Gospel Story Finder

John Dennis started the meeting off bearing his own testimony when San Mateo Stake Seminary guys and girls met for a special gathering at dawn by the breakers. Ruth Champneys said the best thing about having their church close to the ocean is the convenience of such special experiences.

Sometimes we create contention in the Church by being insensitive to other people’s feelings. While serving as a missionary I was called to work in the mission home. Each morning it was my duty to teach a class in theology to all the missionaries there. One morning an elderly sister, just arrived in the mission, joined us for the class. During the discussion she objected to a concept I was teaching and even wanted to argue about her point. I was able to quickly prove her wrong. Then the Spirit of the Lord touched my soul and I noticed the hurt expression on her face. A question rushed through my mind: “What right did I have to be a missionary when I was so insensitive and unthoughtful to one of my sisters?”
At the end of the class I hurried to the mission library. For 1 1/2 hours I searched to find something to agree with what this sister had said. Finally I found a statement that supported her view. Delighted with my find, I now faced the challenge of my life. I had embarrassed her in front of all the missionaries; I now needed to repent in front of all the missionaries.
As we knelt at the breakfast table I asked President Banker if I could take a few minutes before prayer was offered. I then turned to this dear sister, apologized for what I had just learned a great lesson; if we let pride stop us from doing what is right, we can miss some of life’s greatest joys.
That morning the prayer seemed to be more pure. Life was exciting, and I was extremely happy. After breakfast this sister came to me and thanked me again. Repentance had followed contention, and peace of mind was the result.

“Look at this window!”

Randy came back to reality. He was standing in front of a men’s clothing store. In front of him in the display window was a mannequin wearing a light jacket. There was a poster which read, “Men of action prefer Brock Jackets.”

“Just look at this!” the clerk pointed. “You’ve got fingerprints all over my window. What if everybody put their hands on it, hey? What then?”

“It’d get messy,” Randy answered philosophically.

“Don’t get smart with me! Look at this mess! You smeared ice cream on it too, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Well somebody did.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Who do you think has to clean up this mess anyway? Me, that’s who. So quit mucking up my display window!”

Randy reached down and picked up his trumpet case and walked away.

He was on his way to a music lesson.

Mr. Janowski’s living room had a high ceiling and a cracking linoleum floor. Stacks of music cluttered every table and chair. Even the fishbowl, complete with a small goldfish, sat precariously on top of a stack of music on the coffee table.

Randy ran through the trumpet exercises while Mr. Janowski sat back in an ancient overstuffed chair with one hand over his eyes. Randy often suspected that Mr. Janowski slept through part of each lesson, except that whenever he made a mistake, Mr. Janowski would call out, “Flat!” or “Sharp!”

The doorbell rang. Randy stopped while Mr. Janowski answered it. A father and his daughter appeared in the doorway.

“I’m Mr. Reynolds. I talked to you on the phone about starting my daughter with flute lessons. We just moved into town.”

“Oh yes, I remember. Come in. What was your daughter’s name?”

“Michelle.”

Randy whispered the name to himself. It was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard.

As they came inside, Randy stood up, hoping for an introduction, but Mr. Janowski ignored him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain how we work the payments for the lessons.”

The two adults left the room, leaving Randy and Michelle alone. He watched while she took the flute out of the case and assembled it.

A minute later she happened to drop her lesson book. He lunged across the room to pick it up—knocking over the music stand, which hit the coffee table, causing a large stack of music to slide to the floor. The fishbowl nearly fell too, but he grabbed it at the last second. Finally he reached her book on the floor and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now let me help you pick up things.”

On hands and knees they picked up the scattered sheet music. He was close enough to sense a delicious smell. He closed his eyes and sniffed.

When he opened them again, she was staring at him.

“Probably my shampoo,” she said.

He nodded his head and went back to work.

When they finished, she walked back to her flute.

He followed, staying within sniffing range.

She picked up her flute and, unaware he was so close, quickly turned around.

He had to duck to avoid being hit by the end of the flute as she swung around. Falling sideways, he crashed into the coffee table, knocking over another stack of music. The fishbowl fell to the floor and shattered. The goldfish flopped helplessly on the soggy music.

He scooped it up in his hands and desperately looked around for some water.

“I’ll go find a bowl in the kitchen,” she said, then left.

Time was running out for the goldfish. Then he saw the open bathroom door.

In the bathroom, he closed the drain to the wash basin, turned on the water and gently dropped the fish in. Then he looked in the mirror and practiced saying the word Michelle.

She returned with a large soup pan. He plunged his hand into the water, splashing water on himself, but coming up without the goldfish.

