning.
“I … uh … I don’t know,” Ann said. “I tried playing with my animals last night, but it wasn’t any fun. Do you think it might be because I stole the giraffe?”
“Maybe.” Paisley looked down at the sidewalk. “I couldn’t play with my kangaroo, either. We shouldn’t have taken those animals yesterday.”
Ann was quiet all morning. She tried to concentrate on the math lesson, but it was hard because she was trying to block out the awful way she felt inside. She was relieved when the recess bell rang.
“I don’t feel like swinging today,” Ann said to Paisley as she walked out the door, bundling her coat around her.
“Could your mom take us back to the mall after school?” Paisley asked. “Then we could return the animals. I don’t want to play with my kangaroo anymore. I would feel better if I took it back.”
“Me, too. I’ll ask my mom when I get home,” Ann said.
That afternoon, Ann took a deep breath as she opened the door of her house. Tears filled her eyes as she thought how disappointed her mom and dad would be. She walked into the kitchen.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?” Mom said.
“OK.” Ann looked down at her feet. “Mom, I have to tell you something. When I went to the mall with Paisley, we took some stuffed animals from the toy store without paying for them.” Mom listened as Ann told her how sorry she was.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Ann. You know that stealing is wrong. What do you think you should do now?”
“Paisley and I want to take the animals back. Could you drive us to the toy store?”
“Of course.” Mom hugged her. “I’m glad you’ve decided to do the right thing.”
Mom and Ann picked up Paisley at her house and drove to the mall. Then Mom walked with them to the toy store.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Mom asked.
“No, Mom,” Ann answered firmly. “We need to do this by ourselves.”
The girls walked quickly into the store and up to the counter. Placing the animals on the counter, they explained to the clerk that they had taken the stuffed animals without paying for them, and that they were very sorry.
The clerk glared at them. “I’ll have to report this to the owner,” he said. “I’m not sure what he’ll do.” The girls gave the clerk their names and telephone numbers and left the store.
“I’ll never steal another thing as long as I live,” Ann declared as she and Paisley rode home in the car.
“Me neither,” Paisley said. “And even if the owner is mad and won’t forgive us, at least Heavenly Father will.”
The following week Ann had her interview with the bishop. She explained to him what she had done and how she had tried to make it right—and how she had promised Heavenly Father that she would never steal anything again. She and the bishop talked about repentance, and how Ann had completed the steps.
The bishop said, “When you steal something, you can never fully enjoy it because you got it dishonestly. I’m glad you learned from your mistake, Ann. You are truly ready to be baptized now.”

As I headed back to Provo that Sunday night, I thought about Kelly, the young man that Elder Neal A. Maxwell had talked about that morning in stake conference. I had gone home from BYU for the weekend to attend the conference with my family. I needed a spiritual boost, and the conference was no disappointment. Elder Maxwell had talked about facing and overcoming challenges, and he had told us about a young man named Kelly.
Kelly had fought through many physical difficulties. He had been born without a jaw, chin or ear on the left side, and was operated on 11 times before graduating from high school. A jaw bone was made with bone from his hip, and an ear was also made for him.
For Kelly to serve a mission he had to have special permission to wear his hair over his ears. They were uneven because of the effect of gravity on his left ear, so they needed to be covered. He received permission to wear his hair longer, and he served a mission. He was now attending BYU. I hoped that I would get the chance to meet him. I was so impressed by his story that I wondered over and over if I had passed him on campus.
For weeks I thought about him and hoped I would meet him, but with 26,000 students and the semester nearing the end, it didn’t seem likely. I had mostly forgotten about it until one afternoon in my history class.
I was late that day. I hated being late, especially for my history class. Uncle Joe, as everyone called the professor, was the kind of teacher who could make just about anything interesting.
Every person in the class had to do an oral report on one of the presidents of the United States. Each class period we discussed the life of one of the presidents, and the student who had chosen to study that president started off the class discussion with his report.
As I slipped into the classroom and into a chair, I noticed who was up at the front of the class. It was that boy with the long hair. He had already given his oral report, so I couldn’t imagine what he was doing up in front of the class again. He didn’t look like the type that would have done another report for extra credit. “It doesn’t even matter that I’m late,” I thought as I arranged my books, “if it’s just him up there talking.”
I got settled and sat back to listen. “Why does he wear his hair so long?” I self-righteously wondered. “Doesn’t he know about the dress and grooming standards here?”
He was telling us his own story. “I was born without a jaw and had to have extensive surgery to have one made from bone from my hip. I had 11 major operations before …”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. An uncomfortable feeling was growing inside of me. It couldn’t be him!
I listened to much of the story that I had heard Elder Maxwell tell in stake conference. He spoke of gratitude and appreciation for health and the sweet, simple things of life. When he finished and sat down, Uncle Joe stood up and said, “Thank you, Kelly, for sharing your story with us.”
I don’t remember anything else we talked about that day. I sat there thinking about how much I had wanted to meet Kelly, and all semester long he’d been in my class. But from the first moment I saw him, I had counted him out as anyone I’d like to get to know because he looked a little bit different.
As I nervously waited after class to finally get to meet Kelly, the words came into my mind: “for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7). I realized I had almost missed meeting Kelly because I was looking in the wrong places.

