Gospel Story Finder

Marty glanced at his shoes self-consciously. No one looking at the brightly polished leather could tell that the insides were caked with mud. But Marty knew. He couldn’t wait for Primary to end, so that he could go home and take them off. I won’t go near the canal this time! he vowed to himself.
Last Sunday it had sounded like fun when his brother challenged him to jump over the canal on the way home from church. He’d almost made it, too, but not quite. Conrad had had to pull him out, wet and muddy from head to toe. When they reached home, Mother looked them over. “I think it’s time you boys learned how to do your own laundry,” she said. “And don’t forget to clean your shoes.”
But Marty had forgotten until just a few minutes before church started. He’d gotten the outsides cleaned and polished, but not the insides. Now his feet hurt after sitting three hours with mud in his shoes.
“Can anyone tell me the steps of repentance?” Sister Wilson’s voice brought him back to the present. “Yes, Shelly.”
“Recognize that what you’ve done was wrong. Ask the Lord for forgiveness. Ask for forgiveness from the people you’ve hurt. Repay what you can. Never do it again.”
“That’s right. What happens if you leave out one of these steps? Have you truly repented?”
“No,” the class answered in unison.
“I want you to think about repentance this week. Choose some mistake you’ve made, and honestly try to apply all the steps of repentance. Then pay close attention to how it makes you feel.”
The ringing bell told Marty that there were just a few minutes left before he would be free of his shoes. He didn’t hear most of the closing prayer. At the sound of “Amen,” he was off to the car. Once inside, he took off his shoes and wiggled his toes. Who’d have thought that a little mud could make you so uncomfortable?
“Marty, will you take this pile of clothes up to Emily’s room,” Mom called out Tuesday afternoon. As he was setting the clothes on Emily’s bed, the collection of perfume bottles on her dresser caught his attention. He picked them up one by one, read the names out loud, and sniffed them. How do they come up with the names for these things?
“Marty!” Conrad called from the hallway. “Come play ball.”
Conrad’s voice startled Marty, and he dropped the bottle he was holding. It fell over, and most of the contents spilled out before he could right it. An overpowering scent filled the room. Marty grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on Emily’s dresser and started to mop up the mess.
“What are you doing in here,” Conrad asked as he stuck his head in the doorway. “Give me a gas mask, I’m suffocating!”
“I spilled one of Emily’s perfumes. I didn’t mean to; I was just looking at them.”
“Boy, that’s the expensive one Richard just gave her for her birthday,” Conrad said, coming over to help wipe up the spill. “She’s going to hit the roof when she finds out about this.”
“What can I do?”
“Well, first, don’t throw the tissues in her garbage can. That would tip her off the minute she walked in. We’ll wrap them in a plastic bag and throw them in the garbage can outside. Next, open the windows to air the room out. She won’t be back until late, and the smell should be gone by then.”
Marty nodded in agreement and scooped up the tissues. He was careful to hold them away from his shirt so that it wouldn’t absorb the smell. After he stuffed them into a plastic bag and pushed the bag to the bottom of the trash, he went back to Emily’s room. “Whew—it still smells pretty bad, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll bring the fan from the family room in here to help blow the smell outside.”
“That was a great idea,” Conrad said when Marty plugged the fan in. “We can leave it on until we go to bed tonight. I bet Emily will never even notice that there was a problem.”
“Except for one thing.” Marty pointed to the almost-empty bottle.
“Maybe if you rearrange them and put that one in the back, she won’t notice it. She has so many that by the time she thinks of wearing that one again, she probably won’t remember how much she used of it.”
“She’ll remember,” Marty moaned. “Hey, I have an idea! I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later he returned with a glass of water and the box of food coloring from the kitchen. “I bet I can color this water to look just like that perfume. Then I’ll just fill the bottle. It was so strong, she’ll never notice if it’s diluted a little.”
By the time Emily returned home, her room was aired, the fan returned to the family room, her windows closed, and the perfume bottle filled. Conrad and Marty lay wide awake in their bedroom across the hall, listening for Emily’s cry of alarm. When her bedroom light clicked off, they knew they were in the clear, at least for a while. I should feel relieved, Marty thought as he lay awake in the dark, but I feel miserable.
Every time Marty looked at Emily for the next few days, he felt awful, even though she never seemed to notice that her perfume was diluted. Marty resolved he would never again touch Emily’s belongings without her permission. He even stopped his usual teasing. He opened doors for her, carried things for her, did anything he could to be helpful to her. Still, he didn’t stop feeling guilty inside.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asked in his prayers. “I’ve talked to Thee about my problem with Emily’s perfume. I’ve done everything I can to be nice to her. But I still feel horrible. I feel like my Sunday shoes, clean on the outside but muddy inside. How can I feel all the way clean?” Marty knew the answer. He rose from his knees, crossed the hall to Emily’s room, and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Emily was sitting on her bed, studying history.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Have a seat.” She nodded toward the end of the bed.
Marty sat down, but he had a hard time looking at Emily. Help me, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Finally looking up, he blurted out, “I spilled your bottle of perfume from Richard.”
Emily got up and walked over to her collection of perfumes. She picked up the bottle and looked at it. “This one?”
Marty nodded.
She removed the lid, sniffed, and replaced it. She sat back down on the bed next to Marty. “Is that why you’ve been so nice to me lately?”
“Yes,” Marty admitted. “At first, I just wanted to keep you from getting mad at me, so I filled the bottle with colored water. Then I felt really awful and wanted to be a better brother to you. But no matter how much I tried to help you and no matter how much I prayed about it, I never stopped feeling guilty. I knew I had to tell you what I’d done before these awful feelings would go away.”
Emily put her arm around Marty’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a few moments. “You know, Marty, when you spilled the bottle, you wasted only what had spilled. But when you added water to what was left, you ruined all of it.”
“I’ll buy you another bottle, Emily, honest. Just tell me how much it costs, and I’ll save all my allowance until I can buy another one.”
Emily smiled, “Marty, if you want to get me something to replace it, I’d rather have a tube of my favorite hand cream. It would take several months of your allowance to replace that perfume, and I wouldn’t really feel good about letting you do it. Do you know why?”
Marty shook his head.
“Because as much as I appreciate it as a gift because Richard gave it to me, I don’t really like it. It’s much too strong for me. Of all the perfumes I have, if you were going to spill one, I’m glad you spilled that one.”
They both laughed hard for a few minutes. It feels so good to be able to laugh with Emily, Marty thought.
“I probably never would have used it again, little brother,” Emily confided affectionately. “Why didn’t you just wait until I said something? You would have gotten away with it completely.”
“I couldn’t live with the way I felt any longer,” Marty explained.
“The Holy Ghost may whisper softly,” she said, “but it’s a pretty piercing whisper at times, isn’t it?”
Marty nodded. “Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, I forgive you, Marty. And I’m happy to know that you’re listening to the Holy Ghost so carefully. It must have been very hard to come to me. I have just one more question—does this mean you’re going to stop being nice to me?”
Marty grinned. “How could I stop being nice to you, when you’ve been so nice to me? Anyone who thinks having a big sister is a big pain doesn’t have a big sister like you.”
Marty didn’t watch his feet during Sister Wilson’s lesson that Sunday. His shoes were clean on the outside and the inside. And so was he.