“Maybe if we let a little water out, it’d be easier,” she suggested.

He placed his hand on the drain mechanism, preparing to open it a little at a time.

At that moment Mr. Janowski and Michelle’s father returned to see the floor covered with water-soaked music, the fishbowl broken, and Randy and Michelle looking with great interest into the wash basin.

Randy began to gently ease down the drain handle.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?” Mr. Janowski yelled.

Randy’s hand jerked downward. He looked over at the two scowling adults. When he looked back at the wash basin, the goldfish was gone.

“Young lady, I want an explanation!” her father said abruptly.

“We leave you two minutes,” Mr. Janowski raged, “and look what you do!”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Randy said. “If there hadn’t been so many stacks of music, it would never have happened!”

Mr. Janowski picked up the broken fishbowl. “Where’s my goldfish?”

“It’s not dead,” Randy said.

“Then where is it?”

Randy looked sadly into the empty wash basin. “On a long voyage.”

“You dropped my goldfish down the drain?” Mr. Janowski asked.

“It wasn’t our fault! We were trying to save its life. Besides, it’s only a goldfish.”

“OUT OF MY HOUSE! NEVER COME BACK! NEVER AGAIN LET YOUR SHADOW DARKEN MY DOOR! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! NEVER EVER AGAIN!”

“What about next week?” Randy asked.

“YOU ARE A NUMSKULL! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Randy shrugged his shoulders and returned to the music room to put his trumpet in its case.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

That night at supper, sandwiched between a lively discussion by his brothers and sisters, Randy quietly announced, “I won’t be taking lessons anymore from Mr. Janowski.”

“Why not?” his mother asked.

“He kicked me out of his house and told me to never come back.”

His father raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

The phone rang and it was for his father. Randy quickly finished eating and went to his room to study.

An hour later he brought the hall telephone to his room, looked up Michelle’s number, and phoned her.

“Hello,” her father answered.

“Is Michelle there?”

“No—would you like to leave a message?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Randy.”

“Randy?”

“I met her this afternoon—at her music lesson.”

“Oh you,” her father said, sounding angry again.

“I’ll just call back.”

“Don’t call tonight—it’ll be too late by the time she gets back.”

“Maybe tomorrow then.”

“Suit yourself, but she’s very busy with school.”

There was a long frigid pause. “Okay, bye.”

At eight thirty his father came in, sat down on the bed, and said, “I’m interested in knowing what happened at your music lesson today.”

Randy told him the story.

“It might be nice if you went back and apologized to Mr. Janowski.”

“Dad, he doesn’t want to see me again. Besides, it wasn’t my fault—it happened because of his messy room. If I go back, he’ll just get mad all over again and start yelling.”

“Maybe you could buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish.”

“It wasn’t my fault. You should’ve seen where he had the fishbowl. It’s a wonder it hadn’t fallen off before. I’m not apologizing for something that’s not my fault.”

His father looked at him for a long time, then said, “Okay.”

Randy was puzzled. It wasn’t like his father to give up so easily.

His father stood up to leave, then asked, “Hey, aren’t you hungry? How about if we go for a pizza.”

…

“You still want me to go back and apologize, don’t you?” Randy asked.

“And you still feel you shouldn’t have to, don’t you? Let me ask you a question—under what circumstances can you ever imagine yourself apologizing to anyone?”

“When I’m in the wrong.”

“You mean when you’re entirely in the wrong. When there’s nobody else you can point to and say it was partly his fault too—when you’re 100 percent in the wrong.”

“Yes,” Randy said, “then I’ll apologize.”

“It’ll never happen.”

“But why should I apologize for something that isn’t my fault?”

His father looked at him for a long time, then asked, “What do you know about Mr. Janowski?”

“He teaches music lessons.”

“Does he have a wife? Any children or grandchildren?”

“I’ve never seen anybody else at his house.”

“So maybe he lives alone.”

“I guess so.”

“Maybe he never married, or maybe he was married and his wife died.”

“Maybe—all I do is take trumpet lessons from him.”

“He’s not a young man, is he? Maybe he’s been alone in that house for 20 years. Does he have a dog?”

“No.”

“I wonder why he kept a goldfish, don’t you? Did the fishbowl have a filter system on it?”

“No, it was just a bowl.”

“That means he had to change the water every day. Why do you suppose he went to the trouble?”

“Dad, I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s just imagine. Maybe he kept it for company. Maybe it gave him something to care for. Maybe he imagined the fish liked music. Maybe sometimes he talked to it, or had a name for it. On Christmas maybe he dropped a little extra fish food in the bowl. But now it’s dead.”

