Gospel Story Finder

Some of her greatest contributions to her community began in 1976, when riots erupted in Soweto. It was a dangerous time to be out and about in the community, but Julia was concerned about the hatred expressed by the youth. “I knew what it was like to feel isolated because of your own confusion. So I started a project in Soweto to bring young people into doing things, trying to find a message in what they did.”

Her project was to involve the youth in organic gardening—a passion she had developed a decade earlier while using natural foods to help her daughter heal from a congenital heart defect. As most families did not have enough ground for even a tiny garden, she arranged to clean up a rodent-infested plot of land. “As others watched us struggle with the overgrowth of stubborn weeds,” Julia recalls, “they too became involved, and we moved from corner to corner of Soweto replacing the useless and the ugly with the beneficial and beautiful.”

Part of the beauty Julia planted was in the hearts of the young. “When I was planting with them, I would say, ‘Now look, boys and girls, as we see this soil down here, it is solid and hard; but if we push down a spade or a fork, we will crack it and come out with lumps. And then if we break those lumps and throw in a seed, the seed will grow.

“This message is my message to young people. They should have it in their hearts. Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed, show love, and see what fruits it can give. Love will not come without forgiving others. Where there has been a blood stain, a beautiful flower must grow.” Her efforts helped repair not only the physical damage but also the moral damage caused by the riots.

Ten-year-old Vernon walked beside his father along the dusty road. He was helping herd the family’s new milk cow to the corral behind their house. Vernon’s father had been saving money to buy a cow because canned milk was too expensive and the family needed milk.
“What are we going to call her?” his father asked.
Vernon thought for a moment. “I think we should call her Daisy,” he said.
Vernon soon learned that Daisy had to be milked twice a day—every morning and every night. Before long Daisy was producing more milk than the family could drink.
One day Vernon’s mother came home from a Relief Society activity and said that one of the women in the ward had a sick baby. The doctor had said that if the baby had fresh cow’s milk to drink, he might get better.
“Since we have extra milk, would you please take a quart to Sister Goodman’s house every morning before school?” asked Vernon’s mother.
Vernon said he would. Sister Goodman did not live by the school so Vernon knew that he would have to get up early every morning to deliver the milk.
Each morning before school Vernon stopped at Sister Goodman’s house to deliver the jar of fresh milk. One day, just as he was saying good-bye to Sister Goodman, a neighbor asked Vernon to wait.
“Sister Goodman says you deliver the finest fresh milk around,” the neighbor said. “Will you please ask your parents if we could have some delivered to our house too? We would pay for the milk, of course.”
That night, Vernon told his parents about what Sister Goodman’s neighbor had asked. The next morning, Vernon delivered two quarts of milk, one to Sister Goodman and one to her neighbor. Before long, more neighbors wanted milk.
Soon almost everyone in town was asking if Vernon and his brothers could deliver fresh milk and butter to their homes. So many people wanted deliveries that Vernon’s father started using the horses and wagon to take Vernon and his brothers around before school. They bought a second cow, and then a third.
Vernon and his brothers got up at 4 a.m. each morning in order to get all the milking and delivering done before school started. And every two weeks, Vernon and his brothers went around town after school to collect the money for the milk. Because so many people wanted milk, Vernon’s father quit his job on the railroad. Now all of the money the family had came from the milk business.

I will forever be grateful to my Heavenly Father, and to my father, Teodoro Alvarez, for always being with me and guiding me back into the fold of the Church. One day, my dad came to my house and said, “Daisy, my daughter, I’m going to church on Sunday.”
That day was fast and testimony meeting. He stood up, bore his testimony, and reintroduced me to the Church. He told the brethren, “Take care of my daughter.”
Since then, I have been attending church regularly, and I have always said that wherever the Lord tells me to work, I will be there.

“The animals have to earn their keep.” Papa’s words echoed in Megan’s mind. The dogs guarded the sheep, and the chickens laid eggs. The sheep produced wool to sell. Megan helped shear them every spring, and their thick wool always looked like snow melting on the green field.
But Megan’s lambs were different. They were runts that were born last year, and they were too small to produce enough wool to pay for their upkeep. Papa had wanted to take them to the butcher, but the two tiny, frail babies had captured Megan’s heart. She’d pleaded to keep them, and Papa had finally agreed. “But,” he had warned her, “you will have to take care of them all by yourself.”
At first, everything had been OK. Megan had used her birthday money to buy hay when the lambs began to eat. But now her birthday money was gone, and Papa said it was too expensive to let the lambs graze in the field he rented outside town. Besides, Megan knew she would rarely see them if they went to the field. She sighed as she watched her lambs nibble the last bit of hay. It would be gone tomorrow, and she needed to find a way to feed her lambs.
Megan patted the white wool on the lambs’ heads as she leaned against the pen. Down her street she could see Mr. Flowers tending his roses. A couple of houses down, Mrs. Wilmot hobbled slowly out to get the mail. Mrs. Wilmot was a widow who lived all alone. Sometimes Megan’s brother raked leaves for Mrs. Wilmot, but he always complained because Mrs. Wilmot couldn’t afford to pay him.
Megan noticed how long Mrs. Wilmot’s grass was. “I’ll offer to trim her lawn for her,” Megan decided. “But not now. I need to find a way to feed my lambs.”
Suddenly Megan had an idea. Mrs. Wilmot had grass, and Megan had sheep that needed to graze—the perfect combination! Megan patted her lambs quickly on the head and ran to Mrs. Wilmot’s house. When Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, she beamed at Megan, happy to have a visitor. The words tumbled out of Megan’s mouth as she explained her idea.
“Mrs. Wilmot, I think this could be great for both of us!” Megan finished. She held her breath, waiting for a response.
“I think so too!” Mrs. Wilmot said. “I could use the company, and my lawn could use the help. Bring the lambs over first thing tomorrow morning.” Megan and Mrs. Wilmot smiled at each other, and Megan grinned all the way home.
The next day was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship. Megan took her sheep over to Mrs. Wilmot’s house every morning before school, and in the afternoons she stayed to visit for a while before she took her lambs home for the night. Mrs. Wilmot’s lawn stayed trimmed at the perfect height, and Megan’s lambs earned their keep.