In August 1830, as a lay preacher, Parley Parker Pratt (1807–57) was traveling from Ohio to eastern New York. At Newark, along the Erie Canal, he left the boat and walked 10 miles into the country, where he met a Baptist deacon by the name of Hamlin, who told him “of a book, a strange book, a very strange book! … This book, he said, purported to have been originally written on plates either of gold or brass, by a branch of the tribes of Israel; and to have been discovered and translated by a young man near Palmyra, in the State of New York, by the aid of visions, or the ministry of angels. I inquired of him how or where the book was to be obtained. He promised me the perusal of it, at his house the next day. … Next morning I called at his house, where, for the first time, my eyes beheld the ‘Book of Mormon’—that book of books … which was the principal means, in the hands of God, of directing the entire course of my future life.
“I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page. I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep.
“As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true, as plainly and manifestly as a man comprehends and knows that he exists” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, 1938, 36–37).
Parley Pratt was then 23 years of age. Reading the Book of Mormon affected him so profoundly that he was soon baptized into the Church and became one of its most effective and powerful advocates. …
Parley Pratt’s experience with the Book of Mormon was not unique. As the volumes of the first edition were circulated and read, strong men and women by the hundreds were so deeply touched that they gave up everything they owned, and in the years that followed, not a few gave their lives for the witness they carried in their hearts of the truth of this remarkable volume (from Ensign, June 1988, 2).
Each time we encourage others to read the Book of Mormon, we do them a favor. If they read it prayerfully and with a sincere desire to know the truth, they will know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the book is true. …
Without reservation I promise you that if you will prayerfully read the Book of Mormon, regardless of how many times you previously have read it, there will come into your hearts an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord. There will come a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to His commandments, and there will come a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God (from Ensign, June 1988, 2).
Read the Book of Mormon itself. Read it again and again. Ponder its beauty. Reflect upon its many magnificent passages. Think of the complexity of the detail of its historical accounts. Pray about it, and the Holy Ghost will bear record to you, as He has to me and to millions of others, that it is the word of God, a voice crying from the dust to this generation in declaration of the divinity and the reality of the Lord Jesus Christ as the living Son of the living God.
The Lord Himself has spoken concerning our study of this great latter-day work. He has said: “Search these commandments, for they are true and faithful, and the prophecies and promises which are in them shall all be fulfilled.
“What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself; and though the heavens and the earth pass away, my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1:37–38) (from Ensign, Sept. 1985, 6).

Thirteen-year-old Lynnette Thompson wondered why the dogs kept barking and running around in circles in the yard. Then the fence she was standing by started to rattle, and her dad, who had just climbed down from the roof of the house, yelled at her to stop shaking the fence. She started to protest that she wasn’t doing anything to the fence, when the rock wall by the house started to crumble. “Then everything started jumping around. I saw the flagpole fall over, and the roof of the house jumped up several inches and came back down.”

Matthew put his head down and walked faster. He tried not to see the white stucco house ahead. He knew he should stop. Mother would probably ask him, “Did you see Grandma today?” He sighed. He used to stop almost every day on his way home from school.
Then Grandpa died.
Matthew hadn’t known what to say to Grandma since Grandpa died. She was sad now. Sometimes when she talked about Grandpa, she cried.
Other people seemed to know what to say to Grandma. They put their arms around her and told her not to cry. But Matthew never knew what to say or do. He just stood there feeling uncomfortable.
Matthew walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. Grandma opened it. Her eyes were red. Matthew’s heart sank. He wished he had walked on past her house.
“Come in, dear.”
Matthew went in. He saw a box on the floor in the hall. Inside was a small rosebush, its roots wrapped with burlap and packing.
Every year Grandpa ordered a new rosebush for his garden. He must have ordered this one before he died.
“Take it home with you, Matthew. I can’t bear to look at it,” sniffed Grandma.
“No,” said Matthew. He gulped, surprised at himself, then plunged on. “Grandpa would have wanted you to plant it. He loved the garden, especially the rosebushes.” Matthew had spent many hours helping Grandpa in the garden.
Grandma was silent. Matthew thought she was angry with him. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
“You’re right, Matthew. Grandpa would have wanted that rosebush planted in the garden. I’ve never planted a rosebush before, though.”
“I’ll help you, Grandma,” Matthew offered. “I helped Grandpa lots of times.”
Grandma changed into old clothes while Matthew went to the garage to get a shovel.
Soon the two of them had a big hole dug in one corner of the garden. It was hard work. By the time the rosebush was in place, they were panting. The afternoon sun was almost behind the hills.
Grandma stood for a moment and looked at the rosebush. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes sparkled. “Is it all right, Matthew?”
“Yes, Grandma. It’s fine. It’s where Grandpa would have wanted it.”
Matthew put the shovel away. When he went inside, Grandma was in the kitchen. “I’d better go home, Grandma. Mom will be worried.”
“It’s all right. I called her. She knows where you are. Matthew, I want to show you something.” Grandma reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a box of seed packets. “These came in the mail last week. I was going to throw them away. I was just thinking … maybe I’ll try to plant them after all. Would you help me? I’ve never been much of a gardener.”
“I sure will, Grandma,” said Matthew. “I’ll stop by tomorrow after school.”
Matthew went out the door and down the sidewalk whistling a happy tune.

