Gospel Story Finder

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

President Grace mentioned in his introduction that I was associated with the 2002 Olympic Winter Games in Salt Lake City. It was the experience of a lifetime. As part of my endeavors, I wanted to experience the Olympics from the athlete’s point of view, so I have skied parts of the men’s downhill at Snowbasin, the mogul run at Deer Valley, and the slalom and giant slalom runs at Park City. I jumped dozens of times at the freestyle aerials practice facility at Park City—that picture is of me doing a front flyaway. I have taken several runs down the bobsled track, and I really lost my judgment when I decided to do the skeleton.

The skeleton is a sport where you lay on your stomach on a sled, and you go head first down the bobsleigh track. Your face is about two inches off the ice. The first time you go down, you travel at about 60 miles an hour through 15 turns, and some of the turns are close to 90 degrees.

To prepare me to go down the track, they gave me a helmet, shoulder pads, a long liability release form, and some advice: “You really don’t know what you are doing, so just put your head down, look at the ice, and pretend you are a sack of potatoes. Don’t move because you will just mess it up.” They put me on the sled, gave me a push, and very quickly, there was this big drop that accelerated me so quickly I felt like I was shot out of a cannon. It seemed like zero to sixty in three seconds. I realized at that moment that I had mixed emotions: fear and terror. I then came to the first turn—a left-hand turn of almost 90 degrees. I was going close to 60 miles per hour. I hit the side wall of the corner, ricocheted off the wall and hit the other side, and then bounced back and hit the other wall again. I couldn’t see where I was going, just the ice on the track inches from my face. I just got stabilized, and then I hit the next corner with the same ricocheting result. Only 13 turns left to go—I realized this was an experience in survival.

After the longest 60 seconds of my life, I reached the bottom. I was alive. My heart was racing, and I was ever so glad that something had ended. There was an Olympian from Turkey there to help me extract the heavy sled from the track. I told him about my ride and asked him if there was a better way. He said that I could potentially totally change my experience. He told me that I would need to look up from the ice and look down the track to see where I was going. When I came to a left-hand corner, I should turn my head to the left, which would shift my weight enough to steer me through the corner. The same principle applied for right-hand turns. I said, “Okay, let’s try it again!” What was I thinking?

On my next run, I lifted my head up from the ice to look down the track and had a completely different perspective. I could see where I was going and what was coming. After the push and the cannon-ball like acceleration, I saw the first left-hand turn approaching. I turned my head to the left, which shifted my weight, and WHOOSH! I flew through the corner without touching a side. I thought that was amazing, but then I realized I was going even faster. Then I came to a right-hand turn. I turned my head to the right and zipped right through the corner without touching a side. I had similar results all the way down until I got a little high on the last turn and bumped at the bottom. However, it was a completely different experience. I decided to go one last time to see if could beat my time and maximum speed down the track. I was now becoming competitive, of all things.

The experience was completely different in two ways. First, my perspective had completely changed. Instead of looking down at the ice, having no control, and being bumped around, I was looking ahead, seeing what was coming, and taking control of where I was going. Second, I applied learning and energy to transform my driving to a different result.

Kathleen H. Hughes, first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency: “A woman I know was struggling with anger toward someone who had hurt her and her family. Though she told her children not to become embittered and resentful, she fought those feelings herself. After weeks of entreating her Father in Heaven, she finally felt a change. She related: ‘One day, in the midst of my nearly constant prayers, the healing came. I felt a physical sensation spread through my body. After, I felt a sense of security and peace. I knew that regardless of what happened, my family and I would be all right. The anger left me and so did my desire for retaliation’” (“Blessed by Living Water,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2003, 13).

I read one experience of a woman in her mobile home. As she heard the winds approaching, she went into her bathroom and crouched down on the floor hoping to avoid injury. She felt her trailer shake, she was jostled around, and then everything was quiet. As she crouched motionless in her bathroom, she heard the voice of her neighbor who lived approximately 50 yards away from her. The voice said, “I am here in the front room.”
She thought somehow her neighbor had come into her trailer and was looking for her. She soon, however, was very surprised to find that was not the case at all, but that the winds had lifted, carried, and landed her trailer upright on the top of her neighbor’s trailer. She had not realized it, but her trailer had been flying through the air. Her neighbor was actually below her, in the neighbor’s own mobile home.