While serving as a missionary in Quito, the beautiful capital city of Equador, I met a young member of the Church who exemplified what it means to give of oneself completely in the work of converting our fellowmen. Her home was among the humblest in Quito—her heart, among the greatest.
I’ll never forget the first time I met her. She was very short, at most 1.5 meters tall, and her light brown hair hung to the base of her neck with a slight upward curl. But what set her apart from the rest of the girls her age was that she had no teeth. This wouldn’t have seemed so unusual if she had been quite elderly, but Mirian was barely 19.
“What happened to Mirian’s teeth?” I questioned my companion as we left her home a short while later.
“I’ve wondered about that, too,” he replied, “but no one has ever said anything about it.”
The mystery was forgotten for the time being as we were very busy with missionary work. But a week after our first visit, we returned again to Mirian’s home. Her father, Brother Sanchez, had died about a year earlier, and this had created many difficulties for his family. Sister Sanchez now had to work long hours for low wages as a washerwoman across the city. And consequently Mirian had been forced to stop going to school to take care of the family while her mother was at work. They also had had to move from their old neighborhood into this small one-room house. We couldn’t help feeling concerned about their well-being and promised to come periodically to see them.
On this particular day, Rosa, a non-Mormon friend of Mirian’s, also came and Mirian suggested we teach her a little bit about the gospel. We gave her a portion of a discussion, but it soon became apparent that she was not interested. Nevertheless, we asked her if we could come and share our message with the other members of her family, and she agreed.
The next day we went to the Sanchez home and asked Mirian to go with us to see Rosa’s family. To our surprise she didn’t want to go, offering a number of weak excuses for not being able to go. We could tell she was keeping something from us and asked her to tell us what was really wrong. She then proceeded to explain.
Rosa lived in the neighborhood where Mirian had lived before her father died, she told us. After his death, the people of the area began to spread rumors about Mirian’s mother.
“One night I had had enough so I went out to defend my mother and what I knew was right. Several of those in the neighborhood decided to give me a hard beating that I would never forget. They started to beat me, hitting me mostly in the face. This is how I lost all my teeth,” she said, pointing to her mouth.
After she had told us what happened, she seemed relieved and said she would go with us if we really wanted her to. We were impressed by her courage and agreed that she should come.
The evening of the discussion arrived, and my companion and I went up the pathway leading to the Sanchez home. Sister Sanchez met us at the doorway, disapproval showing in her face. “I do not want my daughter returning to that horrible place.” she told us emphatically. We didn’t know what to say, but Mirian did. We listened in silence as she bore testimony to her mother that she knew there was a special reason she must go with us. Reluctantly, Sister Sanchez consented, but only with our solemn promise that we would return immediately if there were any problems.
Unfortunately, it turned out that Rosa’s family was not interested in hearing about the Church. As we turned away, Mirian began to tell us about the other families in the neighborhood, including a man she had dated for a while, until she realized he was a very worldly person with some bad habits. The Spirit touched me, and I insisted that Mirian take us to see him. Even though she was extremely hesitant, she guided us down a path to the home where Luiz lived with his parents and son. Upon answering the door he seemed quite surprised to see us, but invited us in and listened intently to the message we gave him. After we completed the formal discussion, he told us of his recent desire to join the true church of God, but he did not know which one it was or how to find it. He had already been going through the preliminary steps of repentance but felt the need of something more. He declared to us that his heart was telling him we were indeed representatives of the Lord’s true church. He was baptized a week later.
With the continued help of Mirian, coupled with Luiz’s assistance, we baptized nearly 25 people in this neighborhood in a period of six weeks. I’ll always remember the time we decided to talk with those who had harassed Mirian so badly before. As if nothing had happened between them, Mirian helped teach these families, several of whom became converted to the gospel.
Because of her deep faith in the Lord and his powers to protect, Mirian had overcome her fear of her fellowmen and had helped to teach the gospel to those who had physically scarred her for life. Many of them now revere her name for forgiving them and bringing them the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Editor’s note: Mirian died of complications from a ruptured appendix not long after this incident happened. But not before she accomplished a great member-mission and set a great example for others to follow.

Chen, Yang Su-yuan has been blind since 1981, when she developed complications after cataract surgery. But losing her eyesight helped her find the gospel and ultimately helped her see the importance of temple and family history work.
Having recently gone blind, Sister Chen didn’t realize that the two young ladies at her door asking for a glass of water were missionaries. Inviting them in made all the difference in her life.
“Most people considered me useless because I was blind,” Sister Chen says. “But that’s not what God wanted to tell me. He sent me missionaries after I lost my sight to teach me that we are all the children of God and that He ransomed us at a great price. I learned my worth because of the ransom Jesus paid. I am priceless.”
Since then, Sister Chen has served in many callings in the Chung Li First Ward, Tao Yuan Taiwan Stake, as well as serving in the temple since 1992.
But losing her sight wouldn’t be the only trial Sister Chen would have to face. In 1987 she almost died after developing a large cyst that required the removal of a rib. She survived, but the medical bills wiped out her life savings. She wondered why God hadn’t just taken her.
She said His response was, “You have many things left to do.”
Not long after, she felt the call of family history.
“I wondered, how am I going to do genealogy if I can’t see?” she says. “But the feeling didn’t go away.”
With the help of a dear friend, she has researched 22 generations of her main family line and done all of the ordinances for the women herself. She is now working on related branches. Along the way, she has come to appreciate the inseparable connection between temple work and family history.
“There are many ordinances we receive in the temple, and they are all important,” Sister Chen says. “But we must do our family history. We can’t give these ordinance to our ancestors without doing our genealogy.”
“Family history and temple work are one work,” said Elder Dennis B. Neuenschwander of the Seventy. “Family history research should be the primary source of names for temple ordinances, and temple ordinances are the primary reason for family history research.”
Sister Chen is now battling a new disease and the aftereffects of a minor heart attack. Twenty years after first asking God why He had left her, she found herself asking the same question—and receiving the same answer. “Haven’t I already told you?” she felt Him say. “You still have temple work to do.”
So Sister Chen continues to spend one week per month at the temple.
“These are things we have to do for our ancestors that they cannot do for themselves,” she says. “With my situation, I don’t have the time commitments that others have with work and such. I need to work hard now while I can.”