The Holy Ghost guided me again when I was confused about what was really true. I spent my early years attending a Catholic school. When I learned the teachings of a different religion at school, I sometimes felt confused. I think maybe I felt a little like Joseph Smith did when he didn’t know which church was right. But as I got older, the more I read the scriptures, the more I was guided to the true light of the gospel. The teachings of the Church had logic and harmony, and the Holy Ghost confirmed to me that they were true.

Sara stared at her bowl of oatmeal. She hated oatmeal. She had always hated oatmeal. But ever since Grandma had come to live with them, she cooked a big pot of oatmeal every morning. Sara had told her grandmother that she didn’t like oatmeal, but Grandma always forgot. Grandma forgot a lot of things. Sometimes she forgot to put her teeth in. And she often forgot where she had left her glasses. Even worse was the way she dressed and talked. She called Sara “Sarey,” and she wore flowered cotton housedresses that came down to her ankles. And when she went outside, she always put on a sunbonnet.
Sara’s mother said that they should be kind and humor Grandma. Well, today I don’t feel like humoring anyone, thought Sara. Her best friend, Gail, was moving to San Diego, and this was her last day of school. “I’m not hungry,” Sara said. She pushed away the hated oatmeal, got her books and sweater, and went out the back door.
Sara walked slowly down the street toward Gail’s house. They had been walking to school together since second grade. In fact, they had been doing everything together since second grade. Gail, as usual, was waiting in front of her house. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, while Sara had dark hair and eyes.
A big yellow moving van, with its back doors open, was already parked in front of Gail’s house.
“Hi,” said Gail.
An enormous lump filled Sara’s throat, and she couldn’t answer for a minute. The girls walked to school in silence. Sara went through the motions of schoolwork and lunch and recess as if she were a robot.
After school the girls walked home together for the last time. When they got to Gail’s house, they stopped. The moving van was almost loaded. The front door of the house was wide open, and Sara could see the empty rooms inside. She had never felt so lonely in her life. Nothing would ever be the same again.
“Be sure to write,” said Sara in a choked voice.
“I will,” Gail said, her eyes brimming with tears. They had talked before about writing and visiting each other during the summer, but this time it was for real.
Suddenly the dam in Sara’s throat broke, and sobs wracked her body. She turned and ran. As she got close to home, her heart sank even further. A tiny figure topped by a sunbonnet was bent over the flower bed.
Oh, no! I can’t talk to Grandma now, thought Sara. I’ll go around to the back door. Grandma’s hearing isn’t too good, so she’ll probably never notice me.
Sara cut across the lawn and was almost to the corner of the house when Grandma’s shrill voice cut the still air. “Sarey, is that you?”
Sara had a wild impulse to keep going, but she stopped. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, then turned around. “Yes, Grandma. It’s me.”
“Will you come over here a minute? I need some help.”
Sara sighed. “All right, Grandma. I’m coming.”
Grandma peered up at Sara from under the sunbonnet. She looked like a sharp little bird. Sometimes Sara had the uncomfortable feeling that Grandma could see right through her.
“You’ve been crying, Sarey.”
“A little,” admitted Sara. “Today was Gail’s last day at school.”
“Oh,” said Grandma. “Sarey, would you mind helping me plant these tulip bulbs. It won’t take long if we both work at it.”
Sara put her books down and knelt beside Grandma. Grandma dug a hole with her trowel. “Now, set the bulb right in there,” she said.
Sara did as she was told. Then Grandma poured water into the hole from a watering can, placed dirt on top of the bulb, and watered it again. “There, that’s all there is to it. Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure.” Sara picked up the other trowel and started to dig where Grandma showed her.
“When’s your friend moving?”
“Today,” said Sara.
“Too bad. That will be a big change for you.”
“Yes,” said Sara in a choked voice. She wanted to tell Grandma to be quiet, that she didn’t want to talk to her about Gail.
Grandma was quiet for a while, then started chuckling. “Did I ever tell you about my Grandma Ruth, Sarey?”
“No,” said Sara, grateful that Grandma’s mind had wandered off to a different subject.
“She was born and raised in North Carolina and moved to Kentucky when she was a bride of sixteen. She rode a horse alongside her husband. They had everything they owned piled onto their two horses, and it wasn’t much, I can tell you.”
Grandma set a bulb into the hole she had been digging and continued, “One thing that Ruth had with her was a little bag of tulip bulbs. Her mama gave them to her before she left. As soon as Ruth’s husband got a little log cabin built, Ruth planted those bulbs. Then came one of the hardest winters on record in Kentucky, and she and her husband nearly froze to death. But when those tulips came peeking through the ground in the spring, she knew that they would make it.”
Sara put dirt over a bulb and patted it down.
“Ever since then, we’ve been a tulip family,” Grandma went on. “I received some bulbs from Grandma Ruth when I married and went to Missouri with your grandpa. Many’s the year the tulips coming up in the spring have lifted my spirits. Grandma Ruth always said that tulips are the Lord’s promise to us. No matter what happens, those tulips just keep coming up every spring.”
Sara stopped digging and looked at her grandmother. “You brought these bulbs with you from Missouri, didn’t you?”
Grandma ducked her head shyly. “Yes. I put them in my suitcase because I was really afraid to come out here to live. I figured I needed that promise more than ever to hold on to.”
Sara looked down at her dirty hands. “Some things will always be the same, won’t they?” she said softly.
“That’s a fact,” Grandma agreed.
Suddenly Sara had an idea. “Grandma, do you think you could spare one or two of these bulbs?”
Grandma’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, sure, honey. I brought plenty.”
Sara held out her hands for the bulbs Grandma gave her. “I want to give these to Gail to take with her. She can plant them at her new home. Is that all right?”
Grandma smiled. “It’s a fine idea. Grandma Ruth would have liked knowing that her tulips will go all the way out to California.”
Sara stood up and dusted off her hands. “Grandma, do you have any pictures of her? Of Grandma Ruth, I mean.”
“I sure do, honey, and I have a peck of stories about her too.”
Sara reached down and hugged her. “I’ll be back in a little while, and you can start telling me about her.”
Sara clutched the bulbs in her hand and started for Gail’s house.