At last the Ellsworth company’s journey was coming to an end. It would have ended sooner if they had not been slowed down by the ox-drawn wagons that carried their tents and other supplies. When Brigham Young heard that the handcart companies—both the Ellsworth and the McArthur companies—were between Little Mountain and Big Mountain, he organized a group of citizens, brass bands, Church leaders, and others to meet the groups and escort them into the city. When the escort met the handcart companies, the handcarts were halted and Captain Ellsworth introduced the companies to President Young and his counselors. Relatives and friends greeted the newcomers and provided a treat of fresh melons for them to eat.
As the companies and their escort moved on toward the public square in Salt Lake City, the number of welcomers increased. The Deseret News of that day stated, “The line of march was scarcely taken up, before it began to be met by men, women, and children on foot, on horses, and in wagons, thronging out to see and welcome the first hand-cart companies and the numbers rapidly increased until the living tide lined and thronged South Temple street.”
President Young spoke briefly to the group and blessed them; then the handcart pioneers pitched their tents, finally at rest in the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
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Eight miles from Salt Lake City, met by Brigham Young, Nauvoo Brass Band, and others with provisions (13 miles)

But Brother Ng’s search for truth had started years earlier. His grandmother, a Buddhist, had begun attending Christian churches shortly before her death, and Brother Ng often accompanied her. “I was looking for a god who was different than the one I’d been taught about while growing up,” he remembers. “But the pastors and preachers at those meetings were difficult to approach, and they were more concerned with donations than with answering my questions.”
Brother Ng’s questions went unanswered until he met the missionaries. “From the beginning, I learned about our Father in Heaven and his son, Jesus Christ. The missionaries taught of our relationship to these beings. And they continually talked of being children of God,” he remembers.

“During the war, my father had to work on Sundays. Whenever he could find time, he attended sacrament meeting. During these years, Mother had to become a strong spiritual leader in the family. One of my vivid childhood memories of her is of the time she went to tithing settlement and discovered that we still owed about twenty-five dollars. As ward Relief Society president, she wanted the family to close the year as full tithe payers. Dad was working as usual and could not be reached. Mother suggested to the children that we talk about our family tithing problem and have a family prayer. When the prayer was over, Mother had an idea. We were living on a walnut ranch, so we sold enough of the walnuts in our cellar to pay our tithing in full!”

Six-year-old John sat intently listening in Primary as two missionaries talked to the children about missionary work. They explained that Jesus Christ wants every member of the Church to tell people about His true Church.
The missionaries told the children that they were not too young to be missionaries. They could give a copy of the Book of Mormon to relatives or friends who didn’t belong to the Church. And they could also invite them to church or ask them if they would like to have the missionaries teach them about the gospel.
The missionaries asked the children to think of someone they would like to tell about the true Church. Then they challenged the children to talk to that person about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that week.
John knew exactly whom he wanted to tell about the Church. He loved Grandma Linford very much and wanted her to know about Jesus Christ’s true Church. Grandma did go to church, but not to the church that John and his family went to. He thought carefully about how to ask Grandma to come to church with him.
A few days later, John and his family drove to Grandma’s house. Grandma greeted John and his two sisters, Rachel and Rebecca, with hugs. Soon everyone was busy talking and helping get dinner ready. John couldn’t wait until after dinner to ask his question; it was too important. He whispered to Grandma: “Could I talk to you alone for a minute? I have a very important question to ask you.”
Wiping her hands and looking deep into John’s eyes, she said: “Of course. Let’s go into the living room.”
As Grandma sat down, John’s heart started pounding. Would Grandma listen to his question? Would she come to church with him? He was trying to do what the missionaries had suggested. He had to be brave enough to tell others about Jesus Christ.
“Grandma, will you come to my church sometime?” John asked.
“Well, Sundays are pretty busy days for Grandpa and me, but we’d be happy to go to your church with you,” Grandma said.
“That’s great,” John said. “We belong to the true Church and I want you and Grandpa to belong to the true Church too. We have a prophet and the Book of Mormon and CTR rings.”
Suddenly, John thought he had said too much because Grandma got tears in her eyes. Then she hugged John, kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for telling her about his Church and inviting her to come. Before Grandma could get another word out, John asked her if she would read the Book of Mormon and listen to the missionaries.
“You are the best missionary ever,” Grandma said. “I love you so much!” Then she hugged him again. Grandma asked John what ward he went to. John said the Third Ward. Grandma said that she and Grandpa went to the 11th Ward. Grandma asked John what church he belonged to. He said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Grandma said that she and Grandpa belonged to that same church too. John looked confused. Grandma explained that there are thousands of wards all around the world and each one is part of Jesus’s true Church. Not all of Jesus’s followers could fit in one building, but they could all learn His true teachings in a ward where they live. She told John that after dinner they could drive to see the sign in front of her ward building that said “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” It looked just like the sign at John’s ward building.
John hugged Grandma and said, “Oh, Grandma, I’m so thankful that we are both members of Jesus’s true Church!”