I’m nine years old and in the third grade. I love gymnastics, and last January I had worked hard preparing for a gymnastics exhibition. But as I sat and shivered through the evening, I realized that I was too sick to perform any of my routines.
Then things just got worse.
When I got over the flu, I came down with a disease that made my joints swell up so much I couldn’t walk. Big purple bruises covered my legs. I couldn’t do any gymnastics. I couldn’t even go to school.
Every day Mom went to my school and collected all the work I missed from my teacher. I sat at home all day and worked on it. Sometimes writing made blood vessels in my hands burst into new bruises. I really tried hard not to complain. Mom tried to cheer me up by telling me I was getting good at sewing and reading and other “sitting still” kinds of things. I’m not the “sitting still” type, though, and week after week of not moving around was really tough.
My 14-year-old sister, Jeanne, has a New Era poster in her room of a baby chick trying to crack out of an egg. The words say, “Adversity can make you strong.” I wasn’t sure what adversity meant, but I was sure that I was having plenty of it. I felt just like that little chick that couldn’t crack out of the egg.
It took six weeks for me to get better. Finally I could go back to school and gymnastics. Although I had kept up with my schoolwork, I was out of shape and far behind everybody else in gymnastics.
I knew the first gymnastics competition of the season was in May, and I knew I would have to work really hard to get ready. I did work really hard and was able to compete.
The next big competition was the state meet. My best friend, Natalie, and I did really well at all of our qualifying meets over the summer. We did so well, in fact, that we both qualified in all areas (vault, floor exercise, bars, and beam) to go to the state meet. We were so happy we were practically walking on air!
Then the unthinkable happened. Two weeks before the state meet I broke my ankle. When the doctor told me I wouldn’t be able to compete, I burst into tears. I had worked so hard to make it to state. I felt sorry for myself, and I was miserable. Why did everything always happen to me? I felt like I had a big, sad hole right in the middle of me.
On the day of the state meet, Natalie and her mom came to pick up Jeanne. I knew Natalie was really sad that I couldn’t go, so I tried my best to hold back the tears as I waved good-bye. After they left, I sat on the couch and cried.
When Jeanne got home from the meet, she told me that Natalie had done well and had won two medals. I was happy for her, but I still felt that big, sad hole in my heart.
The next day there was a knock at the door. I grabbed my crutches and hobbled over to answer it. It was Natalie. She was carrying a present for me in a small gift bag.
I opened the bag and pulled something heavy out of the tissue paper. It was one of Natalie’s state medals that she had worked so hard for! On the back was engraved, “To my best friend, Maria.” She said she knew I would have won it if I had been there.
The big, sad hole inside me melted, and I gave Natalie a giant hug. Suddenly the state meet didn’t seem so important. Being friends with Natalie was what was important, and I knew I couldn’t ever have a better friend!
That night when I went to bed, I thanked Heavenly Father for Natalie and for teaching me that love and friendship are more important than winning.

