Gospel Story Finder

The river is spread with wisps of morning mist, and a girl with golden hair lies in her sleeping bag, her head propped in her hands. She looks for a long time as the tide flows out. Dragonflies dart in and out of the mist and a light breeze mumbles in the tules across the river. The smell of rich earth, wet reeds, and slow water hangs over her like a summer incense. Above the drowsy hum of insects, a fish now and then makes an indolent plop somewhere, and the water is brown and silver in the morning.
After a while the girl lays her head down and dozes with the others.
With no alarm clocks to make the sun an enemy, the girls slept late that morning on the Sacramento River Delta, and when they awoke, they still felt like the inhabitants of a dream.
The dream began in Danville, California, where the Mia Maids and Laurels of the Danville Ward, along with their adult leaders, met one morning under cloudy skies to load suitcases, sleeping bags, water skis, and supplies into their cars. Later, as they rolled through the lion-colored hills of a California summer, the sun seared away the clouds and burned its seal of approval onto their horizon.
There was magic in that solar endorsement because from that moment the world’s rotation appeared to slow. The three-day adventure seemed to last weeks, and contrary to all previous experience, the more fun the girls had, the longer the days lasted. It was as if time were being poured from a cruse of sunshine that could never run dry.
When they arrived at Bethel Island, the girls poured out of the cars to inspect the small summerhouse that was to be their vacation home. Behind the house was a high levee, and they poured over that also to discover a stream whiskered with docks, the warm, brown tide flowing out. They were happy to learn that this stream was just part of an 1,100 mile spiderweb of interconnecting tidal waterways that they proceeded to christen collectively “The River.” During the next three days the river became the setting for a thousand watery adventures.
The most prevalent adventure was waterskiing. Some girls performed as if they were born on skis, others as if they were likely to die on them. Some cut graceful furrows with slalom skis. Others gouged furrows with their faces; but they kept trying, and eventually everyone got up. They skied and skied under the opulent sun till everyone was bright pink and then bright red. And even then they kept on skiing.
One day they took a trip to the Meadows, a gentle backwater slough where tall, shady trees line a sandy beach. The sky there was blue enough to swim in, and the trees stood out against the sun like negatives of themselves. They nosed the boat into shore alongside tall houseboats and jumped out for a lunch of submarine sandwiches. Afterwards they lazed and floated under the sun and went exploring in the boats through green corridors of smooth water.
They glided under a high railroad bridge where unknown urchins in cut-offs clung like spiders, leaping off now and then as if on filaments of silk.
They nosed up to tangled blackberry thickets that hung over the water, picking and eating the huge berries by the handfuls.
They played king of the hill atop a giant inner tube, splashing like dying stunt men into the white cushion of reflected clouds.
They frolicked like otters among patches of water lilies.
They stood rooted in air, earth, and water, groping with their toes for freshwater clams in the luxurious mud, water to their chests. They skittered frisbees along the shallows, swam with slow, lazy strokes in the deep, and napped on the cool sand of the shore, and when they had done everything once, they started all over again. After all, they had forever. They were Californians, and the sun was their birthright. It stood still for them as if they were so many Joshuas, as if the day, the summer, and their youth would never end.
Once, in the quiet shade of the bank, Bishop Alan P. Johnson could be seen in earnest conversation with a new girl in the ward, as intent as if she were the whole Church.
Late that afternoon they returned home, towing skiers all the way. It was a fitting exit, but by no means to be compared with their entrance that morning, when they had walked on the water—thanks to a sandbar right smack in the middle of the broad Sacramento River the girls had splashed along apparently on the surface of the waves.
They spent another day on a small sandy island in the middle of a channel, boating and sunning. Some of the beginners tried their hand at skiing and hit the water like naval artillery, kicking up fountains of water and flying skis.
“I know what you did wrong,” a helpful friend on the bank called to a casualty. “You forgot to close your eyes!”
She watched as her friend tried again, this time performing a beautiful belly flop and skipping on the water like a lopsided stone. “That was better!” the coach on the shore said. “She remembered to close her eyes that time.”
Another sadistic onlooker chimed in with a word of shouted advice: “Whatever happens, don’t let go!”
When they weren’t skiing or boating, some of the girls became artists, creating lofty-towered sand castles on the beach and then watching the tide lay seige to and finally overwhelm their ramparts.
On the way home that day the girls jumped out of the boat several hundred yards from their home dock and let the tide carry them in.
One day on the river the girls visited the town of Locke, constructed originally by the Chinese laborers who built the levees and now occupied by their descendants. Here the girls explored the streets of two-story, tic-tac-toe wooden houses and mysterious passageways that were neither streets nor alleys.
Meanwhile, back at the house, there was both work and resting to do in between the playing. Three times a day the girls cooked delicious meals and then handled the cleanup efficiently. One night when a Mia Maid was called to help with the dishes, she said quietly to a friend, “Actually, it’s not my turn, but I’ve got to get over the habit of complaining,” and she went to wash the dishes. When she was gone her friend sat in silence for a moment. Then she sighed and said, “I haven’t helped wash the dishes yet. I guess I should go help even though they didn’t assign me,” and she went. Soon an assembly-line sudsfest was underway, accompanied by a spirited medley of folk songs and so much all-purpose hilarity that several more unassigned girls joined in just for the fun of it.
One evening the group dined on mouth-watering fried catfish donated by a neighbor lady. Later that night they visited the good woman and sang her a song of appreciation. Not content to leave it at that, the girls used their talented toes the next day to find her a sackful of clams for fishbait.
At night the girls filled the bedrooms, the sun room, the sun deck, the combination kitchen-dining-living room, and spilled out over the levee onto the dock, where they slept with the gentle rocking of the waves and the murmur of the moving water. A few girls even slept in the boats that were moored to the dock. These outdoor dwellers were treated to a huge moon that rode above the tules and made the river into a highway of gold, not to mention the sun that rose each morning on a tide of cricket and bird songs to burn away the mist.
“Wow! Did you see that sunrise?” one ecstatic girl asked her sleepy companion after the sleeping bags had been put away.
“Yeah,” her more prosaic friend replied. “I woke up and took a look and said, ‘Well what do you know, there’s the sunrise,’ and then I went back to sleep.”
As with any group of Mormons totaling more than one, there were some meetings too. Their first night on the river the girls enjoyed a talent night that included readings, songs, and even some magic. The second night there was a family home evening in which the girls shared ideas on the importance of being a child of God. They expressed their love for the Savior and nodded quietly, as one young lady said, “Whenever you build a wall between yourself and another human being, you build a wall between yourself and Jesus Christ.”
There was plenty to do in spare moments: sleeping, fishing off the dock, writing letters, writing in journals, scripture study, gab sessions, sailing a little two-girl boat with a sail like another white cloud under the sky, and a lot more, including first aid treatments for sunburns. And sometimes they just dived off the dock or sat watching the tide flow in or out, ceaselessly, day and night.
At least as warming as the sun was the love these young women showed toward one another. Whenever a girl was seen standing shyly apart, a kindly arm would appear around her shoulders to draw her in, When there was disagreement, it was settled by discussion rather than argument. There were no cliques, no in-groups or out-groups, no social outcasts, no cruel jests or biting sarcasm. When it was mentioned to one of the girls that they seemed surprisingly free from backbiting, she said, “How can there be backbiting? We know that there shouldn’t be.”
Another girl explained, “I’m trying to learn how to love other people. I’m learning to do things for them, to stop thinking ‘want’ and start thinking ‘give’.”
Two of the girls in the very thick of the action on the three-day adventure were nonmembers, and they appeared to be loving every minute of it. That’s not surprising considering the missionary record of the Danville young people. Half the Laurel class consists of converts introduced to the gospel by the young people of the ward. The previous year there had been ten baptisms attributed to the efforts of the young men and women, and the work was going on. They talk openly to their friends about the Church, knowing what an important gift they have to offer.
“A lot of kids at school say they don’t know who they are,” one girl said. “Well, we know who we are!”
The last evening of their stay on the river, the girls had a testimony meeting. One of the girls brought a roll of tissue and set it in the center of the group in easy reach of anyone with leaky eyes. More than one needed it as they bore testimony of the gospel and their love for the Lord and one another. A nonmember girl stood with tears in her eyes to tell of her love for the Mormon girls and their leaders although she hadn’t yet gained a testimony of the gospel. A girl who had been in the ward only a week and in the Church only a few months told how she had come on the trip homesick for her old ward and fearing loneliness and rejection. But in three days she had come to feel she had known these girls all her life.
The next morning, as four girls debated the best way to get four suitcases, four sleeping bags, four pillows and four overnight bags into the trunk of one Volkswagen, the group took their leave of the river. They said good-bye to each other as if they were not to meet again for a long while, although they were merely taking a short drive back to the same city. But they were saying good-bye not so much to one another as to a wonderful experience that would soon pass from the full color of the present to the black and white of memory.
But the color hasn’t all faded yet. There is still a girl skiing at sundown, golden in the silver wake, flinging curtains of glittering spray as she leans into each turn. There are the girls in bright bathing suits singing Mormon Tabernacle Choir songs as passing boaters look at them and wonder. There are the bright orange life preservers as the girls float with the pull of the tide.
There is the duotone image of a young girl sitting on the sun-deck in a quiet moment, reading the Book of Mormon and thinking.
And above the images, the color, the splashing and laughter and sunshine and delicious river smells is the reality that is the foundation of all the joy these young people find in life. As one young lady said, “In my last interview the bishop asked me what I had learned this year. I think what I’ve learned this year is that without the gospel nothing else in this whole world really matters.”

