Gospel Story Finder

What’s it like to experience Christmas without a tree or presents? I found out a few years ago with my three older sisters when, through unusual circumstances, we had none of the traditional trappings come December 25.
Our family lived in a small Wyoming community, and we decided to spend Christmas at my grandparents’ condominium in Salt Lake City while they were on a mission in New Zealand. They had left us a key and encouraged us to stay there while they were gone.
We intended to arrive in Salt Lake early on the day before Christmas, buy a tree and presents, and decorate and wrap them that night. But snow and ice on the roads made our travel slow and tedious. When we got to Salt Lake, we found ourselves unable to get cash at any of the banks since they had closed early on Christmas Eve, and the stores wouldn’t take an out-of-state check.
We couldn’t even buy a tree, so we went back to the condo, where we decided to write a letter to our grandma and grandpa, thanking them for letting us use their home. We looked at pictures they had sent us and talked about their mission. Then we each wrote them letters asking how they were doing and telling them about our lives at home.
We made fudge and some other concoctions with the nonperishable foods Grandma and Grandpa kept on hand. We played some games, sang songs, and then read and discussed scriptures about the first Christmas. Pretty soon, it was time for bed. For the sake of tradition we each hung up a sock (one we would wear later in the week) and went to sleep.
On Christmas day, we found the treats that we made the night before in the socks, but we had no presents to open. So my sisters found pencils and paper and began writing IOUs. Some were for gifts, but some were just promises for helping do things like washing dishes when it was someone else’s turn. They seemed to have a good time doing it, so I joined in and wrote an IOU to my parents promising I’d try to do a better job of keeping my stuff out of the front room each day. They later said they couldn’t have asked for a better present.
Looking back on it, I would not necessarily plan another Christmas like that one, but it has turned out to be one of my more enjoyable Christmases. My sisters agree. We’ve never had more fun.
That day I learned that Christmas is more than trees and presents. Those are nice, but not essential. Celebrating the birth of Christ with my family is what made it truly special.

I worked as the assistant manager for about two years, and I will never forget the great challenge that then came to me. I had been paying my tithing regularly during that time and certainly believed in the principle, but I did not have as sure a witness of that principle as I was about to attain.
One Saturday afternoon after finishing work, the manager told me that starting a week from the following day, on Sunday, it would be necessary for me to work every Sunday morning. The manager was an inactive member of the Church at the time, and he knew that I was not going to react favorably to the suggestion. But he was quick to tell me that even though I would miss priesthood meeting and Sunday School, I could find some other way to attend meetings, and thus it would not be that serious. He then attempted to entice me by telling me that my pay would be increased by 30 percent, thinking that might change my feelings about the principle of working on Sunday.
I remember how strongly those words fell upon my heart, but I also remember my response: “I am quite certain that I cannot work on Sunday.”
“Well,” he said, “you will have to work on Sunday or I will find another assistant manager.”
I left the office rather sad that day. I remember asking the Lord why I should lose my job as a result of the Church. I had been working hard to save enough money to support myself on a mission, and now I was going to lose my job unless I were willing to work on Sunday.
I talked to my father to ask his counsel, and all he would tell me was, “I am sure you will do what is right, whatever that may be.” I was left to make my own decision. The feeling came over me that there was no way to resolve this matter except by finding out what the Lord would have me do.
The following Saturday I went in and announced to the manager that I would not work on Sunday. He informed me that since that was my choice, I would have one week and no longer as the assistant manager, and then I would be replaced by a young man who was “really willing to work.”
I left work that day feeling very unhappy realizing that in five or six days I would be without a job. In one more year I was to go on my mission, and I did not yet have sufficient funds to support myself. I prayed much that week.
The following days at work seemed very long, and there were few words spoken between my boss and me. I waited for the next Saturday, which was to be my last day.
Friday finally arrived. As I was finishing work that evening, the manager approached me and said, some what emotionally, “Gene, you are right in what you are doing, and I am wrong in asking you to work on Sunday. I have found a young man of another religion who is willing to work on Sunday, but I still want you to be my assistant manager. And that 30 percent pay increase will be given to you anyway, even though you will not be working the Sabbath day. You are a fine young man.”
I will never forget the feeling of gratitude that came over me at that moment. I will also never forget my feelings that month as I paid more than an honest tithe and faithfully fulfilled my responsibilities on Sunday.
The Lord will pour out the blessings of heaven upon a man, even a young man, and teach him in his heart both the value of paying tithing on that which he earns and the value of keeping the Sabbath day holy. At any price, the commandments of the Lord are worth keeping.

Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store.
While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me.
My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, What have I done to deserve this? Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton (see Conference Report, Oct. 1970, 36–38; or Improvement Era, Dec. 1970, 59–60). He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back.
Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back.
The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.

There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.

When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.

“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.

They stopped talking and considered.

“We just got here,” one said.

“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.

“Good,” said Frank.

One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.

I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”

They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.

He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.

I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.

Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.

He raised his hands above the keyboard.

“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.

He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.

That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.

“So, how was it?”

“What?” I played dumb, stalling.

“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”

“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.

He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.

“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.

“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”

I looked over at him.

“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”

I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.

We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”

I waited for more.

“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.

I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.

“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.

“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”

I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”

“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”

Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.

“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”

I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.

“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

They were on their way to the nearest temple when youth from the Bloomington Ward, Minneapolis Minnesota Stake, pulled into Nauvoo. They were about to check into the historical Nauvoo House when they learned it was right in the line of the summer’s horrible flooding. The youth went to work immediately, joining a sandbagging brigade that strengthened the levy between the inn and the river. Everyone from the smallest Beehives to the largest priests worked side by side.

So much for touring Nauvoo. They almost missed seeing the show at the Nauvoo Visitors’ Center too, because while they were sandbagging, no one picked up the tickets they’d reserved months earlier, and their tickets were given away to others. When the visitors’ center missionaries heard what had happened, they delayed the show while the youth cleaned up, and they brought in extra seating to accommodate those who had helped save the Nauvoo House.

The youth felt it was probably the most memorable excursion they would ever take. They not only had the chance to serve the dead by doing baptisms in the temple, but they were able to serve the living and generations to come by helping save a historical landmark.

Sitting on the stand of the St. George (Utah) Tabernacle, waiting for her performance to begin, Sheena Rosander couldn’t help remembering the year before when she had been waiting to perform at a high school talent show.
“It was one of the only times I really had the jitters before a performance,” says Sheena. “I followed a rock group and knew immediately that the classical song I loved to play on the piano wasn’t really what kids wanted to hear. I depend so much on the Spirit to help me play, and that Spirit just wasn’t there.”
But this night, things were different. Thankfully, the Spirit was in abundance as her six functioning fingers flew over the keyboard of the grand piano creating music, the kind that brings a lump to the throat.
Sheena Rosander, 18, from Hurricane, Utah, was born with what some people consider a disability. But to Sheena, having only a partial thumb and no fingers on her left hand is a gift. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have all 10 fingers, like how much easier keyboarding would be,” says Sheena. “But I usually just find a way to go around it. My mom wanted me to peel potatoes, and I was really struggling with that potato peeler. So I decided when I have my own family I’ll just have baked potatoes. There’s always a way to do things.”
And that’s pretty much how Sheena has been able to enjoy her favorite activities, like playing and teaching tennis, playing the violin, teaching piano lessons, and competing at performing-arts festivals.
In fact, she’s used her good attitude as a springboard to propel her into positive social situations. On her first day of kindergarten, when Sheena proudly displayed her hand at “show and tell,” one child told her it looked like a Cabbage Patch doll’s hand. Delighted, she added several Cabbage Patch dolls to her already thriving collection. Her favorite had red hair and blue eyes, just like Sheena.
That kind of confidence comes naturally. Even before she was born, her mother, Toni, decided all her children would learn to play piano. Sheena began lessons at age five.
“She was determined to play the piano,” recalls her teacher, Tammy Drake. “Her hand was never an obstacle. She would compensate with her right hand to achieve a full sound. Then one day, she began playing with her left hand, using her thumb and pinky stub. Sheena has shown all of us a new kind of courage and determination. Some listeners never even know about her hand. She plays beautifully.”