Jeff stood in his room, admiring his newest first place archery trophy. It was the third one he had won this year. He was thinking about how much he enjoyed archery—it had no pushing or shoving, like football did, and no need to be a good jumper or runner, like in basketball. There was just quiet practice until you were good at hitting the bull’s-eye.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother coming down the hall. “Jason and I are going to clean up the frog pond,” he said. “We won’t be gone long, Mom.”
“Are you sure you feel up to it?” Mother asked. “You still have a bump from yesterday.”
Jeff rubbed his forehead and felt the egg-shaped bump. He had gotten it in a fight with a new boy in the neighborhood, but he had told his mother he had fallen off his bike. Now he felt ashamed about lying to her. “Mom,” he said.
“Yes, Jeff?”
“Mom, I feel OK, but I didn’t really fall off my bike.” He lowered his head. “I got into a fight with that new boy down the street.”
“I see. Well, I was sort of wondering if that would happen.”
“You mean you thought I’d get into a fight with him?”
“Well, I hoped that you wouldn’t, but when some of the other mothers in the neighborhood told me that he’d picked fights with their sons, I figured that sooner or later he’d get around to you.”
“I didn’t even do anything to him,” Jeff began to explain. “I just told him that I didn’t believe that his father had been a general in the Army during the war. Why did he punch me for that?”
Jeff’s mother sat on his bed so that she could look him right in the eye. She spoke softly. “Some people hurt inside themselves almost all the time. And many times these people make up stories, thinking that they will help the hurt go away. Then when someone else points out that the stories aren’t true, they feel hurt and embarrassed, so they fight. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I think so. But what does that have to do with the new boy?”
“I think that maybe the new boy is hurting inside and feels that no one likes him. About two years ago, his mother and father died. Since then he’s lived with seven or eight different families. He’s staying with the Wilsons now, and although they hope to adopt him if things work out, I think that having lost his parents, and all that moving around between foster homes, makes him feel that no one wants him.”
Jeff could feel a hard lump in his throat as he thought about how bad he would feel if his own parents died.
His mom reached over and gave him a hug.
“Mom, what can I do if he keeps wanting to fight me?”
His mother thought a minute. “Well,” she began, “I’d say you should show him that you don’t want to hurt him, that you’d like to be his friend.”
“How do I do that?”
“I’m not sure, but there must be some way. Why don’t you pray about it? And if you see him today, you could invite him over for some cookies. I’m going to be baking some right away.”
Mom left, and Jeff was just getting up from his knees, when someone knocked on the front door. “That’s Jason,” he called to his mother. “We’ll be home for lunch.”
“You still have the lump, I see,” Jason said, pointing to Jeff’s forehead as the two boys headed towards the frog pond.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll get that kid. Billy’s going to meet us at the pond. If that new kid’s there, we’ll get him.”
“I don’t know, Jason. Maybe we should try to be his friend.”
“His friend? I’m not going to be his friend. Not after the way he’s been beating people up.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t have any friends.”
“Well, he won’t get me for one.”
By this time, the boys had arrived at the small band of trees that surrounded the frog pond. By looking between the trees, they could see that the new boy was indeed there, his back to them. They could see him standing on the bank of the pond, holding a bow and arrow. As they watched, he suddenly set them down, gathered a bunch of large rocks, and started chunking them into the frog pond.
“What’s he doing?” Jeff asked.
“I don’t know,” Jason answered.
Billy came up behind them. “What’re you guys watching?”
“Shhh,” Jason told him. “It’s that new kid. He’s throwing rocks at frogs or something—we can’t see what.”
The three boys continued to watch, hidden in the trees. Pretty soon the new boy reached down and pulled a small green and yellow turtle out of the pond. Jeff felt sick as he watched the turtle wildly wave its legs in a useless struggle to get away.
“What’d he do that for?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jason, “but let’s get him!”
Before Jeff could say anything, his two friends were scrambling through the trees toward the new boy. When he caught up with them, Jason and Billy had backed the new boy up to a tree.
“Why’d you grab that turtle?” Jason demanded.
“Yeah,” Billy added. “It never did anything to you.”
“It’s none of your business. It isn’t your turtle, is it?”
Jason jumped towards the boy and snatched the turtle out of his hand.
“Give it back,” the boy demanded.
“Make me,” Jason challenged as Billy moved over next to him.
Jeff saw traces of tears starting in the new boy’s eyes and thought about what his mother had said: “Try to show him that you don’t want to hurt him.” But how could he do that? He had an idea, but he wasn’t sure it would work. One thing he did know, though he would never help by doing nothing. He took a deep breath and stepped between Jason and the other boy.
“Let me just explain something,” he began. “It’s not our turtle, but we don’t like to see helpless things getting hit by rocks. Besides, you have a bow and arrow—why not try to hit something worthless”—he looked around for something he felt the boy could hit—“like that plastic milk jug over there?” Jeff pointed to a jug about twenty feet away.
“That? That’s easy. Watch this.”
The boy fit his arrow to the bow, took careful aim, and let the arrow fly. It hit the jug almost dead center.
“There! What’s so hard about that?”
“Well, it’s harder than throwing rocks at turtles, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but I wasn’t throwing at the turtle, just near it so I could catch it for a pet. Anyway,” he said, pointedly changing the topic, “I bet you couldn’t hit the jug at all, let alone dead center.”
Jason and Billy, who had been watching this exchange with some questioning in their eyes, now erupted in laughter. “Jeff is the best shot in the neighborhood. He has his own target in his backyard. He could shoot better than you with his eyes closed!”
The other boy quickly glanced at Jeff, and Jeff could see the distrust in his eyes. “Well, I do have my own target, but that doesn’t make me the best shot. Besides, we came over to clean up the litter, not use it for target practice. If you want to have a contest, though, let’s go to my house and do it there. Besides, my mom’s making some cookies right now, so we can get some while they’re warm. How about it?”
Jason and Billy didn’t say anything. They were still trying to figure out what was going on.
“I don’t know,” the boy replied. “What kind of cookies are they?”
“I’m not sure,” Jeff answered. “We’ll have to see when we get there.”
The boy thought a minute as he looked first at Jeff, then at Billy, then at Jason.
“OK,” he finally said. “But if I don’t like the cookies, I might leave.”
When Jason heard this, he started to say something, but Jeff spoke up quickly, “That’s OK—you can stay or leave or whatever you want.”
The other boy nodded his approval, Jason took the turtle back to the pond, and they all started off toward Jeff’s house.
Somehow Jeff knew that no matter what kind of cookies they were, the new boy would stay. And he had a feeling that there would be four boys cleaning up the frog pond that afternoon—as friends!

One week later some of my husband’s friends had a long talk with him. They got him to drink alcohol, and they said a lot of negative things against the Church. He came home angry and told me he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church. He said the children could not go to services, and if I went by myself, he would not let me in when I came home.
I felt very confused. I went into the bedroom and curled up on the bed. I thought about everything my husband had said. Then I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help me.
I soon fell asleep and had a beautiful dream. In my dream, I was with a large group of people. Half were on the left, and half were on the right. In the middle was a figure in white with two missionaries. The missionaries were wearing name tags that read, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They began walking toward me, and I knew that I was not to worry, that I had made the right decision.
I woke up crying, but I felt great peace and joy. I tried to tell my husband about the dream, but he didn’t want to hear anything about it. I was more convinced than ever that I had found the true Church.
I also knew the Lord would not forsake me. So when Sunday came, I gathered my courage and went to church with the children. When we returned home, we found the house locked and all our belongings outside. I was worried for the children’s sake, but I also felt we were being protected. I checked all the windows and found one that wasn’t locked. My son Luciano crawled in and opened the front door, and we took our belongings back in. From that day on, my husband and I had many arguments about the Church. In spite of this difficulty, my children and I continued to be fully active.
Two decades have now passed since we joined the Church, and we have been blessed in many ways. Two more children were born into our family. The year 1996 was especially wonderful. Luciano went on a mission to Italy, and our eldest grandson was baptized. And if that was not enough, Heavenly Father touched my husband’s heart concerning the Church. In December 1999 our family was sealed in the Sydney Australia Temple.
I have learned that Heavenly Father does hear our prayers. I also know that if we have faith in Christ and are determined to grow spiritually, we will, in time, receive all the righteous desires of our hearts, whether in this life or the next.