Peni and Jieni Naivaluvou doubled the size of their family when they took in four girls from Vanuatu who were attending the Fiji LDS Church College. But the Naivaluvous do not see this as a sacrifice. They feel they have been amply blessed for doing it. One of those blessings, they believe, is the addition to their family of baby Hagoth, born in January 2009.
In early 2008 Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou of the Tamavua Ward, Suva Fiji North Stake, heard that two young students from Vanuatu needed a place to board, so the Naivaluvous took stock of their own situation. Their sons, Soane, 18, and Ross, 16, were away from home attending a Church school in Tonga, the land of their father’s ancestry. The two girls from Vanuatu were boarding, at high cost to their parents, with a non-LDS family in Suva. The two girls would be good company for then 13-year-old Andrea Naivaluvou; Andrea also attends the Church College and was arriving home in the afternoon before her parents were off work. So Brother and Sister Naivaluvou decided they would invite the two girls from Vanuatu to live in their home at no charge.
The girls insisted on helping with costs, but still their expenses were less than half of what they had been paying earlier—a blessing for their families.
In April two other Vanuatuan girls came for a visit and enjoyed the atmosphere of the Naivaluvou home. A short time later these two girls asked if they too might come there to live. The Naivaluvous gladly took them in.
How did it work to have four extra young people in the home? “We’ve built up such a bond it’s more like they are our daughters,” Bishop Naivaluvou says. The Naivaluvous made it clear from the beginning that the girls were to be considered part of the family. The four girls from Vanuatu actually are related to each other, but in the Naivaluvou home they treated each other like sisters born of the same parents. Andrea Naivaluvou also came to accept them “like my sisters,” she says; the older girls watched out for her and even helped her with homework when there was a need. The four girls began to call Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou Ta and Na—“Dad” and “Mom” in Fijian.
This may be the first time, Sister Naivaluvou says, that girls from Vanuatu who are attending the Church College have been able to board with member families. The father of one of the girls, when he came to visit, expressed his deep gratitude to the Naivaluvous for the love they have shown his daughter.
Sister Naivaluvou points out that one of the girls, the daughter of a district president on Vanuatu, was a great example to their family through her faith; Bishop Naivaluvou says her example helped his family be more consistent about scripture study and family prayer.
Both of the Naivaluvous say they have been blessed temporally because they have shared with others. Their resources have gone farther. And Sister Naivaluvou believes the blessing of being able to become pregnant again after 13 years is connected with their willingness to share love with others.
When the Naivaluvous’ two sons returned home at the end of their school year in Tonga, they too accepted the young women as part of the family. But perhaps Soane can be excused for not seeing the girls exactly as sisters. He found himself drafted as a prom date for one of the young women. He played his role like a gentleman.
When the four girls finished their school year and returned home to Vanuatu late in 2008, the farewells were heart tugging, Bishop Naivaluvou recalls. It was as though he and his wife were saying good-bye to four daughters. And when a new school year began in 2009, the Naivaluvous were glad to welcome their four “daughters” back—plus two more.
With only four sleeping rooms in their home, some would wonder how they could make room for six young women in addition to their own daughter and new baby. But the Naivaluvou family quickly worked it out without difficulty.
After all, it was not a matter of personal space. It was simply a matter of expanding their circle of love.