The day looked like it was going to be one of those long, dragged-out, miserable ones. We’d been in for two days with the flu. To make it worse, the companion who had been well began to run a fever. We knew every detail in the ceiling above our beds, but all was not lost. At about noon our zone leaders came around, dropped the Christmas editions of the New Era and the Ensign outside our door, knocked, and ran. The afternoon and evening seemed to fly past as we read and reread these two good magazines. We both learned and felt like our time wasn’t wasted after all. Thank you for these great magazines that we enjoy every month, but most especially for these two.
Sisters Valerie Higginson and Karen TuckerCanada Winnipeg Mission

Dale McCullers was an off-season social worker at a Florida boys’ ranch and a professional gridder for the Baltimore Colts the rest of the year. An All-American college linebacker, Dale had helped pull the Colts to victory in the Super Bowl.
Needing a used truck for his summer work, he was sent by a friend to a nearby auto lot where he spotted a truck he liked. He went to ask a salesman about it. Morris Poole glanced toward the truck Dale was pointing at and then looked squarely into the eyes of the linebacker who was planted in front of him.
“Now forget about the truck for a moment. I want to tell you about an angel named Moroni.”
Dale had intercepted many a pass but never one like that.
“I’m no biblical scholar, but I’ve never heard of such an angel.”
Dale drove away in a rebuilt 1949 truck, wondering if there was anything at all to the salesman’s story of Joseph Smith.
A believer in “customer service,” Brother Poole soon introduced Dale to the missionaries. Finishing the discussions took some persistence by Brother Poole and the elders. By his own admission Dale had some trouble accepting the fact that a used car salesman, a 19-year-old from an unknown city in Utah, and a Yankee from New York really had something important to say.
Dale and his wife Nell listened to the discussions during the following eight weeks. Shortly after, Dale was baptized by Brother Poole. Bearing his testimony after his baptism, Dale said, “All the excitement and glamour of playing ball seem insignificant next to finding the truth of the gospel.”
Morris went back to his car lot, grateful he’d had the courage to sell more than a 1949 used truck. Today Brother McCullers is president of the Live Oak Branch in the Tallahassee Florida Stake.

My father died in an industrial accident when I was just two years old. Even though she had seven children to raise—I was the youngest—and very little money, my mother served as Relief Society president, helping others with their difficulties. She taught us the value of service, of always being willing to do things for other people, of giving of oneself and one’s time and talents to other people.
I have always adored my mother. She taught me the principles of the gospel. I have always prayed, I have always been active in the Church, and I have always had a testimony, thanks to my good mother.