“Maybe not—if it can swim through the pipes to a lake.”

“But it’s gone. I wonder if he’ll buy another one, don’t you?”

“They don’t cost much. He could afford it.”

“Maybe he’ll decide not to bother—then he’ll be completely alone.”

Randy sat and looked at his last slice. He wasn’t hungry anymore. They left.

“You really think he cared about a goldfish?” Randy broke the silence on the way home.

“I don’t know—but he could have. One thing though—he knows you didn’t care about it very much.”

Several blocks of silence passed by.

“Dad, I can’t apologize to him,” Randy said painfully.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish and knock on his door. Two words, Randy, that’s all I ask—I’m sorry.”

“But that’s admitting it was all my fault.”

His father sighed and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“We go through life pretending that somewhere a grand court is convened with every misunderstanding, and that it issues an official decision, ‘He was in the wrong’ or ‘It wasn’t his fault.’ And we play out our life for that imaginary court, making our defense before it every day of our life, justifying our mistakes, minimizing our errors. Well, the court doesn’t exist. And much of the heartache in the world comes, not only because of sin, but also because we hurt each other’s feelings.”

Randy thought about Mr. Janowski changing the water every night for the goldfish. Did he really talk to it?

“Randy, there’s no loss to your manhood to say you’re sorry. It’s not even admitting guilt. Go ahead and learn to lessen the hurt of those around you. That’s what the Savior would do—you know he would.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat for a minute. Finally Randy grinned. “The pizza was just a plan to talk to me, wasn’t it?”

His father laughed. “How can you argue with me when I’m paying ten dollars for you to gorge yourself?”

The next day after school Randy went to a store and asked the clerk for the happiest goldfish they had. After 15 minutes of trying to please Randy, the clerk reached in with a net and pulled out a fish. “This is the happiest one we have,” he announced with an air of finality.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” the frustrated clerk said.

An hour later, Randy knocked on Mr. Janowski’s door.

“I told you never to come back here again!” Mr. Janowski fumed.

Randy thrust out the new fishbowl with a goldfish swimming around in it.

“Mr. Janowski, I’m sorry.”

He watched the anger melt on Mr. Janowski’s face.

“Come in.” They went inside. Mr. Janowski cleared off a place on top of the piano for the fishbowl, got some fish food, and scattered it in.

“I think I’ll call him Otto.”

“Otto that’s a good name. Does he look happy to you?”

“You’re right. He is happy, isn’t he?”

That night Randy knocked at another door. Michelle’s father opened it and scowled. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Randy said.

Mr. Reynolds looked at him strangely. “You came to apologize?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Michelle,” her father called out, “we have company.”

When she showed up, he said it again. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled warmly at him. He stayed for popcorn, and they invited him to go waterskiing with the family in the summer.

There’s magic in some words, he thought as he walked home. For instance, take the words I’m sorry—and also the word Michelle.

Josué Díaz, 15, of Maracaibo, saw similar results in his ward. “Last year there were only 9 of us in seminary with two wards combined. We fasted and visited people, and our class had to be divided. Now one ward has 16 and the other has 15!”

Todd Jenkins of the Columbus Ohio Stake, also agreed. “I’ve often wished that my father had a record of his life that I could read and learn from. I’ve addressed my journal to my future son in the hope that one day I will have a son who can benefit from my personal history.”

Whenever Ryan was sad, his dad would say, “Show me your muscles, Ryan.” The little boy would immediately perk up and flex his arms, any hurt forgotten. Ryan’s parents told the youth this story at the conference’s kickoff fireside.
“Sometimes life is tough, and we need to show our muscles,” they said.