My father was very bright, and he wanted to study at a university. At that time the government where he lived chose who could attend universities and who could not. The government did not want people to believe in God. Dad was told that he could attend the university only if he would stop belonging to the Church and talking about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
My father knew he could not give up his faith. Instead, he and my mother, Helga, decided to leave their home. They boarded a train for West Germany, praying that they would be allowed to enter that country. At the border the police officers checking the trains did not check the compartment where my parents were riding. So they were able to begin a new life in a country where they could worship God. Two months later I was born.

When I was about three or four years old, my mother was the ward Relief Society president. Part of her responsibility, it seemed, was always to have a quilt in progress in our home. At any given time, sisters would filter in and out of our basement to quilt for a while. Often my mother would thread a needle for me and let me “quilt” with the sisters. (My clumsy stitches were patiently removed when I was not around.) I relished these moments and learned at a young age to love quilting and Relief Society.
My mother died suddenly when I was only five. It wasn’t until years later that I found out she had left me a great gift of love. The Christmas of my 19th year is one I will always remember, for that was when I received this most precious gift from my mother, although she had passed away 14 years earlier.
I hadn’t known it, but before my mother died she had pieced together two special quilt tops, one for my older brother and one for me. She had used little pieces of fabric from our dresses and shirts. But she had passed away before she could put the quilts together and do the quilting.
When I turned 19, my older sister felt it was time to complete the quilts for my brother and me, and she asked the ward Relief Society to finish them. The sisters sewed the intricate stitches without knowing how much it would have pleased my mother.
On Christmas Day when I received the quilt, I loved the gift with all my heart. But I had no idea how much more it would yet come to mean to me.
Years went by, and I married and started a family of my own. I kept my quilt wrapped in a plastic bag in a drawer to protect it from damage and wear. One day I took it out and was carefully admiring it when one of my little boys came into the room and asked me where I got the quilt. I explained to him that his Grandma Brown had made the quilt for me before she died.
“Who is Grandma Brown?” my young son asked.
How it pained me that my children had never known the mother I cherished. It hurt that she could not put her arms around them and tell them she loved them in her tender, gentle way. I explained to my son once again that Grandma Brown, my mother, was someone special in heaven who loved him.
“Why do you have that quilt, Mommy?” he asked.
Suddenly it came to me. I knew exactly why I had the quilt. I unfolded it and wrapped it around his little body. “I have this quilt so Grandma Brown can give you hugs even though she is in heaven,” I said.
A big smile spread across his face, and I could see that this was the best answer I could have given him.
Since then the quilt has made its way out of the drawer much more often. Whenever a family member is hurt, sad, or in need of extra love, the quilt is a great source of comfort. I love touching the quilt, knowing my mother’s hands have touched it also.
Many years have passed, and I can now quilt correctly. My sisters and I have spent many hours around quilting frames, talking about our mother. Since I am the youngest, my sisters tell me stories about her to help me know her better. Yet no matter how many stories I hear, nothing has helped me or my children turn our hearts to my mother more than the quilt I got for Christmas the year I turned 19.

Cara put down her pencil and stared at the piece of paper on her desk. It was blank except for her name and a big eraser smudge. “What should I write?” she thought.
Across the aisle, her friend Lily was writing busily. Cara put her head down and rested it on her arm.
Cara really liked her new school. It was in a church building of another religion, and her new class was small enough that her teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, had time to help her with math. Every day after math, Mrs. Schmidt taught a lesson from the Bible. Usually the Bible lessons were a lot like what Cara had learned at home and in Primary.
But a few weeks ago during a lesson about baptism, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that babies who died before they were baptized couldn’t go to heaven. Then she said that one of her own children died right after he was born. When she said that, Mrs. Schmidt looked like she was going to cry.
“But babies who die do go to heaven,” Cara wanted to say. If only Mrs. Schmidt knew that, maybe she wouldn’t be so sad anymore. But Cara felt too shy to say anything.
After school, Cara told Mom about what Mrs. Schmidt said. “Knowing that babies go to heaven is one of the blessings we have because of the Book of Mormon,” Mom said. Cara hoped that Mrs. Schmidt would read the Book of Mormon someday. She wished she had the courage to tell her about it.
Now in today’s lesson, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are all one person. Cara thought about how Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. She knew that They were two separate people and that each had a body. She was glad she knew that for sure, even before talking to Mom or Dad about it.
But then Mrs. Schmidt had said, “Class, please take out a piece of paper and write about what we have been talking about.”
That’s when Cara got a worried feeling in her stomach. She wanted to do the assignment the way her teacher wanted her to. Could she be brave enough to write what she knew was true?
With her head down on her desk, Cara began to say a silent prayer. “Please, dear Heavenly Father, what should I do?”
Almost at once, Cara began to feel calm and peaceful inside. The Holy Ghost whispered that if she wrote what was in her heart, everything would be OK.
Cara lifted her head, picked up her pencil, and began to write.
Heavenly Father and Jesus are two separate people. They have bodies of flesh and bone like we do. The Holy Ghost is a Spirit who can speak to us in our hearts.
After writing a few more sentences, Cara put her pencil down. She didn’t know what Mrs. Schmidt would think of what she had written, but she felt happy that she had been able to tell her teacher something important and true.

A few years ago, Sister Monson and I were in the city of Toronto, where we once lived when I was the mission president. Olive Davies, the wife of the first stake president in Toronto, was gravely ill and preparing to pass from this life. Her illness required her to leave her cherished home and enter a hospital which could provide the care she needed. Her only child lived with her own family far away in the West.

I attempted to comfort Sister Davies, but she had present with her the comfort she longed to have. A stalwart grandson sat silently next to his grandmother. I learned he had spent most of the summer away from his university studies, that he might serve his grandmother’s needs. I said to him, “Shawn, you will never regret your decision. Your grandmother feels you are heaven-sent, an answer to her prayers.”

He replied, “I chose to come because I love her and know this is what my Heavenly Father would have me do.”

Tears were near the surface. Grandmother told us how she enjoyed being helped by her grandson and introducing him to each employee and every patient in the hospital. Hand in hand, they walked the halls, and during the night he was close by.

