Gospel Story Finder

Raúl and his family live in the small Paraguayan town of Piquete Cué. In the nearby town of Limpio, there is a beautiful LDS meetinghouse where a ward meets. But each Sunday, Raúl and his family pass the Limpio Ward meetinghouse on their two-hour bus ride to the town of Villa Hayes. There they attend a tiny branch that meets in a small rented house. Why don’t they go to the ward that is so much closer to their home?
“Because,” said Raúl’s father, Luciano, who works as an industrial engineer, “there are so few members in the Villa Hayes Branch that they really need us there.” Brother Aquino is first counselor in the branch presidency. Sister Aquino has been Relief Society president and now teaches a Primary class.
Raúl attends Primary and loves to learn more about the Book of Mormon. “I don’t know how to read it yet,” he said. “But my mamá and papá read it to me.”
Raúl often bears his testimony in sacrament meeting. He told the branch members recently that he’d had a headache, but when he prayed, it went away.
He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to where the missionaries lived to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick that he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing, and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.
“I really want my eighth birthday to come so I can be baptized,” Raúl said. “And I want to be a missionary.”
Raúl already is a missionary. “I know that the Book of Mormon and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are true,” he said. “I would tell the children all over the world to love everyone—especially the children in the streets who don’t have a home. They make me cry a lot. Be thankful to Heavenly Father and also to your parents. Love the Church, take the sacrament, and always pray.”
Then Raúl climbed up his favorite tree. From his leafy perch, he waved good-bye.

A young mother of two sons was busy with a part-time job at home and a demanding Church calling. “It seemed I had no time for my small children,” she recalled. She was often so involved in her work that her sons had to go to great lengths to get her attention—and she was often impatient with them.
So she decided to organize an “activity time” she could enjoy with her sons each morning. As she spent that time with them in prayer, singing, and fun activities, she gained a greater appreciation for each and began to really enjoy the time they spent together. She was amazed at what a little love and attention brought about!
This mother had discovered one of the “secrets” to making her home a sanctuary from the world and its cares. The early Saints were told to make the temple they were building “a house of prayer … a house of learning … a house of God” (see D&C 88:119). In the same way, we should make our homes havens of love where we and other family members can grow and learn to practice self-control and to serve, understand, and forgive each other.

After four years of chronic fatigue, I ran my first marathon in 2011 and have run 12 more since.
After four years, I knew I had been patient in affliction, and I felt physically able and prepared to move on. I wouldn’t be moving on alone. My husband and my children (the oldest of which was born two years into my illness) were my most enthusiastic cheerleaders.
So I began training for the marathon one step at a time. My husband decided to train with me and promised to run the race with me. During one of my training runs, I came upon a street sign that validated my healing. The street name at the top of a hill was Success. At that moment, I knew the Lord had kept His promise to me. I had been taught what I should do to endure this affliction: “Bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success” (Alma 26:27).

When we were married 14 years ago, my husband and I received a crocheted afghan from a good friend of my parents. I was amazed that anyone would spend so much time making a wedding gift for a virtual stranger.
A few days later, my husband and I left for what would be our new home. Warming my legs against the December chill was the afghan. My hands caressed its soft texture as my mind ran circles wondering what married life would bring.
Our first home was a tiny motel room. We cooked our food in an electric pot and refrigerated it on the windowsill. The afghan added a much needed homey touch to the cinder-block room.
Our next house was an old home in the mountains. That winter was very cold. My husband worked till one in the morning, we didn’t have a phone, and the wood stove barely kept the chill out of one room. I was expecting our first baby and didn’t feel well. I was even sometimes frightened by the night sounds. The afghan became a haven for me. Later, our baby daughter joined me, and both of us snuggled together under the warm afghan. Each following pregnancy meant more rest time under the afghan and one more little one with whom to share it.
We have moved 15 times since we were married. Each time I pack one special box labeled “house to home.” Inside I put all the pictures and other treasures that I need to make my new home feel right. The afghan goes in first and cradles everything else as we travel. This is one of the first boxes we unpack.
Often, the afghan has seemed to be an extension of my mothering. I have tucked it in over a sick child or one who didn’t seem quite warm enough. We snuggled under it when traveling cross country to visit grandparents. It has gone to the fireworks on Independence Day, ball games in the fall, and camping trips in the summer. When company comes to spend the night, it can keep warm two little ones on the floor or an adult on the sofa. It spent a week in the hospital, four days at camp, and a morning in kindergarten at show-and-tell. It has been fought over, turned into a tent, and used as a “giggling monster.”
The toaster, mixer, casserole pans, and crystal pitcher we received for our wedding are all gone. While the afghan is no longer new, it still has a lot of warmth to share. Sometimes I wonder what we would have done without it.
Years ago I wondered why my parents’ friend spent so much time making an afghan for a couple she barely knew. I realize now that, in her own gentle way, she was sharing the knowledge of homemaking she had gained while raising her own family. Her gift helped me learn that as we face life’s challenges, it is the simple things that make a house a home: prayer, scripture reading, music, hugs, kind words—even an afghan.