Tears gathered in 56-year-old Frans Lekqwati’s eyes as he sat across from Olev Taim, his stake president. President Taim had just asked him what he thought about creating a branch of the Church in Frans’s hometown of Soweto, South Africa.
“Why are you crying? Did I offend you?” asked President Taim.
“No,” Frans responded. “This is the first time in South Africa that a white man has asked me my opinion before making a decision.”
The year was 1981. At the time, black and white people in South Africa were segregated under a system of laws known as apartheid. This legal separation, together with the Church’s restriction preventing black African men from being ordained to the priesthood, had long meant that the Church could not thrive among black South Africans. A new day dawned in 1978 when President Spencer W. Kimball received the revelation that lifted the priesthood restriction, but the challenges of segregation and a culture of suspicion between races remained.
The vast majority of black South Africans lived in townships, usually built on the outskirts of predominantly white cities such as Johannesburg. Soweto, short for South Western Townships, was the largest. White people rarely went to the townships, and black people who went to the cities were rarely treated as equals with the whites.
Frans and his family were part of a small group from Soweto who had embraced the restored gospel during the 1970s. At first they attended the Johannesburg Ward. Frans’s son Jonas remembered getting up on Sundays at 4:00 a.m. so the family could catch an early train into Johannesburg and then make the long walk to the chapel before the services started at 9:00 a.m. The family was always early—though sometimes it was difficult for the children to stay awake through Primary!
Being a pioneer of racial integration could also be an emotional challenge. Josiah Mohapi remembered overhearing a six-year-old white boy say something offensive about the black people he encountered at church. “To be honest, I became hot under the collar,” Josiah recalled. But then he heard the mother tell her son, “The Church is for everybody.” Comforted by the reminder, Josiah cooled down.
President Taim was aware of the physical and emotional challenges black members faced. He considered starting a branch in Soweto to make travel easier for them but did not want to make them feel as if they were unwelcome in Johannesburg. He decided to interview Soweto members like Frans to gauge their feelings before taking any action. They gave him a clear answer: “We would love to establish the Church in Soweto.”
President Taim identified experienced leaders who could help mentor recent converts. He interviewed over 200 members in Johannesburg and ultimately called 40 to join the new branch long enough to help train a pioneering group of local leaders there.
Just as black members had crossed into another part of town and another culture to attend the Johannesburg Ward, white members had to adjust to a new environment and culture as they served in Soweto. Things did not always go smoothly. Maureen van Zyl, a white member who had been called to serve as Primary president, thought nothing of it when the South African national anthem of the time was chosen as the opening song in Relief Society meeting one week. She soon learned, however, that black South Africans viewed the anthem as a symbol of apartheid and that many black sisters were offended by the choice of song.
Black and white members alike could easily have become discouraged by such misunderstandings, but they chose to see them as an opportunity for discussion and improvement instead. “We shared all sorts of things,” Maureen remembered. “As blacks, what would be offensive and as whites, what we’d find offensive. How they did certain things and how we did certain things. And so it was just this wonderful time of learning together.”
As the branch in Soweto grew stronger and larger, branches were started in other townships using the same model. Khumbulani Mdletshe was a young man living in the KwaMashu township near Durban. When he joined the Church in 1980, he brought with him suspicions of white people common to almost all young black men in South Africa at that time. But his experiences worshipping in an integrated branch changed his perspective.
In 1982, Khumbulani and several other young men in his branch were invited to attend a young single adult conference. His branch president, a white brother named John Mountford, wanted the young men to look their best, though few of them had nice clothing. He emptied his closet, distributing suits to the young men, who wore them to the conference. The next Sunday, President Mountford wore the suit he had loaned to Khumbulani. “I could not imagine a white person wearing the same clothes that have been worn by me,” Khumbulani recalled, “but there he was. He began to help me see white people differently than I’ve ever seen them before.”
Now an Area Seventy, Elder Mdletshe observed, “We all needed these lived experiences that caused us to change.”
Years before apartheid ended, the Johannesburg South Africa Temple, dedicated in 1985, helped unite members of the Church.
Apartheid in South Africa ended in 1994. While many congregations today exist in mostly black or mostly white areas, the greater freedom means that an increasing number of areas are mixed. Like the pioneers of the first branches in the townships, members with different backgrounds worship and work together to build up the kingdom of God.
The current Soweto stake president, Thabo Lebethoa, describes the gospel as glue that binds people together in times of division. “We may not have agreed on things that were happening outside church, with politics and other things,” he observed, “but we agreed on the doctrine.” Working from that shared foundation, people can learn from each other’s differences as they counsel carefully and listen with spiritual sensitivity. “One of the most important things about leadership is to listen to people,” President Lebethoa advises. “Listen so that you can understand. Listen so that you can feel. Listen so that you can receive inspiration.”
Thoba Karl-Halla, the daughter of early Soweto Branch member Julia Mavimbela, agrees that listening helps keep inevitable friction from turning into painful division. “I should listen with an ear that would make me understand the frustrations of the person who might probably come out as an offender to me,” she says.
Elder Mdletshe urges South African Saints today to find strength in their diversity, especially in council settings. “The Lord would have liked that,” he observes, “to have people from all walks of life sit around the table and talk about the issues.” His call to local leaders throughout the Church is to continue to build up leaders from different backgrounds, just as a past generation supported him. When trying to reach new areas and new groups, he notes, “you’re not going to find experienced people. But you build experiences in the Church. You build experiences by bringing people right into the center and having them work together.”