Olive Davies has passed on to her reward, there to meet her faithful husband and together continue an eternal journey. In a grandson’s heart there will ever remain those words, “Choose the right when a choice is placed before you. In the right the Holy Spirit guides” (Hymns, no. 239).

When I returned to the Czech Republic from Utah, I was the only member of the Church not just in my town, Chrastava (population 8,000), but also in Liberec (population 120,000), a city about six miles (10 km) from Chrastava. I worked as a hotel receptionist and taught English in a private high school. I was desperately seeking to find my new place at home. I was close to giving up. Nevertheless, I continued to kneel every night and pray for a miracle that would bring me out of my despair. I also tried very hard to stay away from my old habits and friends.
Finally my prayers were answered. The missionaries came to Liberec, where I was teaching. (I later learned that Brother Hodson had contacted the mission president for the Czech Republic and told him about me. Now there is a growing branch of about 40 Latter-day Saints in my hometown.)

I’ll never forget one high school football game against a rival school. I played the wingback position, and my assignment was to either block the linebacker or try to get open so the quarterback could throw me the ball. The reason I remember this particular game so well is because the fellow on the other side of the line—the man I was supposed to block—was a giant.
I wasn’t exactly the tallest athlete in the world. But I think this other guy may have been. I remember looking up at him, thinking he probably weighed as much as two of me. Keep in mind, when I played we didn’t have the protective gear that players have today. My helmet was made of leather, and it didn’t have a face guard.
The more I thought about it, the more I came to a sobering realization: if I ever let him catch me, I could be cheering for my team the rest of the season from a hospital bed.
Lucky for me, I was fast. And for the better part of the first half, I managed to avoid him.
Except for one play.
Our quarterback dropped back to pass. I was open. He threw the ball, and it sailed towards me.
The only problem was that I could hear a lumbering gallop behind me. In a moment of clarity, I thought that if I caught the ball there was a distinct possibility I could be eating my meals through a tube. But the ball was heading for me, and my team was depending on me. So I reached out, and—at the last instant—I looked up.
And there he was.
I remember the ball hitting my hands. I remember struggling to hang on to it. I remember the sound of the ball falling to the turf. After that, I’m not exactly sure what happened, because the giant hit me so hard I wasn’t sure what planet I was on. One thing I did remember was a deep voice coming from behind a dark haze: “Serves you right for being on the wrong team.”
William McKinley Oswald was my high school football coach. He was a great coach and had a profound influence on my life. But I think he could have learned his method of motivating players from an army drill sergeant.
That day, during his half-time speech, Coach Oswald reminded the whole team about the pass I had dropped. Then he pointed right at me and said, “How could you do that?”
He wasn’t speaking with his inside voice.
“I want to know what made you drop that pass.”
I stammered for a moment and then finally decided to tell the truth. “I took my eye off the ball,” I said.
The coach looked at me and said, “That’s right; you took your eye off the ball. Don’t ever do that again. That kind of mistake loses ball games.”
I respected Coach Oswald, and in spite of how terrible I felt, I made up my mind to do what Coach said. I vowed to never take my eye off the ball again, even if it meant getting pounded to Mongolia by the giant on the other side of the line.
We headed back onto the field and started the second half. It was a close game, and even though my team had played well, we were behind by four points late in the fourth quarter.
The quarterback called my number on the next play. I went out again, and again I was open. The ball headed towards me. But this time, the giant was in front of me and in perfect position to intercept the pass.
He reached up, but the ball sailed through his hands. I jumped high, never taking my eye off the ball; stabbed at it; and pulled it down for the game-winning touchdown.
I don’t remember much about the celebration after, but I do remember the look on Coach Oswald’s face.
“Way to keep your eye on the ball,” he said.
I think I smiled for a week.