Just what is it that these missionaries have or do that brings about this happy phenomenon? I think I came very close to discovering the answer to this question when I received the following letter while serving as a mission president in the Arizona Holbrook Mission.
“Dear Brother Lynn,
“I have been meaning to write to you for some time now and let you know how blessed the members here in Durango are to have Sister Brown and Sister Poss working here. By their dedication and examples, they have done more for the attitude of the members toward missionary work than all the sermons in the world. They are so busy teaching people they don’t have time to come for dinner!
“In the five years we’ve lived here, Durango has just about been dead as far as missionary work goes. We’ve had elders come to our house and tell us how hard this area is. But whatever these sisters have, it has turned everything around. They keep saying it’s the members, but it’s these two special sisters. They have touched our hearts and changed our lives, not by spending time in our homes but by working their hearts out. We have really come to love them.
“Yesterday was their P-day, and they used my washer and dryer to do their laundry. While they were here, they baked a cake for a dinner my husband and I were having for a nonmember friend whom we told about the Church and gave a Book of Mormon to, just last night. It was the first time ever that I have had the courage to do that. (They baked the cake for me because I’m in a wheelchair and unable to do it.) So if they inspire me to become involved in missionary work, they are doing miracles.
“I just wanted you to know how hard they work to keep the rules and do things right. Yesterday was the second or third time they have been in our home in the months they’ve been here, so it isn’t because they’ve spent time with us that we feel this way. They love Heavenly Father’s children. You can feel that love when they welcome you to church on Sunday. I know they are teaching the gospel with the pure love of Christ. That’s what has made the difference. I was thinking this morning that if every missionary in the field, elder or sister, filled their missions the way these two are, the Church would experience incredible growth.
“I’m certainly a better person for having met these young women and seeing their dedication. You could talk to anyone in the wards here, and they would tell you the same thing. I wish I could write to their parents to let them know how we feel. But the sisters wouldn’t give me their addresses, so I can’t brag about them. They don’t feel like they’re special. But they are, and I wanted you to know we think so.
“Sincerely,
“Roberta and Gene Shirley”

When Anna’s joy over her conversion wasn’t shared by friends and relatives and when she couldn’t persuade them to accept the gospel, she decided to emigrate to the United States with a group of Norwegian Saints intent on going to Zion. It was 1883, and in the fall of that year she arrived in Logan, Utah. She was determined that her family’s first obligation should be to Heavenly Father because of His many blessings to them. Her next obligation was to see that her boys received the best education possible.

When my grandfather James E. Fisher was set apart as a missionary in 1892, he was told, “The Lord will provide food, raiment, and shelter for you.”
At age 19, grandfather had traveled 160 miles by horse and wagon from Meadow, Utah, to St. George to be married in the temple to Elizabeth Stewart. They returned to Meadow where they lived as farmers for the next six years. It was then that James E. received his mission call to New Zealand. It was common at that time to ask young married men to leave home and family to serve for two to five years.
For the next three years and four months, his young wife not only raised three children and (with the help of his brother Joseph) ran the farm; she also kept him on his mission by milking cows, selling eggs, and doing whatever else she could. They understood hardship and sacrifice better, I think, than we do today. But the Lord was mindful of them and blessed them according to his wisdom.
In New Zealand, Elder Fisher and his companion no doubt wondered and worried about their loved ones back home. In a new land with new customs, often relying on the kindness of others for shelter and sustenance, they must have felt out of place at times and in need of reassurance. The food commonly used by the Maori people was much different than that to which they were accustomed.
One day as the missionaries rode along on their horses, they talked about how much they missed the good, homemade bread so common back in Utah. Money from home had not yet arrived and they were, quite simply, hungry. Elder Fisher’s companion suggested that they were alone and could dismount. They went into the woods and prayed. They expressed their desire to serve, as well as their love and concern for those back home.
The two elders felt better, got back on their horses, and continued on their way. As they rode along, they noticed something just off the road. They dismounted and to their amazement found, wrapped in a white cloth, a fresh loaf of bread, the same kind of homemade bread they had talked about in their prayer. They rejoiced as they ate it, although it wasn’t the bread that was so important, but the reassurance that Heavenly Father knew who they were and where they were, that they had faithful wives and that the Lord’s kindness and goodness was over them all. Later, they both wrote home and told their wives of the incident.
At that time, it took six weeks for a letter to get from Utah to New Zealand, and it cost 50 cents for postage, which was then an enormous sum of money. Therefore letters were sent only about once a month.
About three months after the elders found the bread on the trail, Elder Fisher’s companion received a letter from his wife. She wrote that on that same day they made their discovery, she had been baking bread.
When she opened her oven to remove it, one of the pans was empty and a white cloth that had been on the table was gone. She had been home all the time and saw no one come or go.
Two missionaries in New Zealand had received an answer to prayer. The loaf of bread came to symbolize for them that it was Heavenly Father who had sent them to New Zealand and that he was supporting and watching over their families.
Incidentally, when James E. returned home, the farm had prospered and he and his wife owned more cattle and sheep and had more money than before.