Years ago, when we were landscaping the yard of our new home, my father, who owned a hardware store, asked me if I would like some rose bushes that he had for sale at a very discounted price. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I thought that roses would look very nice next to the white rail fence that bordered our front yard. I bought more than twenty rose bushes.
We live close to the base of Rock Canyon, which means that there is very little soil and a lot of rocks. Kevin took on the arduous task of digging the holes for the roses. Due to the difficulty of digging, we decided to dig the holes just big enough to pour in enough soil to surround the roots of the roses—not really the ideal amount of soil, but, given the situation, we hoped it would be adequate. As it turns out, it was.
Our roses thrived. We really didn’t do too much to them. They were watered whenever the lawn was watered, they received plenty of sunshine, and, happily, they did well in our yard, rocks and all.
Normally I would prune the roses as soon as it looked like they needed it. One year, however, I waited longer than usual to prune them—about a month longer. The roses already had quite a bit of new growth on them, but I decided to prune them anyway. When I was finished, there wasn’t much left. I had cut them back drastically—much more than I usually did. But I was pleased with the results.
Who knew that pruning roses a month later than usual—and drastically at that—would have unexpected consequences? Immediately after I had pruned the roses, I had several people tell me that it was too late in the season for cutting roses and that I had cut them back too much. Initially it didn’t bother me, but pretty soon I began to believe them. I started to feel like I had done something I shouldn’t have. I started to doubt my decision. I was sorry I had cut my roses.
I remember one man asking me incredulously, “What have you done? Do you realize that you won’t have roses this year?”
And a woman in our neighborhood who had a lovely garden quipped, “You shouldn’t have cut them so late and so much!” And then she added, “Oh well, we live and we learn.”
I felt terrible. I believed I had ruined my roses! At that point I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called my mother! I knew she would help me feel better. She was a gardener. She had roses.
I told her about the terrible thing I had done. And, to my pleasant surprise, she assured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong. She advised me to go to a nursery and buy a book on roses. I would find that I hadn’t ruined them.
I did as she suggested. I bought a book on roses and was relieved to find out that I hadn’t ruined them. In fact, I read that when pruning roses, you should cut them back “severely.” I definitely had cut my roses back severely. The book was very helpful. It taught me that the only way I could ruin the roses was to pull them out of the ground, stop watering them, or prevent them from getting sunlight.
Now I had two sources of assurance: my mother and my rose book. Even though I had some reassurances that my rose bushes would be fine, I was still a little sensitive and skeptical. I really hoped the roses would grow back, but there remained some doubt in my mind—doubt that was reinforced by continued negative assessments from my neighbors.
I anxiously checked on my roses every day, looking for any kind of growth. Finally I saw growth and was thrilled that I hadn’t ruined my roses after all. I don’t know why I worried so much. I hadn’t pulled them out by the roots, I hadn’t stopped watering them, and they were receiving plenty of sunshine. Eventually there were fully bloomed roses in my yard again—a month later than normal, but there were roses!

Since I have been a member of the Church, I have had a sincere desire to keep the commandments. Paying tithing, however, was a challenge because my mother, who was not a Latter-day Saint, would not allow it.
When I got paid, I set aside money for tithing in one of my drawers. But when the day came to return the money to the Lord, it wasn’t there. I asked my mother if she had seen it, and she answered that she had spent it because the Lord did not need it. I did not argue with her, for I believed there was another way to resolve this problem.
Because I was not able to pay my tithing, I was sad for a long time. When I went to my bishop’s office for tithing settlement, he asked if I was a full-tithe payer, and with tears in my eyes I told him I was not because my mother had taken my tithing money. My bishop comforted me by saying that the Lord knew the desires of my heart. Then he asked me to bring my mother in for an interview that Wednesday. I agreed.
During that week I asked myself, “How can I take my mother for an interview with the bishop if she is not a Church member? She won’t accept the invitation!’
When Wednesday arrived I had not said anything to her, so I simply asked her to come with me to the meetinghouse, explaining that I did not want to go alone. Luckily, she said she would go.
Bishop Feitosa received her kindly and led her into his office. I was very anxious while my mother was in there. Finally my mother came out of his office—with a smile.
On the way home, my mother looked at me and said, “From now on you are going to pay your tithing every month.” What joy filled my heart! The Lord had prepared a means for my mother to understand my desire to observe this sacred commandment.
My mother has since joined the Church. She pays her tithing and makes sure I pay mine. We have received marvelous blessings from keeping this commandment because an inspired leader spoke with my mother about sacrifice, dedication, and faithfulness to the Lord.
Evanilda Gomes do Nascimento, Brazil

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was the age of many of you. I was just 15. My mother and father were miles away from our home, and my grandmother was staying with me. While my parents were away, a serious ear infection developed, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery and was carried out immediately. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors tell a nurse that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my equilibrium.

When my parents arrived at the hospital and realized the seriousness of my situation, they knew what to do. My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for the healing of the sick. My father placed his hands upon my shaven head, which was mostly wrapped in bandages, and gave me a blessing.

My mother was also impressed that she should place my name on the prayer roll of the Alberta Temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.

Recently I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.

Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.

Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.

They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”

She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”