“What a bizarre dream!” I panted as I fought to extricate myself from a wild tangle of blankets and sheets.
Actually, it wasn’t the dream that had me in such a hyped condition. The dream itself had been very simple, sweet, and straightforward. But the anxiety the dream caused had me tossing and turning in my bed for at least an hour before I had to be up for seminary.
The dream’s message, straight and clear, was this:
Write your testimony in a copy of the Book of Mormon and give it to Beau McFadden.
Beau McFadden? Easier dreamed than done. Beau McFadden was the massive first baseman on our high school baseball team. He was at least six foot three, all muscle, and all male. Although he was friendly enough and smiled often, his lip usually bulged with a wad of chew, and the few words he spoke were punctuated by expletives and spurts of tobacco juice.
Now, I did have better access to Beau than most girls, since I kept stats for the baseball team and spent long hours in the dugout and on the bus with them. But, as a semi-sheltered female, I always felt a little foreign in their rough, tough “man’s” world. I’d be even more foreign, probably a total pariah, if I tried to introduce religion into that atmosphere.
Still, the dream had been explicit. I was to share the gospel with Beau McFadden.
I’d just about written the whole thing off to indigestion from the french fries and hot fudge sundae I’d had for dinner the night before. But when I got to seminary that morning, I knew the dream was not a fluke of my digestive tract. Brother Greaves gave a very intense lesson on missionary work, and he seemed to be looking straight at me the whole time. I always knew that man was inspired.
So I went to school that day determined to formulate a plan. We had a home game in the afternoon, and Beau went 0 for 3 and made two errors. That wouldn’t exactly put him in high spirits. I wasn’t discouraged though. I thought it might humble him a little. He’d realize he couldn’t rely on the arm of flesh for his happiness (especially not the arm of the pitcher he faced that day). He’d figure he needed some outside help with his life—the kind the Book of Mormon can give.
With those thoughts in my mind I went home, closed the door of my room, and got down on my knees to say a very long, very sincere prayer. I knew I couldn’t do this without help, and I knew the Lord would provide it. He did. And before long, the testimony was written and the book was ready.
Now—how to deliver it. It wasn’t exactly the type of thing you toss at someone in the dugout. And if anyone saw me passing it to him in the halls at school, neither one of us would ever live it down. I ended up deciding on the least potentially embarrassing option. I wrapped it in brown paper and sent it to him in the mail.
Then the waiting started. Since we lived in a relatively small town, I figured it might take three days tops for him to receive the package. So on the third day I went to school with a million expectations. I’d even planned a few words of testimony I would use when he came to thank me for my gesture.
It was such an inspired idea I was sure he would have eagerly unwrapped it, then immediately sequestered himself in his room to pore over it from cover to cover. He’d emerge the next morning requesting baptism. A mission would follow in a year or two, then … But first he had to come to seek me out, and with gleaming eyes thank me for the best gift he’d ever been given.
Well, I waited all that day, and all the next week. Could the U.S. mail be so slow? For months I waited, and the months stretched into a couple of years. My best-case scenario never happened. As a matter of fact, nothing ever happened. Absolutely nothing. Beau just kept on smiling, chewing, and cussing, never even acknowledging my gift. And I was too self-conscious to mention it to him.
But you know what? I’ll never regret doing it. As a matter of fact, I’m really glad I did. To this day I don’t know how it affected Beau, but I know how it affected me. It taught me how to recognize the promptings of the Spirit and how to work with the Lord in following them. It showed the Lord that He could trust me to do His bidding. Later, my experiences with Beau would come in handy as other friends of mine investigated and joined the Church.
And for all I know, I might have planted some seeds in Beau. If you see a big guy out there, smiling and chewing, try watering those seeds for me, will you? In the meantime, you can use the guidance of the Spirit to plant a few seeds of your own. Even if the response is nothing, I can guarantee you the experience will be nothing but good.

Soon after that memorable meeting, her father’s name was read as one of the missionaries called to go on a mission. Afterward the family wept together. They were proud that he was worthy to be called, but sad that he was leaving.
Then one crisp autumn morning Janetta kissed her father good-bye. They parted not knowing when or where they’d meet again. But they all knew that the Lord would protect them and reunite them, if not in this life then in the next.

“I’m afraid to share my testimony with nonmembers because:
“They might not be prepared to hear it.”
“They might reject it, and then I would feel rejected.”
“I’m not sure what to say or how to express my testimony.”
During the second week of our member-missionary class, I recognized a marvelous opportunity to share my testimony of the plan of salvation with a nonmember friend who had just had her first baby. By putting my trust in the Lord, I was able to express my testimony of God’s love. It was a wonderful experience that led to tears of joy and an undeniable feeling that God does love us. I followed up later by sharing a copy of the Book of Mormon with her, which she welcomed and agreed to read.

Reminiscing about his mother, who died when he was still a boy, President Kimball said, “Just home from school, I would hang my cap on the hook by the door over the wash dish and holler, ‘Ma! Ma! Ma!’ But when I found her in the house and she asked me what I wanted, I just said, ‘Nothing.’ Nothing but to know she was home.” (Page 46.)

Perhaps as they worked or relaxed, they recalled some of the stories told about the chapel, including the time it caught fire during a conference in 1937. The blaze was caused by a defective flue to the pot-bellied stove. A bucket brigade was formed, and water drawn from the well was passed up to Heber B. Martin, who doused the burning wood.