When I was young, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. He went to college all day and worked most of the night. It was really wearing him out, but he had himself, my mother, and four children to support.
I used to play with the wooden toys my dad made for us. He made such things as blocks, wooden animals, and puzzles when he had time. But my favorite was the little knife he carved for me from a small piece of wood. It wasn’t using the knife to fight an imaginary foe that intrigued me so much. It was the fact that my dad had made it himself, just for me and no one else.
I was so proud of my dad. I thought there was nothing better than someone who could turn an ordinary piece of wood into something as magnificent as my little knife. I would just sit and hold it in my hands, looking at it and thinking about the time he spent making it for me.
Years later, when my dad was out of school and had a good daytime job, I was able to spend a little more time with him, but the value of that knife never lessened.
One day I walked outside and what I saw sent a flood of memories into my mind. My dad was sitting on the steps, a pocketknife in his right hand, and in his left a piece of wood slowly taking the shape of a little knife. I could see little slivers of wood fly as he whittled and whistled a happy song. He turned to me and smiled.
Before I knew it, I was sitting right next to my dad, a pocketknife in my right hand and a piece of wood in my left. Twice as many little shavings of wood flew as my dad taught me how to carve a little knife by myself. Mine didn’t look nearly as good as his, but it was okay. My dad was sitting next to me, and that was all that mattered.
Every once in a while, I looked up at him, all smiles, to compare my knife with his, as he kept carving the wood and whistling his songs. Once he caught me looking at him and gave me a big smile and winked at me. That made me feel good because he would wink at me when he was really happy. I winked back.

In the following months, I prepared myself for baptism on Oct. 8, 2022. From that day on I took the name of Christ upon me. The next day, I received the gift of the Holy Ghost, and I became a full member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. One week later, I received the Aaronic Priesthood, another important moment in my life. In December, I went to the temple for the first time with Ellie in Miami and performed baptisms for the dead. That same weekend I received my patriarchal blessing. In January, I received the Melchizedek Priesthood. And in February, I went to the temple in Orlando with my oldest daughter, Mayra, and it felt like I was in heaven. The experiences during this period of my life were like being on a rollercoaster as I went from conversion to baptism, to priesthood, then the patriarchal blessing and finally entering the temple, all in a year’s time. I received all these ordinances in a relatively short period of time making it a very powerful, emotional, and spiritual experience.