Cole Negebauer, a priest in the Shiloh Ward, knows all about being nervous to perform such a sacred ordinance. When he was asked to baptize his younger sister, Corie, he had been a member for only three years. His own baptism and the baptism of his parents and younger brother were still fresh in his mind, and he remembered how important it was to him.

So when it came time to baptize his sister, he was more than a little nervous about doing it right. The baptismal prayer isn’t a long prayer, but like the sacrament prayer, it must be said word for word. “I prayed about it a lot. I prayed that I’d not be nervous and that I’d be able to remember the words.”

It helped. But like Dan, Cole was in for a surprise when his family arrived at the church the day of the baptism. “It was packed,” he says. “We had to move into the chapel.”

When the important moment came, though, as Cole recited the words “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ,” he learned that when you’re acting worthily in the name of the Lord, you’re not alone. “I felt calm. I could feel the Holy Ghost there with me. It felt right. I knew I was doing something Heavenly Father wanted me to do.”

To Cole, blessing the sacrament and baptizing are important, but there’s more to holding the priesthood than that. Holding the priesthood means living right and being an example so he can perform those ordinances worthily.

“Some of my friends at school don’t understand why I don’t do some of the things they do, like watching R-rated movies or drinking and stuff like that. It’s hard to explain the priesthood. But they know I won’t do those things. Some think it’s cool. Some think it’s weird. But everybody knows.”

Honoring the priesthood has helped Cole prepare for his mission. Through Cole’s example and friendship, one friend and his two brothers were baptized. Another friend is playing basketball every week with some of the young men in the ward.

“I’m glad I have the priesthood and can use it more than just every Sunday,” he says. “It has strengthened my testimony. It’s given me confidence to do what’s right.”