I was seven years old, and I didn’t know how to swim, so my mom enrolled me in afternoon swimming lessons with my friend Angie. At the end of each lesson, our teacher would take us out into the center of the pool to practice our strokes. We were always safe in the middle since our teacher supported us under our stomachs and we wore “bubbles” on our backs.
One day Angie and I didn’t have our bubbles on, so we clung to the side of the pool. Angie decided she wanted to try to swim across the corner to the adjacent wall, about four feet (1.2 m) away. I was hesitant at first, but then she dared me. So even though I was scared, I took in as much air as I could and plunged under the water, hoping to reach the other side. Instead of floating with ease as I had done before with my back bubble, I began to sink. I was in a state of panic. I knew I was going to drown. Then I remembered what my teacher had told me a few weeks earlier: “If you lose control while swimming, just stretch one of your arms straight up out of the water, and someone will come help you.”
With this thought in mind, I stretched my arm in the direction I thought was up. I didn’t feel any air. I stretched my arm in every direction, never finding the top. Just then my head bumped against the side of the pool. Angie was there waiting for me. I guess she hadn’t realized I was “drowning.”

However, some of my negative feelings still remained. I still felt like I wasn’t worth anything. Then I suddenly remembered a story my mom had told me. When I was three years old, my mom was woken up in the middle of the night by the Spirit whispering, “Go to Anna.” She ignored it and tried to go to sleep. Again she heard it, and again she ignored it. The third time it was even louder, so my mom got up and went into my room. She found me turning blue and having some form of a fit, like a seizure. She called an ambulance, and I was quickly sent to the hospital. The doctors took care of me and told my mom that if I had been left a little longer, I might not have survived.
When I think I have no worth or purpose on earth, I reflect on this story and the peace I felt from the Holy Ghost, and I realize that I’m worth so much to my Heavenly Father. Even though I don’t understand it all yet, I know that I have an important mission on earth. I am a daughter of God, and He truly loves me.

For some, the suffering is extraordinary.
Stillman Pond was a member of the Second Quorum of Seventy in Nauvoo. He was an early convert to the Church, having come from Hubbardston, Massachusetts. Like others, he and his wife, Maria, and their children were harassed and driven out of Nauvoo. In September 1846, they became part of the great western migration. The early winter that year brought extreme hardships, including malaria, cholera, and consumption. The family was visited by all three of these diseases.
Maria contracted consumption, and all of the children were stricken with malaria. Three of the children died while moving through the early snows. Stillman buried them on the plains. Maria’s condition worsened because of the grief, pain, and the fever of malaria. She could no longer walk. Weakened and sickly, she gave birth to twins. They were named Joseph and Hyrum, and both died within a few days.
The Stillman Pond family arrived at Winter Quarters and, like many other families, they suffered bitterly while living in a tent. The death of the five children coming across the plains to Winter Quarters was but a beginning.
The journal of Horace K. and Helen Mar Whitney verifies the following regarding four more of the children of Stillman Pond who perished:
“On Wednesday, the 2nd of December 1846, Laura Jane Pond, age 14 years, … died of chills and fever.” Two days later on “Friday, the 4th of December 1846, Harriet M. Pond, age 11 years, … died with chills.” Three days later, “Monday, the 7th of December, 1846, Abigail A. Pond, age 18 years, … died with chills.” Just five weeks later, “Friday, the 15th of January, 1847, Lyman Pond, age 6 years, … died with chills and fever. Four months later, on the 17th of May, 1847, his wife Maria Davis Pond also died. Crossing the plains, Stillman Pond lost nine children and a wife. He became an outstanding colonizer in Utah, and became the senior president of the thirty-fifth Quorum of Seventy. (See Leon Y. and H. Ray Pond, comps., “Stillman Pond, a Biographical Sketch,” in Sterling Forsyth Histories, typescript, Church Historical Dept. Archives, pp. 4–5.)
Having lost these nine children and his wife in crossing the plains, Stillman Pond did not lose his faith. He did not quit. He went forward. He paid a price, as have many others before and since, to become acquainted with God.

Bus drivers came and went on the school bus. Then, when Mr. Turner took over the job as the newest driver, people said, “He won’t last till Christmas! Those kids are the noisiest bunch in the world. They’re enough to drive any driver crazy!”
But this bus driver came and he stayed. The first day, when the noise got to the explosion point, he stopped the bus and stood facing the children, wearing a big smile. This really scared all the kids. No bus driver had ever smiled at them before.
“Watch it,” whispered one boy. “He’s going to take us hostage.”
“You’ve been watching too many news broadcasts,” commented another.
Suddenly there was a flash of lightning and then a roll of thunder. Huge raindrops were pelting the top of the bus. “Do any of you know ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’? I always sing that song when it rains,” said Mr. Turner. “The back three rows will lead off, the middle three rows will go second, and the rest of us up front will finish off the round. All right now, one time through. Row it!”
The kids were so startled by this strange turn of events that they were already sitting with their mouths open. It was just natural for them to let the words come out, and they began to sing.
Mr. Turner took his seat—still singing in a booming voice—and continued driving toward school in the midst of a happy, glorious sound.
Well, soon these kids found out that there were a lot of things that Mr. Turner always did. Besides singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” when it rained, he always waited a bit longer at each stop if some girl had to make a mad, wet dash for the bus. He always sang “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” on very cold days. He would sneak a hand warmer to children who had to walk the farthest to the bus stop or had holes in their mittens.
Mr. Turner was no doubt the biggest tease in all the world. When someone got on the bus, he’d say, “What are we having for lunch today? I appreciated that apple yesterday, for I was getting downright burned out from a steady diet of caviar sandwiches. Don’t you kids eat anything but caviar? Boy! I’d settle for a mustard-soaked sardine once in a while.”
No one had really given him an apple. And no one ever gave him their lunch, but it never stopped him from teasing. It kept them guessing and it kept them quiet, just wondering what he was going to say to the next one who got on. He begged for everything, from peeled turnips to frog legs. He accused them of being blackhearted scoundrels for not bringing him toasted croutons and bib lettuce. “Yuck!” he snarled. “One more of your egg salad sandwiches and I’ll turn in my driver’s license.”
When it came Christmastime, the children sang carols loud and long. And Mr. Turner would say, “Hold back a little. You’re getting too good. Let’s hear a rusty note or two. You have the whole countryside jealous already, and if you come out with just one more perfect pitch, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir will be on our backs. OK, let’s hear some Gravel Gerties now!” So everyone tried even harder to sing beautifully.
Right before Christmas, he demanded that they walk through “security” like at airports, so he could X-ray their lunch boxes for any hidden Christmas goodies. He placed a tall, round wastebasket just inside the front door and demanded that they empty all their goodies into it. No one did. They laughed and threw in gum wrappers instead.
Mr. Turner mocked, “Now you kids cut that out. I can only take so much laughter and then I break out in hives.”
The children stopped laughing long enough to whisper. But soon their whispers became so rapid, so intense, that their driver grumbled, “Cut that out! You sound like a bunch of bees when their hive has been mortared shut. I can’t stand secrets. It brings out the worst in me.” He didn’t scare anyone.
The last day before school closed for Christmas vacation, the kids got on the bus, put their noses in the air, and walked silently by him, even while he begged for strange foods, threatened them with wild punishments, and flashed his pretend X-ray machine at them.
When they came to the first stop on the trip home, the rider didn’t get off. He stopped short of the door and said, “All right, Mr. Turner, this is it. We’re a bunch of wild and woolly kids, and we’re not going to let it get out that you lasted as our bus driver until Christmas.”
All the other kids leaped from their seats and shouted agreement. The shouts were so loud that Mr. Turner grabbed some earmuffs from one of the boys and socked them onto his own ears. Then he demanded, “What’s this? You kids hijacking my bus?”
“Nope, Mr. Turner, we’re hijacking you. Turn around and don’t move and …
“HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!” they all shouted.
Instantly two girls’ umbrellas went up and tinsel dropped from the ribs, making fascinating Christmas trees. Lunch boxes were opened and out came a marvelous array of Christmas cookies. Some were shaped like sardines, others like frog legs or mushrooms, and just about every other silly thing he had teased them for. When someone pounded on the front door of his bus, Mr. Turner was forced to open it. There stood some mothers with a thermos of hot chocolate, cups, and Christmas napkins. Then the singing of carols began.
“Stop the music! Stop the music!” I can’t have this sort of thing happen to my perfect record. I’ve never gotten a child home late this year, and now you’re throwing a blast that is shooting my record right through the roof.”
But everyone kept on singing, and Mr. Turner kept on stuffing cookies into his mouth, his shirt pockets, pants pockets, and a couple even into the tops of his snowboots.
Said one of the mothers, “A man that crazy just might last as our kids’ bus driver until June.”