Illustrations by Kevin Keele
Parker liked lots of things—music, art, rocks with cool shapes. But his favorite thing was riding his dirt bike. He loved racing over hills on his bike. He wanted to be the best racer ever!
But no matter how hard he tried, he never was. As he zoomed over dirt hills and across winding trails, it looked like he wouldn’t be best in this race either.
Parker crossed the finish line and braked to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. He heard his family cheering as he squinted up at the scoreboard. Parker felt his stomach clench. Eighth place.
“You did great!” Dad said, clapping Parker on the back.
“No, I didn’t!” Parker dumped his helmet on the ground.
“Last time you got 10th,” Mom said. “You’re doing better every time.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Parker almost shouted. “I’ll never get anywhere close to winning.” He threw his gloves on the ground too.
“Cumulus,” Mom said.
Cumulus was the code word that helped Parker calm down. When Mom or Dad said that word, Parker closed his eyes, pictured a big puffy cloud, and did the breathing exercises Mom and Dad had taught him.
Usually it worked. Parker didn’t really want to think of clouds right now. But he closed his eyes anyway. He breathed in for five seconds. He held it for five seconds. And then he breathed out for five seconds. He did it over and over until he felt a little better.
When they got home, Parker tried to calm himself down by playing the piano. He sat down at the piano and started playing a song he knew. He liked it when he could play it perfectly. But today he messed up at the end. Parker slammed his fist onto the keys. The jarring notes rang in his ears.
Mom came in from the other room. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do anything right,” Parker said.
Mom sat down on the piano bench and put her arm around Parker’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you feel so frustrated today.” She picked up the Book of Mormon on top of the piano. “One of my favorite scriptures is Ether 12:27. Can we read it together?”
She turned to the right page and handed it to Parker.
“My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me,” Parker read. “For if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Mom smiled. “I like that promise. It reminds me that Jesus Christ can help me with my weaknesses.”
Parker nodded. He liked that promise too.
“You know, you are good at so many things,” Mom said. “But something you struggle with is being patient with yourself. It takes time to learn and grow and get better. And it’s OK to not be the best at something.” Mom gave Parker a hug. That made him feel a little better.
“Heavenly Father and Jesus can help you be patient with yourself,” Mom said. “With piano and dirt bike.”
The next day, Parker tried playing a new song. The first part was easy, but he kept messing up in the middle. He was almost ready to throw his music book on the floor, but he stopped. He pictured fluffy white clouds and breathed slowly in and out.
It’s OK, Parker told himself. He could be patient and kind to himself. He looked at the picture of Jesus on the piano and thought of the promise his mom had read. I’m getting a little better every day.

I didn’t have a happy childhood. My father is very against the Church, and my parents have made my Church participation difficult. Plus, because of things my parents told me, I believed I was ugly and dumb. My feelings of self-worth were reduced to nothing.
One night, things at home were worse than ever before. I went to my bedroom, and out of stress and exhaustion, I fell to my knees to pray.
Until that moment, I don’t think I’d ever prayed seriously. I began, “My dear Heavenly Father, I need Thy help so much. Please send me someone whom I can talk to and trust. At times like these, I long for someone on earth to hold me, listen to me, and try to help me.”
I prayed with similar pleadings for more than a week. I watched and listened, hoping that Heavenly Father would send me someone I could talk to in person. Nothing happened.
Things at home became worse, but I prayed daily. I heard testimonies of prayers answered immediately and others answered within weeks. But the comfort I wanted came in a way I hadn’t expected, and my prayer to have someone on earth help me didn’t come for two years. So instead of just praying, I started seriously studying the scriptures, fasting, and reading my patriarchal blessing often.
I started to feel something. I could tell I was growing spiritually. During those two very painful years, I got to know my Heavenly Father and my Savior. Because of those two years of praying and waiting, I gained a relationship with Them that is so powerful and strong that I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even though the answer hadn’t come the way I thought it would, through the Savior’s grace and Atonement, I was able to find peace.
As I look back on those two years, I realize that Heavenly Father and the Savior know me better than I’ll ever know myself. They know what’s best for me. Two years after my first prayer, Heavenly Father sent people to help me. But by waiting, I was also blessed with endurance, strength, and a testimony that keeps growing stronger every day.

Amy is in first grade, and she is new in her school. During the first week of school, a boy in her class dropped his lunch tray. Amy left the lunch line to help him pick up the mess. Then she went back to the lunch line with him and helped him get a new lunch.