Another “home front” soldier for the Lord is a taxi driver. In his cab hangs a sign which reads, “I Care.” Most passengers ask “What do you care about?” This good brother then explains that he belongs to a church that cares about people. If his passengers inquire further he accommodates their interest by handing them a copy of the Book of Mormon from the supply of copies he conveniently keeps by his driver’s seat. This faithful member has participated in the conversion of more than 200 souls.

I should like to tell you of an experience I had when I was called to go to New Zealand to reorganize a stake. I had never met anybody living in New Zealand, other than the president of the stake at that time. I asked for a list of the bishops and high council in that New Zealand stake, and as I read over the list I saw one name that just seemed to stand out. The name was Campbell. Each time I read the list I noticed it. Bishop Vandenberg was with me, and we interviewed all these people, after having prayed that we might be guided.

After all the interviews I said to Brother Vandenberg, “Let us call upon the Lord for direction.” We did, and as we stood up, I asked, “If you had the responsibility, whom would you choose as president of this stake?”

He said, “Bill Campbell.” I had never mentioned his name to Bishop Vandenberg. This was another evidence that the Lord does direct these appointments.

After meeting the missionaries, my family investigated the Church for three years. It was very important to my parents that we be baptized as a family. They knew that if we joined the Church, it would often be difficult for us to choose the right. But they believed that if we all decided to follow Jesus Christ, we could help each other when the times grew difficult.
When we joined the Church, my parents committed our family to sacrifice and service. I did not really know what sacrifice was, but I knew that my parents would give all they had to the Church. I saw that helping other people made my mom and dad happy. My parents were always serving, so I followed them around and tried to help, too. I was often too young to do much, but my parents’ example of service inspired in me a lifelong desire to serve.

“I’d like to go just one mile further, if we can,” said Bishop Steve Pond of the Kelso Ward, Longview Washington Stake. He was in the car with Mike and Beverly Glen of his ward, who were able to get through many of the roadblocks close to the volcano because they lived in that area. They had been winding up the narrow ash-covered mountain roads, helping the bishop check on members’ homes that might have been damaged by the mudslides and flooding.
“I’m afraid we’re not going to get through this roadblock,” said Mike Glen. “It’s manned, and they’re giving $500 fines to anyone who doesn’t belong up here.”
“Tell the national guardsmen that you’re a bishop and are checking on your people,” suggested Beverly Glen.
The car pulled up to the roadblock slowly, and the guardsman, who turned out to be LDS, poked his head in the car window.
“Hello, bishop,” he said. “How can we help you?”
“I’d like to check on some of our people who live up the road a ways,” said Bishop Pond.
“Very good. Some new tremors were felt in the last hour, though, so listen to your radio. If you smell lava, evacuate out of the area because as soon as we get the word to evacuate, we’re going in that direction,” said the guardsman. “Are we having Church this week?”
“Depends on your mountain,” said the bishop. “We’re going up the road now just a couple of miles, then we’ll be right out.”
Then they drove off, closer to the mountain and checking the members’ homes marked on the bishop’s map by pins. He used the map to keep track of his members during the disaster, and had spent most of his time outside of work the past two weeks since the eruption contacting members and making sure they were okay. Tonight he’d skipped dinner so he could get up to the homes while it was still light.
As soon as it was rumored that the volcano might blow, Bishop Pond had called a meeting with the ward welfare services committee to plan for the possible disaster. He asked the Relief Society to prepare a list of emergency supplies (much of which was to be taken from each family’s food storage) that could sustain each family for several days and was portable enough to be thrown into the car at a moment’s notice. The list was passed out to each family at sacrament meeting two weeks before the major eruption. Bishop Pond also assigned each ward family in a potential flooding area to another family on safe ground, so when the volcano did erupt (though no one knew if it would) everyone had a safe place to go.
To ensure good communications with the outside world and each other if the telephone system were hampered, a ham radio communications system was set up, too.
“Bishop Pond was really inspired in helping his ward members prepare for a possible disaster,” said Beverly Glen, a counselor in the Kelso Ward Relief Society. “It took a lot of work and foresight to help people get ready for what was to come.”
Some ward members put their food storage in their attics in case of flooding, so their food would stay dry. Many people drew upon their water supplies when their normal source of water turned to mud from the volcano’s mudslides. And some families drew upon their food storage when other families from the ward moved in with them.
“What we’ve learned from this situation is really just a verification that we need to do what the Lord tells us through his prophets, even without understanding the reasons,” said Bishop Pond.
“Overall, the disaster has brought some real blessings to our ward members. We’re much closer now as a ward, and we’ve been given the opportunity to really serve each other.”