Talents are meant to be shared. As you learn to play the piano, you can bless others with your music. As you develop your talent for spirituality, you can use this gift to bless your family. Did you know you have some responsibility for the happiness in your family? It isn’t just your mom’s or dad’s job to keep the family happy. You can help too. Listen to what Brooke did as she shared her talent for spirituality.
“My eight-year-old sister was scared of strangers coming into the house. One night she came into my room, and I tried to explain to her that she wasn’t hearing anyone walking around. I remembered my seminary teacher challenged us to always try to have Heavenly Father’s Spirit with us. So I prayed in my heart that I would get help to not be frustrated. A verse came instantly into my head. I opened the scriptures and told her to read it to me. Then I was bearing testimony to her about the Holy Ghost and how if she wanted peace to get down and pray and the Spirit would come. She gave me a hug and kiss and went off to bed. Then I remembered my 10-year-old sister on the top bunk. She told me she never knew that if you wanted something like that you could pray and the Spirit would bring you peace. I know the Holy Ghost was inspiring me to say that” (letter).
There are lots of ways you can bless your family. Brooke did three important things: she bore her testimony, she prayed for her sister, and she was an example to her other sister on the top bunk. This strengthened her own spirituality as well.

Begin sharing time with a music clue. Hum or play “When We’re Helping” (p. 198) and have the children guess the topic of sharing time. Helping and serving others makes us happy. When we serve others, we are sharing the gospel. Tell the story “And a Little Child Shall Lead Them” (Friend, Sept. 2002, 4–6). In this story, Kyle wanted to be a missionary. He made friends with Pedro and invited him to Primary. Pedro liked the people in Primary and noticed that he felt happy when he was there. Soon, he and his family were taking lessons from the missionaries. Ask the children to listen for all the ways that Kyle gave service. Who else in the story gave service and how? What happened because of Kyle’s willingness to serve? Take responses.

Once upon a time a family went on a camping trip. Along the way, they got lost in the forest and ended up at the wrong camp.
“What a funny name,” Dad said, reading the sign.
Welcome to Camp ____________________ (adjective) ___________________ (animal).
“We made it!” Mom said. “I’m so glad we’re done __________________ (verb ending in ‘ing’). I thought we’d be stuck in our _________________ (noun) forever!”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’m so ___________________ (adjective) I could eat a ________________ (noun).
They soon found out that this camp wasn’t what they expected. The cabins were made out of large ______________________ (type of food), and the lake was full of ______________________ (favorite soda or juice).
“Let’s go fishing!” Rachel said. They went to the lake with their poles and caught lots of ___________________ (adjective) ______________________ (plural noun) for dinner.
Later that night, the camp host stopped by and told them a campfire story. It was about ________ (number)-eyed Pete, a sneaky pirate who liked to steal ____________________ (item of clothing, plural) when campers weren’t looking and sew them into sails for his __________________ (adjective) pirate ship.
That night the family slept to the sound of _____________________ (large animal, plural) chirping in the trees. In the morning they woke up, ate breakfast, and went for a ______________________ (verb) through the ____________________ (adjective) forest.
“This is the silliest vacation ever!” Joe said. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Me neither,” said Rachel. “Now let’s grab our fishing poles. I want to catch some more ________________ (plural noun)!"