Paul Hanks gripped the handle of his canvas duffel bag with a sweaty hand and listened to his mother repeat the instructions that she had been drilling into him all week.
“Now, your bus will get to Cheyenne in the middle of the night, and you’ll have to change bus stations there. Just go outside the depot, look across the street, and you’ll be able to see the other depot. Go over there and buy your ticket right away, even though you’ll probably have a couple of hours before your bus leaves, and—”
“You’ll get to Grandma and Grandpa’s in the middle of the morning!” Paul’s two little sisters, who had heard the speech as many times as he had, finished their mother’s sentence in shrill unison.
“Maybe you should send them, too, Rose,” Paul’s father said with a chuckle. “It’s just a bus trip. He’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Mom,” Paul reassured her. “I remember how the rest of us did it when Dad couldn’t go a couple years ago. I’ll be OK.” Then, thoughtfully, he added what he’d been thinking ever since he’d found out that he’d be going to Wyoming by himself for the summer. “You know, I wish I was going by covered wagon or pulling a handcart. All the challenges are gone now. I’m going to be doing in a few hours what the pioneers spent most of a summer doing—and some of them died in the effort.”
“No challenges!” his mother exclaimed. “I’m worried to death about turning a twelve-year-old boy over to an impersonal bus company, and you’re looking for challenges! I suppose you want to hunt buffalo too!”
Paul grinned. “Well, it might keep me from getting bored.”
Before he could continue, a big silver bus pulled up to the curb, and a voice over a loudspeaker announced that it was the bus to Cheyenne and that it was ready to board. Paul hurriedly hugged his sisters and father, gave his mother a quick kiss, and, hopping that he looked more confident than he felt, boarded the bus. As it pulled out of the depot, he waved from a window seat, then settled back to watch the prairie whiz by.
Paul was sound asleep when the bus reached Cheyenne, and the driver had to wake him. But Paul managed to retrieve the big suitcase that he had checked, and he struggled across the street with it and his duffel bag. He bought his ticket, checked his suitcase again, then bought some cookies and a can of pop from a vending machine. He was glad to go back to sleep again on the bus when he was finally headed north.
Paul was tired of sleeping, tired of sitting, and tired of reading, when the bus pulled into a small rural town in northern Wyoming at midmorning. He was glad to see Grandma and Grandpa Hanks waiting for him. They loaded Paul’s baggage into the back of a battered pickup and, amid lots of hugs and questions about his trip and the family, had him sit between them on the seat.
“We have one stop to make before we go home,” Grandpa told Paul. “If you’re going to be my best hand for the summer, you need some irrigation boots and a shovel.”
“That’s great,” Paul agreed. “I’d love to have my own shovel, but not those hot, heavy rubber boots. I brought a couple pairs of old sneakers. I’ll just use those.”
“But your feet will be wet and muddy all the time,” Grandma protested.
“Now you sound like Mom.” Paul grinned. “A little mud never hurt anyone.”
It was after lunch before Paul and Grandpa Hanks left the house to irrigate.
“You drive,” Grandpa told him as they neared the pickup.
“Me? Oh boy!” Paul climbed in proudly, then found it wasn’t as easy as it looked to work the clutch on the old pickup and back up smoothly. He killed the engine a time or two and jerked the pickup so much that Grandpa had to hold his hat with one hand and the dashboard with the other. Maybe it’s a good thing that the pioneers had horses, Paul thought.
“By the time your father was your age, he could drive everything on the place,” Grandpa said. “Why, I started him guiding the truck across the field while I fed hay to the cows off the back of it when he was only eight years old. When we got to the end of the field, he just turned off the ignition key and waited for me to turn the truck around and start us back. It was a proud day when he could reach the brake and the clutch pedals without getting off the seat and when he could shift gears without taking his eyes off the road. You turn here.”
Paul turned the pickup at the head of a grassy field and stopped beside the dam in the irrigation ditch.
“Whew!” he gasped. “That was fun. I’m too young to drive at home. I wish I could live in the country all the time.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that in a few weeks,” Grandpa replied. “Now let’s walk down the field and see if the water has run all the way through.”
Paul took his new shovel and followed Grandpa down the field. He helped reset the irrigation dam twenty rows from the last setting and learned to carefully shovel cutouts. They had to be just so—too deep, and the turbulent water would wash away the sides of the ditch; too shallow, and the feeble stream of water wouldn’t reach the end of the field. After only a few minutes of digging, the shovel handle had made blisters on Paul’s hands. He was hot and thirsty, and there were two more fields to irrigate before chore time. By the time they had finished irrigating, Paul could almost drive the pickup without it jerking.
Grandpa proudly pointed out the various crops that they passed: a new variety of field corn that was supposed to produce superior silage, a field of alfalfa for hay, a field of oats, and a small field of winter wheat. “Wheat for man, and corn for the ox, and oats for the horse,” Grandpa said, quoting the Word of Wisdom scripture that was familiar to Paul too.
“It’ll be a good crop,” Grandpa said, “if the irrigation water just holds out. We’ll have to make the most of what we have.” He pointed out one field where the water that ran through it would be used on the field below it. “Every drop counts.”
Besides irrigating, the chores that Paul was to help with included feeding a few pigs and a couple calves (Grandma tended the chickens), calling the saddle horses in from pasture for grain, watering the stock, and milking and feeding the milk cow. But when Grandpa saw Paul’s broken blisters, he decided to wait a few days to see if Paul remembered how to milk.
When Grandpa asked the blessing at suppertime, he said, “Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for this fine young man who has come to brighten our days and ease our way …”
That night as Paul settled onto the fluffy feather pillow and cool, smooth sheets with the moonlit tree-limb pattern on them, he decided that he had had enough challenges for one day.
In the next few days the blisters on his hands turned into calluses as Paul followed Grandpa and helped irrigate and rode horseback to move a dozen heifers to a different pasture. He carried heavy buckets for Grandma and still found plenty of time to watch the baby chicks and play with a litter of kittens.
On Saturday afternoon, when he and Grandpa went to make the second irrigation settings of the day, Paul counted the rows to where he thought he should move the dam.
“Not there,” Grandpa told him. “Go more than twice as far.” When he saw that Paul didn’t understand, he explained. “Tomorrow is Sunday. If we spread the water farther, it can run over twice as long. We can leave it safely until early Monday. We’ve labored our six days. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a day of rest.”
They were on the last field, setting long sets with small, shallow cutouts, when Paul heard a splash, a sickening snap, and a cry of pain. He turned in time to see Grandpa sliding in the mud with one leg in an unnatural position under him. Paul ran quickly to him. “Grandpa, are you all right?”
Grandpa grimaced and gasped in pain. “My leg is broken. You’ll have to go for help. Tell your grandma to call for the county ambulance—and don’t you let her get all upset! Tell her I’m going to be fine. Looks like you’ll have to do chores by yourself. Can you do it?”
Paul nodded.
“Now go—and be careful.”
Paul put his shovel over his shoulder and ran toward the pickup. At least we can call the paramedics, he thought. What would I have done on the prairie in a handcart company?

Paul hurried to the house and told Grandma to call the county ambulance. Then he did the chores by himself, just as Grandpa had asked. Later, after the ambulance had taken Grandpa to the hospital, Paul kept on helping Grandma with the work around the farm.

The next day was Sunday, and Paul went to church with Grandma. He thought about Grandpa’s broken leg and about all the work that had to be done on the ranch, and he realized that the “challenges” he had been wishing for had come after all. They were not the kind he had expected, but they were real enough.

When Grandpa came home from the hospital, Paul was waiting for him. “How is your leg?” he asked.
“It’ll heal,” Grandpa said. “And you did fine while I was gone.”
Paul smiled. “I guess the pioneers had challenges enough.”
Grandpa smiled back. “They sure did. And so do we. The important thing is to do what needs to be done.”
Paul nodded. He knew now that real challenges were not something to hunt for just to keep from getting bored. They were opportunities to serve and to grow.

(To be continued.)