Trent sat high in the oak tree, dangling one leg over a thick branch. When Jared and Tom called to him from below, he didn’t even hear them. He was daydreaming about a book he had been reading. His Grandma Jessop had given him Pioneer Children for his birthday. After reading the book for a while, he had left it on his bed and climbed the tree to think about the pioneer children and their amazing experiences.
One boy in the book had saved his two little sisters when their house and fields caught fire. Another had found food for his family because his father was away fighting in the war.
The stories told about the many dangers that the pioneer children faced—bears, coyotes, Indians, even starvation. Trent wished that he had lived then. He would have met the challenges! He could outsmart Indians or scare away coyotes. As a Boy Scout he had learned how to make a cave in the snow where he could keep himself and his little brother warm if they got lost, just like a girl had done in one of the stories. He would share a piece of bread with a hungry child, even if it were all he had.
But it would never happen to Trent. His mother could buy him anything he wanted in the supermarket—any type of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables year round, even cookies and candies.
Finally, the voices below broke through Trent’s reverie.
“Trent! What’s the matter with you?” Jared called. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve been hollering at you to come down,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“Who knows? We’ll just walk around till we find something to do.”
Yeah, I’ll bet, Trent thought. Jared and Tom were his best friends, but lately they were often into some kind of mischief. Trent climbed partway down the tree and then dropped to the ground.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Jared asked.
“I was thinking about this book I’ve been reading,” Trent answered. “It’s all about—”
“A book!” Jared sneered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read books?”
Trent looked searchingly at Jared, trying to see past the dark eyes and freckles that he had come to know so well. Tom, too, was almost as familiar as a brother, although he had moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.
“What’s with you, Jared?” asked Trent. “You used to like to read. You used to like the other things I like too.”
Jared just ignored Trent’s question.
“Hey, look,” Tom said, pointing. “Here comes Reggie. Let’s have some fun with him.”
Trent winced.
Reggie was huffing and puffing up the hill on his bike, sweat beading on his forehead, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. Reggie tried his best, but he just couldn’t do a lot of things very well, and he attended a special class for slow learners.
“Hey, dumbo,” Tom said as Reggie neared them, “dumb kids aren’t allowed on this street. You’ll have to go back around the other way.”
Reggie stopped and straddled his bike. He looked around, confused.
“What’s the matter?” Tom went on, “Don’t you know the way?”
Jared snickered. Reggie was older than they were. He was stronger, too, but he looked afraid.
“What’s in the sack?” Tom asked.
“Candy.”
“Mmm, let’s see,” Jared said, grabbing the sack away from Reggie. “Maybe you have my favorite kind of candy in there.”
Jared dumped out the candy, and he and Tom began dividing it between them.
Reggie blinked a few times, and Trent saw tears in his eyes. “My daddy gave me the money,” Reggie quavered. “I earned it.”
“Ha!” Tom jeered. “What did you have to do to earn it? Tie your own shoes?”
“Button your own shirt?” Jared added.
Trent felt tears starting in his own eyes. He didn’t want to go against his two best friends, but he knew what he had to do. “Stop it!” he shouted.
Tom and Jared looked at him, surprised. Even Reggie looked surprised. Trent grabbed the candy out of his friends’ hands.
“Aw, c’mon,” Tom said. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Well it’s not much fun for Reggie, is it?” Trent asked as he handed the sack and candy back to Reggie.
“No,” Reggie said, wiping the tears off his cheeks.
“Come on,” Trent said, his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you.”
As they walked, balancing the bike between them, Trent and Reggie talked. They talked about bicycles and allowances, and Reggie told Trent about his new puppy.
When they waved good-bye, Trent felt good about what he’d done. He realized that although he hadn’t faced starvation or bears, as the pioneer children in his book had, by standing in his against his friends to help Reggie, he had acted with courage too. It was just another kind of courage.

—The lights were already blazing at the famous Lincoln Center in Manhattan, but their glow was a little brighter when reflected in the eyes of the young women who had been doing service projects in New York that day.
Young women in the Manhattan Spanish Ward spent the day helping at a crafts fair and celebration to benefit a facility that assists women dealing with AIDS. The girls decorated hand towels, handed out fliers, and helped cook lunch. They not only provided service but were educated as well. “Now that we understand about the virus, we will not brush these people off,” says Karina Mora. “We know how to help people and not be afraid.”

Gage stared at the empty old bottle and turned it over in his hands. It was small and misty green, with a cork stopper in the top. Grandpa Russell had given it to him after his baptism.
“What is it?” Gage asked. “I know it’s a bottle—but there’s nothing in it.”
“Oh, it’s full,” Grandpa said.
Gage shook the bottle. “Well, it looks empty to me.”
Grandpa laughed. He pulled out the cork and held the little bottle near Gage’s ear. “Can you hear it?” he whispered.
“Hear what?” Gage whispered back.
Grandpa smiled. “Silence,” he said. Then he put the cork back in the bottle. “In today’s world, silence is pretty hard to find. It’s like medicine, and each drop is as precious as gold.”
Gage said thank you and took Grandpa’s strange gift home. But he didn’t think about it much.
A few weeks later, Gage’s uncle Vince passed away. After the funeral, lots of relatives crowded into the front room at Gage’s house to visit. Gage escaped to his bedroom and closed the door. He could hear the muffled voices of his parents and relatives down the hall.
Gage saw the old green bottle sitting on his desk and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands. Grandpa had said silence was like medicine. Gage needed to find some peace and comfort after Uncle Vince’s funeral.
Gage pulled the cork loose from the bottle and tipped it over his head, pretending to let a little silence pour out. He knew the bottle wasn’t really full of silence. But he knew he needed some quiet time to feel close to God.
He felt tears build up in his eyes. Uncle Vince wouldn’t be there anymore—no more silly jokes, no more wrestling with him. Gage’s heart hurt from missing him.
Then in the silence, Gage felt something warm grow in his heart and soften the pain. He remembered that Uncle Vince wasn’t gone forever; he had just moved on to the next world. Because of Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation, everyone would live forever. Gage was still sad, but he knew that someday he could see Uncle Vince again.
As he held the bottle in his hands, Gage felt peaceful inside. He knew it was because of the Holy Ghost and not the bottle. The bottle had just reminded him to be quiet so he could feel the Holy Ghost. He corked the bottle and set it down.
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story.
Then he went back to the front room to be with his family. He could carry the peace and comfort of the Holy Ghost inside of him even outside his quiet room.