Slug ran along the dusty road, then turned in at Marshall’s yard. Marshall waited on the porch with his chin in his hands. When Slug saw him, he slowed, then stopped. “What’s the matter, Marsh?” he asked.
“I changed my mind about helping you with your grandma’s cellar.”
Slug’s forehead creased. “Come on, Marsh! Two of us will get done in no time! You want to earn some money, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but there might be snakes in there.”
Slug blinked. “My dad and brother were out there this weekend, and they didn’t see any.”
Marshall shook his head firmly, then got up and went inside. Slug rammed his hands into his back pockets and turned away. He kicked at a stone and thought of the time when he and Marshall had seen a snake at Hadley’s landfill. He remembered how he’d felt as it slithered away through the tall weeds.
Now he glanced toward the fields and imagined one coiled beside every rock. They could be anywhere, he thought fearfully. You never know till you see them! Slug zigged across the dusty road and kicked at a clump of weeds. “Too late now,” he grumbled. “I promised Granny!”
“Hey, Slug!” Willow called from the middle of the field. “Where are you going?”
Slug kept walking. “To my granny’s old house!”
Her hair flowing, Willow ran through the tall grass. “What for?” she asked, falling into step beside him.
“Mind your own business!”
“I don’t have any,” she said with a shrug.
Slug kept walking, and Willow kept pace. Girls! he thought irritably.
When they reached Slug’s grandmother’s property, they slipped easily through the space left by two missing pickets in the fence. As he stomped across the uncut grass toward the slanted outside cellar doors, Slug scanned the weeds. No snakes yet, he thought. He lifted one cellar door and let it fall open. Cautiously he peered inside.
Willow leaned over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.” Slug lifted back the other door. “I have to clean Granny’s cellar and hose it down, that’s all. Why don’t you get out of here?” he added as he craned his neck to check every corner of the sloping steps.
Willow flipped her hair over her shoulders. “I can help you,” she said, and she flitted fearlessly down the steps.
“Willow?” Slug called apprehensively.
Willow pushed open the door at the bottom, then turned. “What?”
“Nothing,” Slug mumbled, following reluctantly. “Just watch out!”
Willow wiggled through the stacks of boxes toward the other side of the damp, musty cellar. Quickly she climbed onto an old wooden workbench.
“What are you doing?” Slug squawked.
“Letting some air in!” Willow said, opening a window. “What’s the matter with you?”
Slug kicked at a stack of boxes. “I don’t know why you’re hanging around! You probably can’t even lift anything heavy!”
“Then you lift,” Willow said as a warm breeze swept through the muggy cellar, “and I’ll sweep.” She grabbed a broom. “Well … get lifting!”
Slug gave her a look, then cautiously lifted a box. With a fearful glance at where the box had been, he started up the steps. When he had placed the box by the road, he went back to the cellar steps and looked around. “That Marshall’s dumb!” he mumbled disgustedly. He descended the steps slowly, peering into every corner again. But there was Willow, pushing boxes across the floor toward the door. “What are you doing?” he snapped. “There could be snakes down here!”
Willow frowned. “Slug, stop trying to scare me! There aren’t any poisonous snakes around here. Besides, my dad says that snakes are as afraid of us as we are of them, so what’s the big deal?” Shaking her head, she went back to work.
Slug scowled at her, then grabbed another box and climbed the sun-splashed steps again. When he came back, Willow was singing. Slug stacked two bundles of tied newspapers and lifted them. Willow kept singing but looked at him and grinned. After he put the newspapers with the other trash, he stopped and glanced around at the bright yellow day. The trees had gobs of shade beneath their shiny green leaves, and the grass waved in gentle patterns. He wiped his arm across his chin and smiled. It’s a nice day, he decided.
Finally all the trash was outside, and Willow was sweeping a pile of dirt into a dustpan. “Looks better,” she said, brushing back her hair.
Slug nodded and uncoiled the hose. “Sure does.”
“Is your grandmother going to sell this old place?”
Slug reached for a bucket. “People from upstate want to see it.”
Willow aimed the broom at the rafters and swatted at cobwebs.
When the sun was high and grasshoppers were jumping, Slug wearily closed the cellar doors. “Thanks, Willow,” he said as they started across the overgrown yard.
Willow shrugged. “That’s OK.”
Slug slipped through the opening in the fence. “Granny’s paying me—I’ll split it with you.”
Willow shook her head. “I didn’t help for money.”
“Then why did you?”
“Something to do.”
“Yeah, but there could have been snakes down there!” Slug insisted.
Willow chuckled. “Oh, maybe. But there weren’t.”
“Yeah,” Slug admitted. “Even so, you kind of helped me forget about them.”
Willow pulled a long weed from beside the road and swatted at her leg with it as they walked. “Dad says that half of what we’re afraid of we make up. The other half hardly ever happens.”
Slug watched their shadows as they walked. Funny, he thought, how a friend can hurt you—or help you. He was glad that Willow had helped. “I don’t want you to argue with me, Willow Thompson!” he blurted out. “When I get paid, you get half!”
With that, Slug ran down the wooded path toward the stream. Willow watched him go and smiled, then continued toward home.