Last year, my wife received devastating news. Her mother and father were both diagnosed with cancer. A few months later, my own father underwent surgery, and my wife was diagnosed with two breast cysts that could have been cancerous. Thankfully, the results after surgery showed no cancer. Then, our daughter had appendicitis. All of this happened within six months, and none of them had ever had surgery before. At around the same time, I received a new church calling that required extensive travel and time, and my new job kept me working late most nights.
To cope with these challenges, I knew only the Savior could help me through. I tried to draw closer to Him by spending more time studying the scriptures, listening to General Conference talks during my commute, and worshipping in the temple. I chose not to be consumed by worry, but to think celestial and rely on the power of the covenants I had made in the temple. This brought me peace. The Savior has promised, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).

As I navigated life after my parents’ divorce, I learned that Jesus Christ really is the ultimate source of peace and hope.
Christ’s healing power is real. For years, I didn’t talk to my dad. I tried to forget what he had done. I begged for Christ’s grace to help me let go of my anger. The Spirit helped me understand what to do, and eventually, I was able to forgive him. Our relationship, while still recovering, was instilled with new life.
Easter is a reminder that through Jesus Christ, hope will conquer despair, life will conquer death, and light will conquer darkness. Choosing to follow Him is the decision that shapes my life—not one made by someone else.

Norberto and his family were brought into the Church through an uncle they call “Ton Ton.” Ton Ton bought their family a subscription to the Church magazine in French in 1985. So when he visited the family in 1991, they already had an idea of what the Church was about. Ton Ton said, “The Church has now come to Madagascar. Let’s go find it.”

They found the meetinghouse, but the first time the family attended, Norberto’s father, Elie, couldn’t go. He still had responsibilities with the young men’s group in another church. Norberto’s mother, Esther, came home from that first meeting and told her husband, “We’ve found the right church.” Elie went with them the next week, and the entire family accepted the gospel. Norberto was a baby at the time. He was baptized when he turned eight, even though he was afraid to go under the water.

I remember vividly my first view of an iceberg. In 1937 Sister Kimball and I made our first crossing of the Atlantic by steamer from Montreal, out through the St. Lawrence River and into the North Atlantic.
One day when we were well out into the ocean, there was excitement on the ship. An iceberg had been sighted. Most of the passengers rushed to the deck to see this sight. We could see it in the distance—a great white object against the dark sea and the azure of the sky.
There it floated quietly in the water like a sharp peak of a high mountain range, a thing of beauty to behold. All my life I had heard about them, and now, for the first time, it was there before my eyes—a sharp mountain peak of ice.
This recalled to our minds the tragic sinking of the Titanic, steamship of the White Star Line, on its maiden trip across the ocean. The huge iceberg collided with this large, new ship late in the evening, April 14, 1912. Fifteen hundred and three persons, many of them eminent in Britain and in the United States, were drowned as the ship sank and only 703 were saved.
Then four years ago, flying from England to the United States, we passed over Greenland and saw them again. Much of our trip we had traveled above the blanket of clouds, but as we flew over Greenland, the sky was clear and free of clouds. The sun shone brightly. Seldom does the human eye ever see such beauty and grandeur. Stretching out in the distance was the mile-thick blanket of ice over the great, domed island. We saw the thick glaciers creeping slowly down the valleys to the sea, where they break off and become icebergs. The fjords were full of floating mountains of ice drifting on their way to the ocean. Here was the birthplace of countless such icebergs as we had seen 33 years earlier.