When I was growing up, playing soccer brought me confidence and happiness. So it was difficult when my soccer team began losing games. We had a history of winning, but now our confidence as a team was shaken. I also got injured and missed some games and practices. I felt disappointed in myself because I wasn’t performing at the level others expected of me.
One evening before a game, the coaches told me that a teammate would be starting in my place. I wasn’t surprised, but I felt discouraged. This teammate and I competed for the same position and had developed an unspoken and unfriendly rivalry.
As I watched my team struggle, I noticed the teammate playing in my spot get pulled from the game. She walked off the field, looking really disappointed. I felt impressed to talk to her. I approached and offered her some words of encouragement. She was surprised, because we hadn’t been friendly to each other before. As I walked away, I felt joy and peace come over me. From that day on, we weren’t rivals but friends.

One day my family went sledding with my grammy and papa. We walked to an open area that was covered with several feet of fresh snow. It was really hard to walk in! My sister had a hard time walking in the snow, so my papa said, “Just walk in my footsteps.”
My sister and I started stepping in his footsteps. After a while I wanted to try to walk on my own for a bit. When I walked by myself in the snow, it was way harder!
Walking in my papa’s footsteps was easier because he already did the hard part of walking in the snow. I have a testimony that Jesus Christ already did the hardest part. If you walk in Jesus’s footsteps, your life will be easier too.

Valeria Pontelli of Río Gallegos, Santa Cruz, Argentina, didn’t set out to convert her friend. She simply lived her standards with conviction. Because she is a member of the Church, there were certain things she did and certain things she didn’t do, and all her friends knew it. One of those friends was Paula Alvarez, who always watched Valeria closely and was impressed with how faithfully and consistently she lived her beliefs.
Paula had a wonderful family, but they didn’t have the gospel—at least not until Valeria came on the scene. Paula remembers, “Valeria was not ashamed of the testimony she had. She knew who she was. She knew she was a daughter of a royal and eternal King, a daughter of God.”
That knowledge and confidence impressed Paula’s uncle, Moises. He began investigating the Church and meeting with the missionaries. The day he announced he was getting baptized, Paula was a little shocked. She hadn’t expected her uncle to be willing to make such big changes in his life.
The whole family was invited to the baptism, but Paula was hesitant to attend. She didn’t know what to expect. Finally, her family convinced her to accompany them to her uncle’s baptism. Paula remembers, “As we witnessed my uncle entering the waters of baptism, the Spirit touched my heart. The impact was deep, even undeniable. In that moment I also wanted to commit myself to God and do whatever He might ask of me.”
“May I speak to you?” Paula said, pulling Valeria aside. “I felt something special at my uncle’s baptism,” she explained quietly.
Valeria told her friend she had felt the promptings of the Spirit. “He’s telling you that you need to follow your uncle’s example.”
“But I can’t do it alone,” said Paula.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” assured her friend. Before long, Paula and her whole family were meeting with the missionaries and accepting the invitation to be baptized. Their lives changed forever.

I was at my friend’s house, and he wanted us to ride our bikes to the church. One of our family rules is that if we go somewhere other than where we told our parents we would be, we have to call and let them know.
I told my friend that I needed to call my mom, and he told me not to. He didn’t want to wait, and he said, “Let’s just go.”
I said I needed to call my mom first, and then he started calling me names and being mean to me. I didn’t go with him. I went home instead, even though I felt left out. I knew that I was supposed to obey my mom.