When my parents go to visit my great-grandma at the rest home, I always like to go. I feel happy when I see Great-Grandma Billie, but I love seeing all the other grandmas, too. They don’t know me, but they ask me my name, and everyone wants to talk to me. I guess they get lonely and like to see children. I like to help make them feel happy inside, and I always feel good when I go there.
Cassidy Ferrell, age 5Lehi, Utah

Because of violent civil uprisings in 1994, full-time missionaries were pulled out of many areas in the state of Chiapas in southern Mexico. Some fledgling branches, such as the one in the town of Palenque—near the famous Mayan ruins of the same name—were closed.
Missionaries assigned to Palenque some two years later faced the challenges of reopening the branch, locating and reactivating scattered members, baptizing new converts, and preparing members for leadership.
Among the first missionaries to arrive were Elder Bartolomé de la Cruz Reyes and his wife, Natalia, of the Arboleda Ward, Mexico City Mexico La Perla Stake. “This couple literally rescued the branch,” says President Benjamín de Hoyos Estrada of the Mexico Tuxtla Gutiérrez Mission. Their secret: hearts filled with love for the Lord, for one another, and for their fellowmen.
“Sister de la Cruz walks with me, and I walk with her,” says Elder de la Cruz. “This is the feeling we have—lots of love for our brothers and sisters, all of them, whether they are members of the Church or not. I know they are children of our Heavenly Father.”
Elder and Sister de la Cruz became like members of the family to all they met. Within a few months of their arrival in Palenque, the branch had grown from just a handful of people attending sacrament meeting to an average weekly attendance of 50. Soon the branch had outgrown the rented house where they held meetings and moved to a larger meeting place.
One of the “new” families in the branch is José Felipe Hernández Jorge and his wife, Magnolia. Baptized in Mérida, Mexico, eight years ago, they moved their family to Palenque two years ago and quietly fell into inactivity. “Six or seven months ago, Elder and Sister de la Cruz found us and we became friends,” says Brother Hernández. “We’ve been attending ever since!” After only a few months, he succeeded Elder de la Cruz as branch president.
Another new member is Rocío Flores Rojas, 15. “Elder and Sister de la Cruz taught and baptized my mother,” she says. “At first I didn’t want to be baptized. But they kept coming and talking to me about the word of God. And they treated me so well—like they do all the people. I came to know that their message was true and was baptized last Sunday. More than anything, we would like them to stay with us forever. But when they have completed their mission, they have a right to return to their family.”
Elder de la Cruz retired from his job early in order to serve. He and his wife had attended a meeting in Mexico City and heard Elder Lino Álvarez of the Seventy encourage couples to serve full-time missions. Facing the loss of some retirement benefits by retiring early, Elder and Sister de la Cruz nevertheless felt the Spirit telling them that now was the right time for them. “We did lose some benefits,” he says, “but our Heavenly Father has given us so much more. We decided to share with our brothers and sisters what we feel for Him.”
“For me it has been a great happiness and joy to come to know and teach these brothers and sisters in Palenque—and to even bring more members to the Church,” says Sister de la Cruz. “I feel greatly strengthened by being with them.”
Before leaving home, the couple held a family meeting with their elderly parents, their nine children, and their grandchildren—all of whom are members of the Church. Each family member expressed encouragement and support. “When we left, I put my family in the hands of the Lord,” says Sister de la Cruz. “He has protected them. They are all fine. They write often and tell us how happy they are to have us serving.”
During a recent branch outing at the Mayan ruins at Palenque, Elder and Sister de la Cruz spent the afternoon visiting with members and nonmembers, chatting with the youth, and playing with the children. “The Palenque Branch has made a lot of progress—and has a great future,” says Elder de la Cruz.
He gently takes his wife by the hand and gives her a smile. “Perhaps we have deficiencies,” he says, “but we do our part, and the Lord adds whatever we’re lacking to accomplish what we need to do.”

In October 2018 President Russell M Nelson, in a general conference address, told us about the Church’s resolve to remove the use of ‘Mormon’ in reference to the Lord’s Church and its members.
I am very grateful for this directive and strive to do all I can to make sure everyone knows I am not a ‘Mormon’ and nor is it the name of the Church I attend. I worship and follow Jesus Christ.
About a year later, I was awkwardly trying to find a topic to study for my dissertation. My degree is in journalism, and I knew that the matter of faith isn’t a popular choice in journalism. As I struggled with my project, I decided to include in my preliminary thesis some things that certain UK media enterprises did in covering stories about the Church and its members. Eventually my whole dissertation ended up being a small analysis of the use of ‘Mormon’ by the Guardian and the Daily Mail in online media.
My research and results were fascinating. I learned that these organisations were just throwing the word ‘Mormon’ around hoping the audiences would be able to make sense of what they meant and hoping it would provide a popular effect. However, I thought the audience was likely to be more confused by its use than the journalists.
There are at least three prominent and very different churches in America that are recognised as ‘Mormon’. One of them openly practices polygamy and uses the word ‘Mormons’ for their members. The confused journalists I was interviewing at the time, said that all these people, including me, were ‘Mormons’ according to their understanding, and the understanding of their audiences; this was in late 2019 and early 2020.
It didn’t take too long to realise how important it is for UK members of the Church to do their best to ensure the correct use of the name of the Church. I’ve not yet perfected my dissertation enough for me to feel comfortable in publishing it. However, the impact the project had on me was profound, and I did get a good grade. I’m proud of it. I will share it eventually with those who are interested.
There is a special spirit that comes into our hearts when we firmly ensure correct use of the name of the Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, in our hearts, minds, and conversations. My understanding and faith that Jesus Christ is the head of the Church and guides the policies, teachings, and operations of the Church, has grown. I have felt so much closer to the Saviour because of it.