At the end of World War II, when I was 19 years old, enemy troops came to occupy my hometown in Europe. One evening my parents and I were sitting at our table when we heard a loud noise. We looked out through the blackout curtains, hung so that bombers couldn’t detect our house at night, to see enemy troops—along with their motorcycles, trucks, and tanks—coming into our village from two different directions. I was very frightened.
My father, always a faithful man, said simply, “Don’t be scared.” In the face of what was just outside our house, that was an extraordinary statement. We all knew that the soldiers would likely invade the neighborhood to pillage people’s homes. Father suggested that we kneel next to the couch and pray for Heavenly Father’s protection. He prayed, “Father in Heaven, please blind those soldiers. Make our house invisible so they won’t see it.”
After he prayed, my mother prayed. Then I prayed. Afterward, we returned to the table and cautiously looked out the window. We watched soldiers storm into every house on our street. Ours was the last one on the street. They approached our house but then passed our front gate and went to the next street. We watched them enter every house that we could see from our window.
After an invasion of about two hours, someone blew a loud whistle, and the soldiers returned to their vehicles. As they slowly left, we were tremendously relieved and knelt again, thanking Heavenly Father for His kindness and protection.
The next day I learned from a distraught friend that the soldiers had done terrible things in every house she knew of. When I told her that they had not come to our house, she was shocked. She said she had watched them go in our direction and that she knew of no homes in our sector that they had not entered. Our house was the only one the soldiers had left alone.
I know that Heavenly Father hears our pleas and answers them. Sometimes it seems that we might not ever receive an answer, and we wish that He would answer sooner. But I know that in our home 65 years ago, He answered right away.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Andrew swallowed his popcorn and grabbed another handful.
His older brother, Caleb, plopped down on the couch beside him. “Hey, can I have some?”
Andrew didn’t look away from the TV. “No.”
“Aw, come on. You can share.”
Caleb reached for the bowl, but Andrew snatched it away.
“No! I already told you before. Don’t ask again!”
“Fine.” Caleb got up and left the room.
The next day, Andrew went into the kitchen. Caleb was making some sushi with rice, seaweed, and canned pork.
Andrew’s mouth watered. “Can I have some?”
“No,” Caleb said.
That made Andrew really mad. He ran downstairs to tell Dad.
“Why is Caleb being so selfish?” he asked.
Dad frowned. “I saw yesterday that you wouldn’t share your popcorn. Why should Caleb share with you after you didn’t share with him?”
“Because he’s my brother!” Andrew said.
“Then why didn’t you share with him?”
“He never shares with me either! Besides, I made it for myself, not him,” Andrew said. But he felt a little bad. Maybe it was mean of him not to share.
“Did you know that in Korea, sharing is really important?” Dad asked. Andrew’s family was from Korea. “Sharing is a way to show someone you care about them. So if you don’t share, it’s kind of like saying that you don’t care about them.”
“But I do care about Caleb.”
Andrew thought about what Jesus might do. He remembered how Jesus loved everyone—even those who were unkind to Him.
“I think I’m going to share with Caleb tomorrow and see how it turns out,” he told Dad.
Dad smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
When Andrew went to bed that night, he thought about other nice things he could do for Caleb. He was excited to start sharing!
The next morning, Andrew woke up to a surprise. Caleb had made breakfast just for him!
“Dad talked to me about sharing,” Caleb said. “I want to do better. So I made this for you.”
“Thanks!” Andrew said. “I want to do better too.”
Later that day, Andrew and Caleb watched a movie. Andrew let Caleb pick which one. Then he made some popcorn just for Caleb! He looked inside the bowl. It was like the popcorn was saying, “EAT ME!” But Andrew didn’t take any. He gave Caleb the bowl and said, “This is all yours. I’m sorry I didn’t share before.”
Andrew shared with Caleb all week. He let Caleb read his books. He let Caleb use his markers. He let Caleb play with his favorite toy. He even gave Caleb an extra turn when they were playing a game.
The more Andrew shared with Caleb, the more Caleb shared with him! Soon they were doing nice things for each other all the time. Andrew knew that Heavenly Father was helping him share with his brother. Andrew wasn’t perfect like Jesus, but he was trying to be more like Him every day.
This story took place in the USA.
Illustration by Adam Howling

My return to God began after I had been in prison for more than a decade. A friend who visited me in the penitentiary for years gave me the Book of Mormon and invited me to read it. Although I promised I would, I continually put it off. One weekend my friend visited and asked if I had even picked up the book. Of course I had! I picked it up every time I cleaned my living quarters. But I had not read it—and it wasn’t until a serious conversation with my friend, who impressed upon me how important it was that I keep my promise, that I finally began reading.
I found many interesting stories in the Book of Mormon, but I told myself they were just that—stories. Then I reached Moroni 10:4. I’ll admit, I didn’t want to “ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ” whether the book was true; I didn’t want to think about the consequences for someone like me if it was. Besides, if this was the word of God, then the Atonement of Jesus Christ was real, and I hated to think how my actions had added to His suffering.
Still, I prayed. I didn’t see a vision or hear a voice saying that the book was true. But as I looked out my window on a clear summer day, an enormous storm cloud rolled across the sky. There was no rain—just a powerful wind—and as quickly as it came, the cloud passed again. And I knew. Just as Moroni had promised, the Spirit testified to my heart that the Book of Mormon was true—and that I needed to change.

Henry Eyring, a leading scientist and a great teacher who recently passed away, would have contests with his students. Even in his mid-sixties he could standing broad jump to the top of his desk. He challenged university students to a thirty- or forty-yard foot race.
One day just a few short years before he died, he was in the Church Administration Building. His brother-in-law, President Spencer W. Kimball, came out of his office and saw Henry Eyring standing there with a cane. He said, “Henry, what is the cane for?”
And Henry Eyring said, “Style, President, style.”
No wonder he had such an influence on the minds of young men all over the Church. He had “style.”

Such was Walter Stover of Salt Lake City. Born in Germany, Walter embraced the gospel message and came to America. He established his own business. He gave freely of his time and of his means.
Following World War II, Walter Stover was called to return to his native land. He directed the Church in that nation and blessed the lives of all whom he met and with whom he served. With his own funds, he constructed two chapels in Berlin—a beautiful city that had been so devastated by the conflict. He planned a gathering in Dresden for all the members of the Church from that nation and then chartered a train to bring them from all around the land so they could meet, partake of the sacrament, and bear witness of the goodness of God to them.
At the funeral services for Walter Stover, his son-in-law Thomas C. LeDuc said of him, “He had the ability to see Christ in every face he encountered, and he acted accordingly.”