I joined the Church by myself in central California, USA, when I was a teenager, and in the 20-plus years since then, I’ve always been either the only Black person in my ward or one of a very, very few. I have had some difficult experiences, even at church, with regards to my race. Thankfully, I have a testimony that God loves me and that there is a place for all of us in His kingdom.
While Church leaders have called on “all people to abandon attitudes and actions of prejudice toward any group or individual,”1 there are some who still haven’t learned how to do it. I saw that as a young single adult when I was left to wonder if that was why none of the boys were interested in dating me and if I would ever have the opportunity to marry in the temple because of it. I see it now when someone at church makes an incorrect comment about race that makes me feel singled out, as if my worthiness is being evaluated in front of everyone. And if no one speaks up to correct this false doctrine, I am left to do it alone.
It’s uncomfortable to be stared at, to have people touch my hair without permission, or to be ignored. And when I try to talk about these things, it hurts deeply when I am told by people I love and trust that I’m just making things up, being too sensitive, or acting like a victim.
Why do I and others share these painful experiences? It’s because I want to be part of my ward family. It’s because I see how much I could contribute if given the opportunity. But I feel like I’m on the periphery of Church life—not fully sheltered in the refuge we all need. It’s because with greater mutual understanding, we can be so much better together.
I want to give people an opportunity to get to know me, so I try to be open and honest with and kind to everyone I meet. I try to initiate friendships by inviting people to lunch and starting conversations. I try to create safe spaces for honesty, vulnerability, and love, and make time for other people the way I hope they’ll make time for me. I try to be the friend I want to have—which includes trying to understand experiences others have had that I don’t share.
I’ve felt seen and included by simple acts of kindness and reaching out. I feel included when people make an effort to have a real conversation with me, make time for me, or invite me to spend time with them. It feels so good when people show that they want to be around you.

Life is not always easy for the three boys. Sometimes bad things do happen, and the boys have learned to depend on Heavenly Father to help them.
One morning a few years ago, Sister Lopez was taking her children and four of their cousins to school. On the way, they were in a very serious accident. The children weren’t hurt, but Sister Lopez broke her neck.
The doctors in Guatemala City did what they could for her, but eight months later she became very ill. The doctors said that she needed neck surgery and that afterward she would be in a wheelchair the rest of her life. The family prayed, and Sister Lopez decided to call some of the young men in the United States who had lived in their home as missionaries. One of them was studying to become an orthopedic surgeon! He said, “Come to Provo, and let us do the surgery here.” One of his teachers agreed to perform the surgery, and a family offered to care for Sister Lopez until she was well enough to return to Guatemala.
On the day of the surgery, it was hard for the rest of the family to not know how the surgery was going. They all prayed a lot on that day. Benjamin in particular prayed that his mother would feel good again and would still be able to walk. When they called her that night, she said that the operation had gone well and that she still had the use of her legs!
“I was recovering in Utah for three months,” Sister Lopez said. “Everyone helped me a lot, but it was hard to be so far away from my family.”
Isaac remembers well the one time the family got to see her before she came home. “We drove for five days to get to Provo to see Mommy. It was a very long drive, but it was worth it!” Sister Lopez recovered and returned home. The family is grateful to Heavenly Father for taking care of her and making it so she could walk.

I would like to tell you about an experience that happened to my companion and I while we were reading the Church magazines. We had just come home for lunch and placed some rice on the stove to cook. Then we each grabbed a Church magazine and started reading. We became so involved in the reading that we forgot about lunch. It was still on the stove, burning itself black. The funny part about it was that my companion was sitting about three feet away from the stove in a smoke-filled room that smelled of burnt rice, yet he didn’t realize anything was burning for a long while. (The rice was burnt so badly that we considered throwing the pot away instead of cleaning it.)
This little incident showed us how much we can enjoy the reading of Church magazines. They are filled with choice spiritual articles that help us to grow. We would like to take this opportunity to let you know how much the New Era means to us.
Elders Mit and GoisisiAustralia Brisbane Mission