September had come, and autumn was just around the corner. The leaves of the poplar and cottonwood trees had changed from green to golden yellow. The grass that grew beside the road had turned to rusty brown. And Malan had turned eight.
The day of Malan’s baptism finally arrived. He had learned about baptism in Primary and during family home evenings, and he had thought about the event for a long time. Using his own new copies of the scriptures, he and his dad had read about the baptism of Jesus (Matt. 3:13–17). Now he could be a member of record of the Church, like his mom and dad and the bishop and the boys who passed the sacrament. If he always tried to do the right thing, his baptism would enable him to “enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5), and that’s where he and Dad decided they wanted the whole family to be. Malan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the car’s tires on the pavement as the car carried them to the Parkland Ward meetinghouse.
In a few minutes he and his sister, Ginger, his mom, Aunt Marcia and Uncle Scott, his cousins Jenny and Coral, and his Grandma and Grandpa would be there. His dad was already there, running water into the font and making sure that the white clothes were ready.
It seemed to Malan that time was dragging. The streets of the city were crammed with cars, and every red light seemed to refuse to turn green. A lane ahead was blocked because a truck had tipped over and spilled its load of wood.
Malan peered anxiously out the car window. A man was frantically directing the traffic and casting unhappy glances at his overturned truck. Behind him, driving along the ditch, was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing.
“Don’t worry,” Malan’s mom said, turning around and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’ll be there in time.”
Malan sighed with relief when they finally pulled up in front of the large red brick building. He was so eager to get inside that he almost forgot how important it was to walk quietly and be reverent in the Lord’s house.
He saw his dad, dressed all in white, coming to meet him. But something was wrong! Dad knelt down; his kind blue eyes were concerned. “You have a decision to make, Son,” his dad said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ve run the water for a long time, and it appears that the hot water heater is broken. The water in the font is very cold. Do you want to be baptized in cold water or wait until next week?”
Malan stood for a long moment and wondered what to do. Behind him he could hear his Grandpa talking, and the excited voices of his small cousins. Through the chapel window he could see the yellow-clad branch of a tall poplar tree as it scratched gently against the pane.
“Were you baptized in a river, Dad?” he asked.
His dad smiled. “Yes, I was baptized in the Moose Jaw River.”
“Was it cold?”
“Only for a few moments.”
Malan lifted his chin and hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice his trembling body. “I want to be baptized today. I don’t mind if the water is cold.”
Malan was uneasy as he changed into his white clothing. And although he tried to sit quietly through his Grandpa’s prayer and his mother’s talk about Jesus, Malan’s legs insisted upon swinging and his stomach had a big knot in it.
Finally it was time! As Malan stepped into the icy water, his knees shook and he wanted to run back through the halls and out to the shelter of the car. Then his dad’s strong hands reached for his. “Are you ready?”
Malan nodded. He listened to the prayer, then pinched his nose as the icy water swept over his head. When he stood up, he gasped for air and splashed to the stairs of the font. As he moved toward the dressing room, his body shook and his teeth chattered, but he hardly noticed. Inside he was filled with a golden warmth, like the autumn leaves outside.

In my late teens I joined the Church against the wishes of my family. When I was in my 20s, I began working on my family history after my father passed away. Soon after, I became a busy wife and mother raising young children, and the family history work stopped.
Because I didn’t have any family in the Church, I had a strong desire to research my family history. I loved doing it and always longed to have more time to work on it.
When I was 33, my life took an unexpected turn when my health began to decline. Where I once was able to hike with my family, taking a walk around the block became difficult. Cleaning house in two hours on a Saturday became impossible, and I was just happy if I could get through vacuuming. Where I once had a large circle of friends, now my circle of friends declined because I could no longer be there for them as I had in the past.
It was at this time that I began to take up my family history again. My daughter began doing research for her dad’s side and in one evening completed work that had taken me years to do. I completed several generations on my line and submitted the names to the temple for the work to be completed. I had always wanted to go through the temple for my family members myself, but my health and the distance from the temple made it impossible.
After submitting the names, I began to cry, feeling like I had let my family members down since I wouldn’t be there with them on the special day the ordinances were done for them. A week later as I logged on to FamilySearch.org to check the progress of their temple work, I saw something amazing. Not only was the work being completed, but members in the Accra Ghana Temple were doing the work! I was so surprised to see members halfway around the world completing temple work for my little family. I burst into tears again thinking of the sacrifices of the people in Ghana as they made their way to the temple for my family. I am so grateful for those members of the Accra Ghana Temple district who did what I could not: attend the temple and grant my family the blessing of temple ordinances.