One evening when I was 11 years old, I heard a commotion outside my window. I looked out the window, and in the street were newsboys carrying stacks of newspapers in their arms announcing the news that President George Albert Smith, the eighth President of the Church, had died. President Smith had been the only prophet I had known in my short time on earth. It was during his administration that I first felt the stirrings of a testimony, and even then I knew how important God’s prophets are. I had been taught in Primary and in my home by loving parents that President Smith was our earthly link to our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, that They could talk to me through him. What an empowering concept for a young girl! The Spirit had confirmed in my 11-year-old mind that this was true. When I learned of his death, I felt a tremendous loss.
However, just five days after President Smith’s death, President David O. McKay stood in this tabernacle and spoke to those assembled. He had just been unanimously sustained as the prophet, seer, and revelator by the Saints. As he brushed back the tears, he said, “No one can preside over the church without first being in tune with the head of the Church, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He is our head. This is his church. … With his guidance, with his inspiration, we cannot fail.”
I quickly came to love and revere President McKay just as I had loved and revered President Smith. In fact, I remember seeing him stand at this pulpit, with his white hair gleaming, and thinking he looked just like an angel.

Turning on the television one afternoon as a break from my studies, I saw a group of boys singing. I’m a serious-minded person and have never had a pop music “idol,” but something about these boys made me stay and listen. They were dressed in white, and as they sang, “Is the answer up above?” my heart responded, “Yes!” I learned they were the Osmonds and that they were Mormons. I decided to read some books about the Mormons, but I couldn’t find any.

One afternoon as I was upstairs studying, I heard a knock at the door. My mother answered it, and I could hear her talking to two young men. As I went downstairs, I heard mother try to give them some excuse and turn them away, but I said I wanted to talk with them. She let them in, closed the door, and went back to her work. The missionaries gave me the first discussion that very afternoon, and I began to get the same feeling I had experienced as a little girl as I ran into the arms of my Heavenly Father.
A week later they came to give me the second lesson, but my mother met them and told them they were not to come again. She told me later the missionaries were only after my money. That night I heard my parents arguing about the Church, and I decided I would not see the missionaries again.
Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

Our daughter Jani was an active four-year-old. Every morning she would jump out of bed and get ready for preschool. One Friday my wife and I noticed that she seemed to be limping, but she assured us that she was OK.
But by Monday morning, Jani couldn’t get out of bed. Something was wrong with her legs. We took her to the hospital and were blessed to meet a doctor who recognized right away that Jani had Legg Calves Perthes, a disease that affected her hip bones. Because of his unique and specialized training, the doctor immediately knew how to help Jani.
For one year, Jani would have to wear a cast that would keep her legs widely separated so her hip bones could recover. She would not be able to walk or bathe. Then, for one more year, she would have to wear a brace that would continue to keep her legs widely separated but connected by a flexible bar so she could move her legs a little bit. We were very worried. How would she play? Would she be teased? She would have to be carried everywhere.
To our surprise, Jani never complained. She couldn’t walk or run, but she put roller skates on her feet and hands and learned to get around that way. She also scooted herself up and down stairs without our help. Her brace made a clicking noise, and sometimes other children would tease her. But she didn’t worry about what anyone else said. In fact, she learned how to ride a bike with her brace! She always woke up with a smile. How could we be sad for her when she was so happy? Jani taught me that a positive attitude can help us rise above our trials.