The Ninth Ward of the Las Vegas Nevada Stake planned a 5-day superactivity that would take place in their own valley. The focus of the activity was to learn more about the life and hardships of the early pioneers in their area.
The theme of the activity was “Handcarts to Husqvarnas,” representing old-fashioned and modern methods of travel in the valley. Handcarts were used by the early pioneers, and Husqvarnas, a type of motorcycle, are a popular vehicle with the members of the Ninth Ward.
The opening activity was a game night in which the group was divided into companies of ten each. Of the twelve games played, six were games that might have been played in pioneer days, and six were modern games. The companies finished the evening by decorating their handcarts for the Saturday trek.
Friday evening a modern formal dinner was served complete with musical entertainment. The evening was concluded with a film on the history of the Las Vegas area.
Early the next morning, the groups met at the chapel ready for a day of exploring the valley’s history. On the way to the desert, the caravan of trucks and cars stopped at designated spots to receive short 15-minute history lessons on the area. After arriving at the desert, the group mounted motorcycles or loaded into trucks for a three-mile ride to a predetermined destination. There they found the handcarts waiting for them. Loading up the carts, the youth began the trek that would cover the same three miles they had covered so quickly by modern means. They soon found it was hard work as the sun heated the desert. In rest areas planned along the way, the groups were encouraged to stop and appreciate nature or stop and bury bad habits.
After a pioneer luncheon cooked over an open fire, the group cleaned up the area and returned to the chapel to clean the trucks used on the outing.
On Sunday evening a special fireside was held with the featured speaker talking about looking to the past to help with the future.
The final day of the superactivity was held on the following Activity Night. Video movies had been taken of the various activities and were shown. A local historian talked about the places the youth had visited. The Las Vegas youth felt they really had learned more about their home area and had a greater appreciation for the sacrifices of the pioneers that settled their valley.

Sarah quickly finished dressing as the morning sun streamed into her bedroom. She was so excited that she could hardly button her shirt. She’d been counting the days till her tenth birthday for weeks, and it was finally here.
She hurried downstairs to the kitchen. “Morning, Mom; morning, Dad,” she said, planting a kiss on each cheek and slipping into her seat at the breakfast table.
“Happy birthday, honey.” Her mother was making Sarah’s favorite breakfast—strawberry pancakes.
“How’s my birthday girl?” asked Dad squeezing her shoulders.
There it was, next to her plate. A little velvet box. Ever since her best friend, Sally, got a real ring on her last birthday, Sarah had been pleading for one of her own. Sally’s was beautiful—ruby red with a rhinestone on each side that glistened in the sun. Sarah gingerly touched the fuzzy fabric.
“Go ahead—open it,” Mom said from the stove.
Her heart pounding, Sarah closed her eyes and lifted the lid. When she opened them again, her heart sank. Nestled inside the beautiful little box was a plain silver ring with a tiny stone that looked like glass, not the brightly colored gem she had imagined. And the ring didn’t even look new.
“Do you like it, Sarah?” asked Dad.
Hiding her disappointment, Sarah answered, “A ring is just what I wanted.”
“It was your great-grandmother’s, you know,” Mom said, setting Sarah’s plate in front of her. “It’s an heirloom.”
“It’s very nice. Thanks.” Sarah stared hard at the ring in front of her and swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Here, let me.” Dad leaned across the table and slid the ugly little ring onto Sarah’s finger. He stood up. “I have to leave now, but I’ll be home early for cake.” He winked at Sarah, kissed them both good-bye, and left for work.
Sarah walked slowly down the sidewalk toward school, knowing that Sally would be waiting for her at the corner. There she was. Sarah slowed her steps even more.
“Happy birthday!” Sally called, beaming. “Did you get it? Let me see it.” And before Sarah could pull away, Sally had grabbed her hand and was staring at the ring.
Forcing a smile, Sarah mumbled, “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”
Sally shrugged. “It’s nice,” she said politely, admiring her own hand.
When they got to school, Sarah slipped the ring off and tucked it into her pocket.
That afternoon she went home from school to find her mother hanging paper streamers in the dining room.
“Hi, sweetie, how was your day?” Then, seeing Sarah’s hand, she gasped, “Oh no! You didn’t lose the ring?”
Horrified, Sarah remembered that it was still in her pocket. She pulled it out hurriedly as she stammered, “No, Mom. I took it off because I was afraid of … of losing it and … and …” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t dare look at Mom’s face.
Mom sat down and patted the seat next to her. “You’re a little disappointed with it, aren’t you?” she asked softly.
Sarah started to shake her head but then just nodded and looked down at her lap, blinking back tears.
“I’m sorry, Sarah, that we didn’t give this to you tonight, when we could tell you about it, instead of this morning, when Dad and you had to rush off. Let’s see, where should I begin … ? We did tell you that it’s an heirloom. Do you know what an heirloom is?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Now we’re giving it to you. It’s a little piece of our family,” she finished. “Do you understand what an heirloom is now?”
Sarah gazed at the ring still clutched in her hand. Hugging her mother, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me, Mom. I’ll be careful with it.” She slipped it back on, and the sun glinted on the tiny stone for a second. Sarah felt as if she herself was shining.
“You’d better go change, or you’ll be late for your own party!” Mom reminded her now. Sarah dashed upstairs. When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, it was Sally. Sarah held out her hand with the ring on it, proclaiming happily, “Wait till you hear all about my ring—it’s an heirloom!”