A beautiful painting shows President Hinckley looking forward to the future, a set of architectural drawings before him. In the background is a portrait of Brigham Young, making it appear that President Young looks over President Hinckley’s shoulder.
The portrait of Brigham Young shown in this painting actually hangs in President Hinckley’s office, and he has often spoken of it. In a recent general conference, he said:
“At the close of one particularly difficult day, I looked up at a portrait of Brigham Young that hangs on my wall. I asked, ‘Brother Brigham, what should we do?’ I thought I saw him smile a little, and then he seemed to say: ‘In my day, I had problems enough of my own. Don’t ask me what to do. This is your watch. Ask the Lord, whose work this really is.’”

Recently I met a young man who was receiving the missionary discussions. He had read the Book of Mormon and felt he had received answers to his prayers. He was now faced with the decision of whether or not to be baptized.

This was a rather remarkable young man. He had experienced some severe tests in his life, and he had demonstrated great courage and resourcefulness. The prospect of becoming a member of the Church, however, gave him a different kind of challenge.

As we talked about this newest and most important decision with which he was faced, he asked, “Why are so many people critical of Mormons?” He then described some of the things he had experienced at the hands of friends, family, and fellow employees for having associated with the missionaries. “I’m not sure I can live with that kind of feeling against me if I join the Church,” he said. “Why can’t I believe what your church teaches, but just go on being a good Christian without becoming a Mormon?”

It isn’t difficult for us to know what the consequences will be for this young man if he chooses not to be baptized because of the fear of incurring ill feelings from family and friends. He is, of course, perfectly free to make this choice, but he is not free to determine the consequences of that decision.

The young man to whom I referred in the beginning of my remarks has a very important decision to make. In the final analysis he cannot hedge on his decision. He must be willing to face the consequences of baptism and membership in the Church if he is ever to enjoy the blessings that Church membership can bring. He must be willing to pay the price. This will require much trust and faith on his part. It is so with each of us whenever we face challenging choices. You young men of the Aaronic Priesthood have a tremendous trust placed in you by the Lord, and he expects you to measure up—to stand up and be counted. All of you came here to be winners. The Lord’s work will prevail, and you will have much to do with the success of his kingdom.

“This activity brought us so much closer to the older people,” says Amber Isaacson, 15. “A lot of people in the ward are related, but there are families like mine who are not, so it’s just really neat to get to know them like the relatives do.”
Even though Amber and her brother Russell don’t have any relatives in the ward, in doing this activity Russell has realized how much some of the ward’s grandparents have contributed to his life.
“Talking with the elderly in our ward helped me to understand that they are actually a part of me because they helped form the Church here in Coeur d‘Alene. And just to look at it today and see how I’m involved and see the key part they have played in my life makes me grateful that I was able to get to know them better,” Russell explains.

Another unusual experience happened many years ago. My wife was the ward president of the YWMIA in the Valley View Sixth Ward, and I served as the stake mission president. On the 24th of July at 5:30 A.M. the experience took place. Our bedroom window was at ground level, and as usual it was open through the night. My side of the bed was near the open window. All of a sudden there was the terrible blast of a bugle playing “Reveille” through the window. I jumped out of bed and stood at attention. When the bugle finished playing, one of the girls who was part of the group outside the window said, “We would now like to have an opening prayer,” so I stood there, and bowed my head, and an opening prayer was given. Then we sang an opening hymn, and the person conducting said, “We would be pleased now to have two talks about our pioneer forefathers. They will be delivered by __________ and __________,” two of the girls in the ward. At the close of the talks she said, “We’ll now have a closing hymn,” and so I sang the hymn along with them, and then we had a closing prayer and they left. I looked over at my wife who had stayed in bed and who had listened to this entire presentation. She had a big smile on her face and had enjoyed every minute of it. I said to her, “What did we just go through?” to which she replied, “We have just had a special sunrise service in commemoration of the 24th of July.” I climbed back in bed and thought about this great woman by my side who felt highly honored, who understood, and had such a love for the young women in our ward.