by Jeanne McInelly
The silent dignity of the Arkansas House of Representatives was pierced with shouts of “Contact! Contact!” A hundred Arkansas seminary students were clamoring for points in the final scripture chase contest of the year.
“Hold it down! Quiet, quiet! Let’s remember where we are,” cautioned the teacher. “Are you ready? Here’s the clue for scripture number seven.”
It all began the month before in seminary officers meeting where plans were being laid for the next Super Saturday.
“Hey, our lesson is on good government next month.”
“Wow, let’s all go to Washington!”
“No, we’ve got roadshow practice that morning.”
“Well, how about having our lesson at the state capitol building at Little Rock?”
“You’ve got to be important to get in there.”
“Well, so who’s more important than LDS seminary students from all over the state—in our Sunday best?”
“It’s worth trying for. At least after we ask they’ll know there are Mormons in Arkansas.”
Within a week officials were approached, permission was received, and the secretary of state had agreed to speak to the group. Bright picture postcards of the capitol building arrived at all 12 seminary classes around the state announcing the news.
“We’ve got the state capitol building for the next month’s Super Saturday! Be sure to dress up. Now we’re the VIPs.”
The morning of the activity, prior to the lesson, the seminary officers met in a plush committee room complete with microphones at each desk and swivel executive chairs.
“Such class! We ought to meet here every month.”
“So this is what my license plate fee pays for!”
For the lesson students climbed the white marble stairs leading to the assembly room where a seminary fife and drum corps brought in the flag. The Arkansas secretary of state, Kelly Bryant, was a special guest speaker. Some visitors touring the building paused to admire the group and to ask, “Are these kids some special committee for the governor?”
As part of the lesson students impersonating prominent Book of Mormon characters gave campaign speeches in an effort to win votes from the group and gain imaginary seats on the Zarahemla City Council. As this was in progress, one of the state representatives, returning with his wife for some papers, paused to listen and chuckle at King Noah as he confused his interrogators with evasive answers and political double talk. “He sounds like one of us at a press conference,” laughed the representative.
After the lesson students were treated to a tour of the governor’s conference room. Their enthusiasm and good deportment won them a rare peek at the chambers of the state supreme court. “Nobody gets to see these rooms except on court day, but for you I’ll make an exception,” said their guide.
Picnic lunches under the sweet Magnolia trees on the capitol grounds rounded out the impressive day. Between crunches of potato chips, conversations were overheard:
“You know, one of our seminary group just might be a state legislator here someday.”
“Yeah, that kid who played King Noah seemed like he had potential.”

Expectant silence fills the living room where 80-year-old Ronald Bowles sits surrounded by teenagers.
“I’ll never forget my first trip as an officer in the South Pacific,” Brother Bowles begins, recounting an experience he had on a ship as a U.S. Marine during World War II. “It was a moonlit night, and I was on watch. Off the bow, on the starboard side, three torpedoes were coming straight for us.”
Now at full attention, the young men and women of the Tempe Arizona Stake listen anxiously as Brother Bowles continues: “I was just about to reach for the general alarm bell … when two or three porpoises swerved right by the bow and took off.”
The teens laugh with relief that the threatening torpedoes turned out to be nothing more than porpoises.

One bright Saturday morning, youth from the Cardiff Wales Stake, with lunches stuffed in backpacks and plenty of enthusiasm for the outing, set off for a special activity to commemorate the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood and to uncover the roots of the gospel in the British Isles.
Those roots run deep—back 160 years—to the time when Wilford Woodruff (1807–98) and Brigham Young (1801–77) walked the roads their bus is now traveling. Both Elder Young and Elder Woodruff, who were members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles at that time, became Presidents of the Church.
Since many teenagers are in one vehicle, the noise level is high as the bus crosses the border from Wales into England. Everyone is talking and having a great time. The youth love being together any chance they get. They love being around friends who share their beliefs.
Charlotte Forward, age 15, of the Cwmbran Ward enjoys being with her friends Kathryn Elliott of the Blackwood Ward and Rachel Griffiths of the Newport-Gwent Ward. They usually get to see each other only at stake activities, and spending all day together is a huge treat. Charlotte says, “Wales is a beautiful place to live. Everyone is so great to be with. We all get along in the stake. I’m something like the seventh generation in the Church. Some of my ancestors emigrated to Utah, but some stayed. Now I seem to have relatives everywhere here.”
The bus pulls into the village of Ledbury. It’s a fairly ordinary country town these days except for the charming old covered outdoor market on the main street. Andrew Dearden, the stake Young Men president, tells the youth that the first missionaries in this area preached in the market square. A few of the young men, who will be serving missions themselves in a few years, get out of the bus and walk under the old roof of the market. Would they have the nerve to stand in that spot and talk about the gospel to the townspeople? How would they react if the crowd did not listen?
Some of the people 160 years ago who heard Wilford Woodruff give a single sermon asked to be baptized. The youth are astounded that the missionaries had such success spreading the gospel. Clive Wilkinson, age 18, who is looking forward to his mission, is awed to think that back then hundreds of people in this area listened to the missionaries and believed.
“It’s amazing that people would be converted by listening to just one talk,” says Clive. “I’m a stake missionary, and when we go out with the missionaries now, it’s nothing like that. We’re lucky to get in the door. It’s amazing that the missionaries back then could come over here with this new religion that no one had heard about and people would have enough faith to believe them and be converted straightaway like that.”
The next two stops are different from each other, but both are mentioned often in Church history. The first stop is the Malvern Hills. This spot is where Wilford Woodruff dedicated the area for the teaching of the gospel. After eating lunch, the youth hike up a trail, leaving the roads and houses behind, to the grassy slopes at the summit. From there they look one direction and can see the county of Herefordshire, England, spread out at their feet. Then they turn toward their homes and can see into Wales.
The second stop is the John Benbow farm. Although the farm itself is privately owned now, the small pond where hundreds of converts were baptized has been purchased and is maintained by the Church. The youth relax on the freshly cut grass and try to imagine the impressive scene when Wilford Woodruff was a missionary here.
Although there isn’t a lot to see except the pond at the Benbow farm, the youth are quiet. The peaceful spirit of the place seems to penetrate every heart. “It feels really special,” says Suzy Taylor of the Blackwood Ward, “to think about those people who have been here before us. It is nice to see where our leaders were talking about.”
The final stop is at the remains of the Gadfield Elm chapel. At the time of their visit, just the rock walls are standing. The roof is gone, and nettles have grown up inside. The chapel was the first building owned by the Church outside the United States. It is easy to imagine what it must have been like 160 years ago, as people walked down the winding country road to the chapel. It is a little more difficult to imagine the power and spirit that must have been there when Wilford Woodruff preached. In one evening people learned the truth, and it changed the course of their lives.
The seeds that were planted then still bloom in the youth who come back to visit the places where such miracles took place. “It’s quite amazing, really,” says Joseph Parry of the Caerphilly Branch. “These places are around us. I’ve always thought of Church history as being in America. It was actually in Britain, too.”