I opened my eyes just as the sun started to peek under my flowered drapes. Excitement flooded my body, but for just a moment I couldn’t remember why. Then I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. “Today is the day! Today is the glorious day!” I sang quietly—it was way too early to disturb anyone. I stood there thinking about how wonderful today would be: I was going to get a puppy of my very own. Well, not exactly of my very own, for I would have to give it up in a year. Still, I’d have him practically forever. A year is an awfully long time.
I had always wanted a dog, but Mom said that she had enough to do with me and Jeffy and her part-time job at the library, without having a dog underfoot.
I tried to explain that it wouldn’t be underfoot and that I’d take complete care of it. “I already know how to take care of a dog,” I argued.
For several weeks I’d worked after school at Pete’s Pet Shop. It wasn’t a real job, but Pete said that he’d hire me when I grew up, so it was almost a job. I watered and fed the animals, then played with the pups until it was time to go home for dinner.
One day Pete had introduced me to Mrs. Evans. “Meet my friend Tracy Stevens. She’s my right hand. I don’t know what those dogs would do if she didn’t come in every day and get them fresh food and water.”
“I like dogs, too,” Mrs. Evans had said. “I find people to take care of pups until they are trained enough to give to a person who needs them to see.”
How would a dog help someone to see? I had wondered. After she went out, Pete explained to me that she worked for the Society for Seeing-Eye Dogs. When she picked Blacknose, one of Pete’s dogs, to use in the program, I felt my heart sinking. That meant that I wouldn’t see Blacknose again. He was one of my favorites. They were all my favorites, for that matter, and I felt a little sick every time I came to the store and a pup had been sold.
I listened carefully as Pete explained to me just what Mrs. Evans did, and then I ran home to explain it to my folks. At dinner I told them about the seeing-eye-dog program and that I really wanted Mrs. Evans to choose me to help her. I didn’t think that Mom was listening, because Jeffy threw his potatoes on the floor just then. But she winked at Dad, saying, “Now wouldn’t that be something—a dog to lick up Jeffy’s mashed potatoes.” Then she got serious and said, “I have plenty to do without running after a dog when I get home. No, Honey, I just don’t think that it would work.”
I’d argued and talked, and finally they’d agreed to see Mrs. Evans to hear what she had to say. And today was the day! Mrs. Evans was bringing a live puppy with her while she explained the training program.
I thought that noon would never come. Finally I saw a car drive up. Mrs. Evans got out, shook hands with Mom and Dad, and handed me the cutest little puppy that I had ever seen. Then she started to explain what would be expected of me. “You’ll have to keep him with you as much as possible. You’ll have to show him love without getting him spoiled. You must never let him jump up on you, because blind people can’t anticipate that kind of thing. You must feed him properly—no snacks!”
After Mrs. Evans had explained everything about the program and what my responsibilities would be, Mom and Dad agreed to let me train the puppy.
“I hope that we’re doing the right thing,” Mother said to me as we all signed some papers, “and that it won’t break your heart when you have to give him up.”
“A year is a long time,” I answered. I spent as much time with Chip as I could.
I took him walking where we’d see cats and bikes and dogs. He must never run or bark without a reason. I taught him to heel and sit, and he even learned about traffic. I couldn’t bear the mournful look in his eyes when I ate cookies, so I’d slip him a tiny piece from time to time. That’s why I called him Chip, for chocolate chips.
Then one day we got that awful phone call from Mrs. Evans. “I’ll be over next Saturday to take you and the dog to the center,” she told me.
“The year isn’t up yet, is it?” I wailed.
Mrs. Evans laughed. “Not quite, but I hope that you aren’t getting too attached to that dog. He will have to go in two months, you know.”
“So what will we do next Saturday?”
“He’ll be tested by a professional handler. If he tests out, he’ll be ready to help a blind person.”
“What if he doesn’t test out?”
“We couldn’t use him and would have to give him away,” she answered.