The world ends on a dark Christmas Eve, walking in the rain. The world ends halfway across a wet street, with a car skidding suddenly around the corner in a drunken left turn.
Blazing headlights.
Then the impact …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
Dark.
I can’t move.
I can’t feel the wet or the cold. Just a floating feeling.
Is this what it’s like to die?
I didn’t tell her how I loved her …
I can barely hear the starchy voice somewhere above me, but the words pound into my brain like dull spikes hammered in by a sledge.
“His heart just won’t respond. That’s it. He won’t make it.”
The world jolts to a stop.
And ends.
For me …
I never told her …
Three minutes left—the time it takes for the brain to die after the heart stops beating.
Three minutes of dark life.
Three minutes’ worth of thinking left in my brain.
And then the end …
The end!
And I hadn’t even started to live!
Everything I’ve ever done was just a getting ready to live. A preparation.
But not the living.
Why didn’t I live?
I’m dying, and I’ve never lived …
Three minutes.
I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t. But the things I didn’t do …
And now it’s all over with.
All but three minutes.
Why didn’t I tell her how I loved her?
Why didn’t I do a lot of things? Things I wanted to do much more than any of the things I ever got around to doing …
Things that should have been easy.
Like saying, “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”
Or, “It takes courage for a man to stand up for what he believes in the way you do. I admire you for that, and I want you to know it.”
I could have spent more time with the people who meant the most to me. I wonder if any of them ever knew how much I loved them?
How could I expect them to?
I never let them know …
I could have.
I could have said, “I think you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. I don’t want anything special from you … I just want to be your friend …”
Why didn’t I?
Maybe I didn’t feel worthy of them. Maybe I thought I had to go out and do something great before I had the right to be their friend.
Maybe I was a fool …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I could have.
I could have talked to her before she went away. Maybe I could have stopped her.
I could have told her I loved her. I wonder if she knew?
I could have said, “I love you. I always have, and I always will …”
I wonder what she would have done, if I’d told her?
I could have written to her after she went away. Maybe she would have answered.
But I wasn’t sure …
I wish I’d tried.
When I was afraid to talk to her, I wish I’d talked to her anyway. When I was afraid to write to her, I wish I’d gone ahead and written.
I never had the time to write letters. I always had something else I had to get done first.
I wonder how long it would have taken me to get everything done that I thought I had to get done before I wrote my letters?
And I wonder how much time I saved by not writing the letters?
And I wonder what I did with all that time?
How many minutes’ worth of time would I have had to pay to write one letter to her?
And what did I end up paying for not writing it?
A lifetime?
I could have spared her thirty minutes sometime out of my success schedule. Or even twenty. Ten minutes would have been enough to let her know I still remembered her …
If I could just have one minute right now, with a pen in my hand!
A single minute!
One minute, out of my last three …
Sixty seconds would be long enough to say something; long enough to tell her how I love her …
FOOL!
I could have told her how I loved her!
Why didn’t I tell her?
Fear?
Shame?
Fear, maybe. But never shame. I was never ashamed of her, and I was never ashamed of my love for her.
And as long as I could remember I loved her, I was never ashamed of myself …
Fear?
Yes.
Maybe …
Yes, I think I was afraid …
Of what?
Something vague.
The vague fears were always the worst. I never knew what it was I was trying to fight.
Why didn’t I tell her?
Maybe she would have laughed at my love for her. I could never have taken the grief of that.
No, she was a gentle girl. She would never have done such a thing, even if she hadn’t loved me.
But she had friends who would have …
Some of her friends could be cruel, in the refined manner in which only aristocratic ladies could be cruel. Maybe she would have told them, and maybe they would have been cruel.
And maybe I was a fool …
She was the only girl I ever loved unconditionally. Maybe I loved her so much I was afraid to take the chance of telling her, for fear she’d have to tell me she didn’t love me in return.
Maybe I wanted to spare us both having to go through the finishing scene of a friendship.
As long as friendship hadn’t ended, there was some hope of love to come …
So I grasped blindly for her friendship as it existed, or at least as I thought it existed, not daring to do anything that might have destroyed it.
But a friendship doesn’t have to end suddenly. It can crawl to an end so slowly that you’re never sure just where the end of it was. You can’t pick out a point in time and say, “This was the last hour of our friendship.” All you know is that one day you look for it when you need it, and it just isn’t there anymore.
Maybe that’s what happened to her half of our friendship.
But not mine.
I’m at the last three minutes of my half …
No. I’ll still love her. That’s one thing death doesn’t have the power to change.
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I wonder if I’m in my last minute yet? I wish I could be sure …
My last minute!
What can you do with a minute?
What can’t you do with a minute?
There’s nothing in the world you can do that you can’t do a little of in a minute. …
* * *
The last minute must be running out.
The game is finished.
And it wasn’t a two-mile game …
The heart is dead. All used up. Like a candle sputtering out when the last drop of wax is burned away.
Still …
This heart carried me over a lot of miles …
It was a two-mile heart. The heart of the two-mile game …
Can it really be dead?
How can it be dead?
I don’t believe …
I don’t believe it can be dead!
Come on, you two-mile heart! You CAN‘T be dead!
I have things I haven’t finished yet. I have things I haven’t even begun …
Beat! You can!
Beat! You will!
BEAT! I feel it coming …
BEAT! Almost …
THERE!
It beat!
I FELT it beat!
Exhausted …
Relax …
The first two are the hardest …
Now …
Beat! Almost …
Again, with more will …
BEAT!
Nothing …
Was the first time only my imagination?
For her sake …
BEAT!
AGAIN!
I felt it beat again!
AGAIN! …
Again! …
Again …
Again …
The second mile …
The mile of meditation …
Relaxation …
And very soon I’ll tell her how I love her …
“Nurse …”
“Yes; how are you feeling now?” “Much better, thanks, Would you let me have a pen and paper, please? I’d like to write a Christmas letter.”
* * *
The first mile is finished. The second is yet to run.
The second mile …
A soft, golden path, winding through green grass and tall trees, and leading—
Somewhere …
To her?
We’ll see where it leads. It’s a two-mile game, and it isn’t finished yet.
And now …
Now I’ll tell her how I love her …