María stood in the slow-moving line at the carnícería (meat shop). She already had the fresh-baked loaves of bread from the panadería (bakery) in her shopping bag. She smiled as she heard a woman nearby talking about her.
“There aren’t very many young girls who can select meat for their family,” the woman was telling her companion. “But have you noticed how carefully María watches the butcher to make sure he cuts the meat just so!”
I enjoy shopping for Mamá, María thought to herself as she left the marketplace and hurried home with the meat and bread.
When María arrived home, Mamá was in the kitchen preparing and cooking soup for dinner that evening.
“Whew! It’s just ten o’clock and already it’s a hot day!” Papá exclaimed as he came in for a cool drink of water. Soon Papá, Mamá, and María were talking about María’s school, the hot weather, and other things. María loved Saturdays. It was good to be together as a family!
A loud clapping at their front gate announced company. María went to the window and called, “What do you want?”
Two blond young men neatly dressed in suits, white shirts, and ties stood at the gate. They said they wished to speak with her father.
“Papá,” María called. Papá and Mamá joined her at the window. Mamá explained that these young men had called yesterday and she had asked them to come back when Papá would be home.
“Come in, come in!” Papá called, opening the door to welcome the young men.
They asked Papá for permission to offer a prayer. He agreed, and tears came to María’s eyes as she listened, for their words were the same ones she used when she talked to Heavenly Father in her heart! She didn’t know people dared to pray like that out loud.
The visitors called themselves elders, and they told about a young man who had talked with God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ and afterward had organized a church. María’s heart pounded furiously as the elders said that they knew these things were true and that there was a living prophet on the earth today who was president of the church that the young man, Joseph Smith, had organized.
The family looked forward to each visit of the elders. María enjoyed going to Primary, and she was especially happy when her entire family attended Sunday School and other church meetings together. Now they had family prayer each morning and night, and María said her own prayers out loud. The elders taught them about temples, where they could be sealed together as a family forever!
On the day of their baptism María watched her father and then her mother go under the water in their beautiful white clothes. Then it was María’s turn. An elder took her by the hand, raised his other hand, and said a short prayer.
As María walked out of the water, she felt a warm glow of happiness. Now she was truly a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She could hardly wait to share the gospel with all of her friends.

I took one step into the air-conditioned house and collapsed into a chair. When my mom walked into the room, I gave her my best I’ve-had-a-rough-day-feel-sorry-for-me look. She looked at me for a moment and saw that I was covered with dirt and grease from the tip of my nose to my steel-toed work boots. Then she merely said, “How was your first day at work?”
I was disappointed that she couldn’t tell just by looking at me how awful it was to slave for eight hours in a machine shop. But I was grateful for the opportunity to tell my sad story. Trying to get the most sympathy possible, I started with the best and made my way to the worst. I began by telling about the loud machines and the heavy lifting. It’s not easy to make someone feel sorry for you and still maintain your state of honor. However, 17 years of practice paid off, and I think I did an excellent job.
Finally, I had built up to the worst part of my summer job: my co-workers. I told my mom how I was helping one lady shovel metal slugs when she began swearing. Now this was not unusual, but I must have given this woman an unintentional look because she began to defend herself. “I never used to swear before I started working here. If you work here long enough, you will too,” she said.
On my break, I bought a pack of gum from a vending machine. As I began chewing a piece, one of my co-workers said, “You really should smoke instead of chew gum.” At the machine shop, a person doesn’t have to be on break to smoke, so two-thirds of the people I work with are doing it all day. After that comment, I thought, What have I gotten myself into?
I finished my story by telling my mom that I wasn’t going back the next day. She had heard this line a million times before when I would come home from school, so she just nodded knowingly. When I told the rest of the family at dinner that evening, my dad said something like, “I think it will be a good experience for you. It’ll build character.”
I went back to work the next day and continued to be repulsed by my co-workers and their lifestyles. By the end of the week, I was spending my break time outside in the sweltering heat instead of inside listening to their vulgar stories and inhaling second-hand smoke.
At lunch I would drive to a nearby park and read the Book of Mormon as I ate. One day I had stopped reading and was thinking about my co-workers. Suddenly, something Jesus Christ had said came to mind. When I got home I found the scripture I had been looking for in Matthew 22:39. It says, “And the second [commandment] is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” [Matt. 22:39]
All of this time, I had been thinking I was better than my co-workers because I didn’t smoke or swear. When I read that scripture, it really humbled me. It occurred to me that if I can’t learn to love my neighbor, it doesn’t matter how great the rest of my life is. The second greatest commandment isn’t to keep the Word of Wisdom. It’s to love your neighbor.
I soon changed my attitude about my co-workers and tried to appreciate them for who they are. Less than a week later, my car broke down and I locked my keys in the car. My fellow employees were quick to help. I’m not sure what I would have done without them. It was then that I realized that despite some bad habits, they are still children of our Father in Heaven.
At the beginning of the summer I wanted to quit. Then I learned to love others, and now I want to go back next year.

My best friend in high school was an agnostic. My friend said he didn’t know if there was a God, but if a God created us, He must have gone far away and left us all alone. Why else would so many bad things happen in this world? How could a God who watched over His children let them be hurt so much?
I understood why some people did bad things. I knew about agency and the effects of choices we make. My widowed mother had taught me about those things at home. I knew the gospel was the right way to live. I saw it work for my mother in her life, and I knew in my mind that it was the way Heavenly Father wanted us to live.
But I didn’t know this where it really counted—in my heart. I thought I was sure of the truth, but sometimes I had my own “why” and “what if” questions about God and His plan for us. I wasn’t so sure of what I “knew” that I could tell my friend and mean it with every part of me.
That kind of knowing did not come until I took a Book of Mormon class while I was in college. Sister Irene Spears taught the class as if the Book of Mormon were completely new to us. In a way it was for me; I had never read the book all the way through. When I reached the end, I found Moroni’s promise to readers: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). I knew this promise was to me. I got on my knees beside my bed to ask.
I didn’t expect an answer to be so strong or to come so fast. Before I could finish the words of my prayer, I knew that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. If those things were true, then David O. McKay was also a prophet, and he had said that every young man who was able should go on a mission, so I was going on a mission.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”