Katie* was going roller-skating for her birthday party and was thinking about whom to invite. She wanted Jenny and Vicki to come—they were in her Primary class. She would invite Teresa, too, of course. She was Katie’s best friend.
As Katie waited for her Primary teacher to start the class, she noticed Alice walk in. Alice didn’t come to Primary very often. Her clothes looked worn, and her hair wasn’t combed. Katie thought that Alice’s words sounded funny when she talked and that Alice smelled strange. Alice hardly ever said anything at all. She mostly just sat there with her head down. Katie thought that Alice had probably never been invited to a birthday party.
Katie had been to Alice’s house once, when Mom was delivering something to Alice’s mother for Relief Society. Alice’s family was very large, and Katie wondered where they all slept, because they lived in a small trailer. When Mom had knocked on the door and one of the older children answered, Katie could see how dirty it was inside. Mom explained what she had and asked that it be given to Alice’s mother. The boy didn’t say anything. He just took it and shut the door. Katie was glad for her own clean home, even if she did have to share a room with her older sister, Tara.
Looking at Alice now, Katie remembered that visit, and she felt bad for the sad-faced girl sitting alone. She thought about Jesus and how He treated those who were poor, or sick, or didn’t fit in.
The next day when Mom asked if she was ready to work on birthday invitations, Katie announced that she would like to invite Alice.
Katie wondered what her friends might think and what Alice might wear. Most of all, Katie worried that Alice wouldn’t come. Katie talked to Mom and to Tara about her concerns, and they worked out a plan.
When it came time to deliver Alice’s invitation, Katie had butterflies in her stomach. Tara went to the door with her. A circle of little faces appeared, but no one spoke. “Is Alice here, please?” Katie asked.
One child left, and a few moments later, Alice was at the door. “Here.” Katie thrust the white envelope toward her. “This is for you. It’s an invitation to my birthday party.”
Alice didn’t say anything, but she looked surprised.
“It’s next Wednesday,” Katie said. “My mom and I will pick you up at eleven.” Katie and her sister said good-bye and got back in the car with big smiles on their faces.
On the way to Alice’s house Wednesday morning, Katie said a silent prayer that Alice would come. When she and Mom arrived, Alice’s whole family was outside. Katie felt awkward with all those children staring at her. She was relieved when Alice came toward her and silently followed Katie into the back seat.
At Katie’s house, Alice was welcomed by Tara.
“We have a while before the other girls arrive,” Katie told her. “Let’s go to Tara’s and my room.”
In the bedroom, Alice looked around, amazed. “Wow! Your room is really pretty!”
Tara opened the closet. “I think we are the same size,” she said to Alice. “I can lend you some pants and a shirt, if you’d like. Then you won’t have to roller-skate in a dress.” She pulled out a pair of blue pants and a matching top. “I think these will fit.”
“You can get dressed in there.” Katie pointed to the bathroom.
Alice looked into the bathroom and seemed ready to cry. “What’s wrong?” Tara asked.
Alice whispered, “Can I wash my hair, please?”
“Of course!” Katie told her kindly. “Would you like us to help you wash it in the sink?”
Tara and Katie helped Alice wash her hair. They helped her comb and style her hair, then left her alone to bathe and dress.
When Alice came out, there was a smile on her face. It was the first time Katie had ever seen her smile.
“Let’s eat,” the sisters said as they led Alice to the kitchen.
Alice didn’t say much during lunch, but she seemed to enjoy the food, and she ate everything on her plate.
After lunch, Tara took Alice aside and showed her the present she had gotten for Katie. “I have some paper we can wrap it in, and a marker to sign our names.”
“Oh!” Alice was excited. “I would love to give Katie a present.”
She and Tara wrapped the present and printed their names neatly on the outside.
Then the other party guests started to arrive. Katie had told her friends that Alice was going to be there. Each greeted Alice kindly, and soon she was talking with everyone. They opened presents and ate birthday cake. On the way to the roller rink, Katie didn’t get to sit by Alice—one of the other girls wanted to.
Katie and Teresa took Alice’s hands and helped her skate around the circular room. Alice giggled with delight. Katie had never heard Alice laugh before. Soon everyone was taking turns being Alice’s partner.
One of the girls came up to Katie and said, “I wish I had invited Alice to my birthday party.”
“There is always next year,” Katie said.
When the party was over, Mom took Alice home. Before getting out of the car, she grabbed Katie’s hand, squeezed hard, and said, “Thank you.”
As Katie rode home, she thought about her birthday presents. She liked them all, but her favorite one was the smile, laugh, and “Thank you” from Alice.