I felt like an Indian Placement student must feel that June morning as our bus rounded the final corner and the chaperone said, “… eure Gastfamilien” (your host families) as he pointed to a throng of anxious, unfamiliar people pushing as close to the curb as possible without falling off. My stomach fell to the very soles of my new shoes as I realized that I was about to be separated from the only people I knew in all of Germany. Reluctantly I hung my bag and my camera over my shoulder, sucked in a huge breath of air, and held it as I gingerly stepped off the bus and onto German cement. My ears were immediately hit with a barrage of jumbled conversations and nervous laughter, and I stood there in a daze not knowing where to go.
Soon I felt a hand begin to take my suitcase from me, and I turned to find a girl with long, black braids and wire-rimmed glasses smiling at me. I recognized her from a picture she’d sent as my new sister, Sunny, so I followed her as she wove her way through the mass of students and families. We found the family we were supposed to ride home with, and as we drove through the streets of Nuremberg I listened in bewilderment to the language I had thought I understood.
When we arrived at our home I met Sunny’s younger sister, Oschi, and was taken on a grand tour of the beautiful three-story house. We ended up in my bedroom, and Sunny and Oschi helped me lift my oversized suitcase onto the bed. As it sunk into the fat feather comforter I began to unload my wardrobe for the next weeks, amid innumerable questions about each piece of clothing.
After a short nap that did little but make me realize how tired I really was, we went to dinner at the house of an older sister, Claudia. My great fear of the strange, unknown things I would have to eat was dispelled when Claudia and her husband Bernhard came to the table with a very welcome sight: spaghetti and green salad. After dinner we returned home and welcomed Vati and Mutti home from their trip to Scandinavia.
After all the day’s activities I felt very lost to be back in my strange, new bedroom alone. I let myself fall into the puffy softness of the bed. There wasn’t much in this bedroom belonging to a brother away at college; just a writing table, a closet, a few shelves, and some rather strange artwork, including an odd collection of tiny hippos going up one wall and onto the ceiling.
As I lay there counting hippos, jet-lag exhaustion caught up with me and I started to cry. The more I cried, the harder I cried, because I didn’t know why I was crying. True, I was separated from my family, but I would be seeing them again in only a month. My new family treated me like a princess, yet still I felt horribly empty and I sensed something had been missed that day. As I lay there crying, feeling helpless and frustrated, I remembered: Today is Sunday. Of course. I had forgotten, but my heart had not, and it had been trying all day to get through to me. I wanted desperately to go to church, but it was far too late by then. So I closed my eyes and went through a typical Sunday at home: family prayer, journal writing, dinner together, classes, and sacrament meeting. Suddenly I realized that, more than anything, I missed the sacrament. Never before had I felt so great a need to partake of the bread and water. It had always been a routine part of my Sabbath, a routine that left me feeling fulfilled. This day there had been no routine, no sacrament, and I felt painfully void without it. I knew then that I needed that time. I got to my knees and let the pillow absorb my tears as I asked Heavenly Father for the opportunity to attend an LDS church the following Sunday.
The next morning I mentioned to Mutti how much I would like to go to my church. Over the course of the week I nearly forgot that I had said anything because I was so busy meeting new people, going new places, and learning new things with my family and at the Gymnasium (high school).
One day after school, Mutti handed me a paper with the address and meeting schedule of the LDS church in Nuremberg. A wave of excitement and gratitude swept over me in anticipation of church and the sacrament.
Sunday morning after breakfast, Mutti, Oschi, and I climbed into the car and drove the few miles to the chapel. Oschi and I were dropped off in front of the tall, gray building, and we mounted the few steps to the door. Almost as soon as we entered we were greeted by the bishop and several other members. I felt enveloped in love.
The service began. I felt the sincerity of those around me and rejoiced with them. Soon all heads bowed as prayerful words floated from behind a lace-covered table—“… dass sie wahrhaftig immuer an ihn denken …” (that they do always remember him). I clung to each sweet syllable, knowing that the message they spoke was true, no matter what the language: the Lord Jesus Christ shed his blood, and I would live again because of it.
The bread and water were passed. How satisfying each morsel, how quenching each drop. My hungry soul had been fed. I will never forget the significance of this sacred ordinance, learned one night while crying in an unfamiliar bedroom.