Only a week, I thought. How can I bear to lose him? I had a wild idea: If I could make Chip forget everything, they wouldn’t want him. So why not try to make him act disobedient? “Heel,” I shouted. When Chip obeyed instantly, I yelled at him, “You bad dog! You are so dumb.”
“Sit,” I ordered next, and when he sat, I pulled on his collar and told him how bad he was.
He began to look more and more bewildered as I gave him orders, then punished him for obeying. It broke my heart when I saw his sad eyes looking at me. “Please understand. I’m doing it for your sake,” I told him.
By Saturday Chip was slinking around with his tail between his legs. “What’s wrong with Chip?” Dad asked.
“He’s been acting strange all week,” I answered. I felt terrible about lying like that, but I wanted to keep Chip with me.
When we got to the arena, Mrs. Evans met us and smiled. “Well, here is one of our young handlers. What a fine looking dog. It looks as though you did a good job.”
A man came up and took the leash from my hands. I wanted Chip to sit down and growl at him or do anything except what he was supposed to. But he obediently followed the man to the center of the big floor. I watched as Chip performed perfectly. He came bounding happily back to me with an expectant look on his face, and I realized that I’d failed in my efforts to keep him. “Couldn’t you have run after a cat or something?” I muttered sadly.
As we drove home, Dad chattered pleasantly about the beautiful day, and I sat there wishing that I could crawl into a big hole and just die. I was going to lose Chip. I’d have him for just two more months, and I knew that I wouldn’t try to confuse him any more. I did keep praying that I could keep him, though.
Every Saturday we drove to the center and watched as the handlers put Chip through his paces. They took him into traffic. They had a man run at him with a club. They used horns and whistles and records of screaming crowds. Chip responded perfectly. I couldn’t help but be proud as I watched him work.
Then came the Saturday when Dad said, “You’ve done a superb job. Your work is over now. I’m sure that the person who gets Chip can hardly wait. Imagine waiting for a whole year to finally walk in the sun! You’ve helped someone be able to do that.”
I huddled in the seat with my arm around Chip. I felt miserable. What did it matter that Dad was proud of me? I had lost Chip. Hot tears spilled down my face. Without a word, Dad handed me his handkerchief and squeezed my hand. “We are all born with different talents. Maybe this is one of the things that you were born to accomplish,” he said softly.
When we got to the center, I took Chip’s leash and walked as tall and proud as I could. I didn’t want Chip to be ashamed of me this last day. Mrs. Evans pointed out a young man sitting in a corner. “That’s Mike. He’ll be getting Chip. He’s waited a long time for this.”
The expression on Mike’s face was expectant, and his head was turned slightly. I realized that he was listening harder than most people because he couldn’t see.
“This is Tracy,” Mrs. Evans said when we reached him. “She’s trained your dog for you.”
Mike got up and held out his hand. I took it and felt strong, warm fingers close over mine.
“I want to thank you for everything.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and his voice choked in his throat. “What do you call him?”
“I call him Chip.” I hesitated, then added, “I’ll tell you why later.” Then, when Mrs. Evans walked away with Dad, I whispered to Mike, “We aren’t supposed to give him snacks, but I give him a piece of cookie now and then. He loves it.”
Mike laughed and whispered back. “I love cookies too. Don’t worry—I’ll slip him a cookie sometimes.”
Mike reached down and took Chip’s leash. Chip watched me with a puzzled look, whining softly. Mike put his arms around Chip’s neck. I saw Chip wag his tail, and his tongue came out and touched Mike’s hand. I knew that he’d agreed to go with Mike. I suddenly felt warm and light inside. I’d done my best, and I had helped someone. It really felt good.
And after Chip had been gone for a month, the very best thing happened! Mrs. Evans came back and handed me a little ball of fur. He looked something like Blacknose. Mother groaned, but there was a smile on her lips. I remembered that Dad had said that maybe this was one of the talents I was born with. If it was, I always had to do my best. Grateful, I took the wriggling puppy in my arms and thought, I’ll have you for a whole year. And a year is a long time!