Several weeks ago in a neighborhood not far from my home, dozens of bright, yellow balloons were seen floating from every tree branch and light post lining a winding, three-block road. It was a beautiful sight on that hazy winter day. Senses were stirred as one drove with anticipation along that friendly, colorful street. Around each bend in the road rose the yellow balloons, waving upward to the top of the hill where a sign warmly proclaimed, “Welcome home, Brigham!” I had heard of Brigham Fordham only a few months ago when I was told of this young eighteen-year-old’s tragic accident that left him paralyzed. I only now discovered that this was his home and his homecoming from the hospital.
I noticed the ramp that had been built to the front of the house and thought of other changes that would have been made in his home to accommodate the changes in his life. There will be changes in Brigham’s family, too, I thought. Life will be different for all the Fordhams—and difficult.
But, as the yellow balloons brightly signaled to Brigham and to all who had the opportunity to travel this street, his was a caring home where family love and strength would be found.

When I was young, one of my passions was playing football. For many years, I looked forward to high school so that I could try out for the team. Finally the day came, and I made it! During a practice not long before our first game, someone blocked me from the side. I hit the ground, and a few boys landed on me. I felt something in my shoulder snap. When I got up, my left arm hung like a wet noodle.
At the hospital, a doctor told me that my arm was broken. He wrapped it in a heavy, three-inch-thick cast, saying that the weight of the cast would pull the bone into place. It really did feel like someone was pulling on my arm! He prescribed some pain pills, told me to sleep in a chair for a few nights, and sent me home.
My shoulder kept hurting, and after a few days, my parents became worried. They asked another doctor to look at my X rays, and he thought that maybe the ball of my shoulder had been broken instead of the bone below it. When he took me into the operating room, he said, “If you wake up with your arm raised above your head in a cast, you’ll know that we were able to properly set the bone. If your arm is lying down, you’ll know that we had to operate.”
Eight hours later, I woke up with my arm at my side. My shoulder had been broken through the growth center. It was a good thing that I was nearly full-grown at age fourteen! My left arm is now an inch and a half (about 4 cm) shorter than my right arm. The doctors had had to break the bone again because it had healed in the wrong place. They also had to insert two metal screws to hold the bones together. Those screws are still in my shoulder today.
The doctors told me I should never play football again. If I were to get injured, the metal pins could splinter my bones and I could lose my arm. I was disappointed that I could no longer play the sport I loved so much.
After a few days of thinking about it, I accepted my limitation and decided I could switch to basketball. While my left arm was still in the cast, I found that I could shoot baskets with my right hand. I worked hard to compensate for this injury, and after three successful years on the high school team, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Brigham Young University.
This experience taught me to always keep a positive attitude, to never lose hope. Even when bad things happen, have the courage to alter your course and find new things to do.

Youth in South Bend, Indiana, know how to put in a hard day’s work. They spent part of their youth conference planting flowers, painting buildings, and pulling weeds for two charity organizations in their area. They had a lot of work to do at the beginning of the day, but the youth came through—despite the intense heat and humidity.
“The service projects were really fun. There was a lot to do, but with everyone’s help we successfully finished it all,” says 15-year-old Kristen Woolf.
This group may be small in numbers—about 65 in all—but they know how to make a big difference.

I guess that we had the most fun one day when Mom went visiting teaching. She left Daddy to take care of us. He was busy in his study, so we looked for something fun to do until Mom got home. Hans opened a cupboard and took out a big can of flour. He took off the lid and showed it to me. It looked like something fun to play with, so we took it into the living room, where he poured it all onto the carpet. Then we rubbed it in big circles. If felt soft and nice. Hans rubbed a white circle around one of his eyes. He looked so funny! Mom came home right after that, and she couldn’t get mad when she saw how funny he looked. She just got her camera and took a picture of us.

Let me cite an example of the overuse and misuse of prescription drugs and other remedies commonly found in the home. This shows how substances many of us do not consider drugs can seriously interfere with the management of an illness. A hospitalized patient with Parkinson’s disease was carefully medicated with a relatively new drug for this disorder called Levodopa. He responded beautifully; his muscle rigidity was decreased, muscle movement improved, and even the tremors characteristic of this disease were minimal. After his drug dosage was carefully adjusted, he returned home. As the fall season approached, he decided he needed building up, so he purchased a multiple vitamin product from the local drug store. Shortly thereafter the muscle rigidity worsened, muscle movement was more limited, and the tremors returned; he was taken back to the hospital. What happened? The multiple vitamin product he had purchased contained vitamin B6 (pyridoxine), which had increased the metabolism of the Levodopa and reduced its concentration in the blood below that required to control the symptoms of his disease. Consequently he had a relapse and the symptoms of the disease returned. This illustrates how somewhat innocently one can disrupt a carefully planned treatment regimen by the use of another drug.

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

I was born in Germany to good, caring parents who were members of the Church. During World War II, when my father was 10 years old, he was introduced to the gospel by a friend in Stettin, which is now part of Poland. Because of the war, there were no missionaries in Stettin at that time. After he accepted the gospel, my father taught his family, and they were converted. He later met my mother, who was also living in East Germany. There were no missionaries there either. My father taught my mother the gospel, and she accepted it. They were married and then moved to West Germany shortly before I was born.

Augustine Okah of the Asaba Nigeria Stake took the PEF loan to study electrical engineering at Akanu Ibiam Federal Polytechnic Uwana in Afikpo area of southeast Nigeria and obtained a national diploma . He then obtained a higher national diploma from Delta State Polytechnic Ogwashi-Uku through personal funding. He worked and supported his education through his second degree. He was recently hired as a handyman for the Asaba Stake.

As a physician, I have been with many patients who were close to death. But few of these experiences have touched my heart the way my experience with Cal and Lola Hamilton did.
At age sixty-two, Lola had been ill for years. Nearly blind from diabetes, she had severe arthritis and chronic heart and lung disease. She seemed weary, worn, and older than her years.
But her husband, Cal, did not think of Lola’s ill health as a burden. Cal was healthy and strong. He looked ten years younger than he was, and he still managed an active farming business. Yet in the two hears I had known them, his foremost concern was always his wife’s comfort and well-being.
Caring for Lola was practically a full-time nursing job. Yet Cal did most of it himself, always cheerfully and enthusiastically. Their children, all married now, also helped. The care Lola received at home was often better than she could get in a hospital.
In two years, Lola was hospitalized four times—each for a long period of time. Cal stayed with her constantly, sleeping in a chair at her side or on a little cot. He left long enough to eat a meal only if one of the children was there. Never through all those days did I hear a critical word about a nurse, a hospital worker, or anyone else. Instead, Cal praised and thanked us.
When Lola finally had a massive stroke, Cal was devastated. He never left her side. As she lay unconscious, Lola received a priesthood blessing, surprisingly promising that her full functional capacity would be restored. Because of that blessing we did everything we could to prolong her life.
The days passed and Lola remained unconscious. Cal never left the hospital, but day after day the strain and agony on his face increased and discouragement showed. He looked so thin and tired that I wondered if he had stopped eating. He caught only a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep her and there. Each time Lola’s noisy breathing caught or changed a little, he jumped up to check on her.
Such stress often brings out the worst in a person’s character. But Cal continued to be courteous. This gentle man showed dignity in his grief.
One Saturday after leaving Cal and Lola, I went back to the doctors’ lounge and slumped down on chair. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about Cal’s pain and grief.
Once again, I bowed my head to ask my Heavenly Father if there was something, as Lola’s doctor, that I could do to help. Was there something that I had left undone? I asked about Lola’s priesthood blessing. Why would anyone make such a statement? Was the priesthood holder truly inspired to say what he did?
At that moment, a thought came forcefully into my mind. The only way Lola could be restored to her full capacity was to move on to the next life. I had had this thought before, and I had even mentioned it to Cal. But this time it was accompanied by a feeling of great joy. In my mind, I could see Lola, sweet and attractive, with all her functions restored.
My grief was gone. I felt the unmistakable joy and peace that only the Holy Ghost can bring.
I left the doctors’ lounge with peace in my heart. A few hours later Lola died quietly and peacefully, and Cal finally went home.
I am grateful to Cal, who, by his example, taught me the meaning of love and sacrifice. I am also deeply grateful to the Lord for the miracle of personal revelation that turned a distressing, faith-shaking experience into a sweet, faith-building one.