I have experienced many opportunities. One occurred 21 years ago, prior to the time when the German Democratic Republic—or East Germany, as it was more commonly known—was freed from Communist rule. I was visiting with the East German state secretary, Minister Gysi. At that time our temple at Freiberg, in East Germany, was under construction, along with two or three meetinghouses. Minister Gysi and I visited on a number of subjects, including our worldwide building program. He then asked, “Why is your church so wealthy that you can afford to build buildings in our country and throughout the world? How do you get your money?”
I answered that the Church is not wealthy but that we follow the ancient biblical principle of tithing, which principle is reemphasized in our modern scripture. I explained also that our Church has no paid ministry and indicated that these were two reasons why we were able to build the buildings then under way, including the beautiful temple at Freiberg.
Minister Gysi was most impressed with the information I presented, and I was very grateful I was able to answer his questions.

David had been playing for a little league team all season. More than anything else he wanted to be a regular on the team, and he wanted to be a pitcher. He never missed a practice or a game. Whenever his dad or his older brother could find the time, he’d get them to play catch with him. Even when David watched television he would wear his baseball mitt and pop a ball in and out of it almost automatically. Sometimes he’d forget to take the mitt off when his mother called him for meals, and then the family would have to wait while David put the mitt away, washed his hands, and came to the table.
Near the end of the season the coach told all the little leaguers they should meet at the ball park on a certain Sunday morning to have a special practice and to have their pictures taken. “I can’t come on Sunday,” said David.
“You’d better,” said the coach, “because we’re going to talk about our team for next year after we have our pictures taken.”
Usually, David ran home full of excitement after a ball game or a practice. But this night he was late, and he hardly answered when his family spoke to him. He was unusually quiet all week, but on Sunday he didn’t go to the ball park. On Monday he was at practice and at every practice afterward. Finally the day came for the team tryouts.
“You’ll be one of our regular pitchers,” the coach told David, “but you’ll have to play whenever a game is scheduled. We need you, and that will mean sometimes you will play on a Sunday.”
“I can’t play ball on Sundays,” David said.
“Then you’ll have to be a standby pitcher instead of a regular one,” answered the coach. And that is how it was all season. Sometimes David had a chance to pitch a game but more often he didn’t. The other boys on the team played on Sundays, but David went to Sunday School and sacrament meeting with his family.
In the spring when David was ten years old, the coach called the boys together to begin a new season and to make selections for the team. “We’ll need you for a regular pitcher this year, David,” he said. “But sometimes you’ll need to play on Sunday.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said David. That night he talked the problem over with his dad, and then he said a special prayer for help to have the courage to do what he knew was right. The next day he told the coach he’d have to be just a standby pitcher again. The coach only shook his head.
Several weeks went by and David was at every practice. One night the coach called the boys around him. He explained that David couldn’t play ball on Sunday even though the team often had a game on that day. “But I’d like him to be our pitcher anyhow,” he went on. “If you agree, we could let David be our regular weekday pitcher and have a standby pitcher for Sunday games. How about it?”
There was a moment of silence. David could hardly breathe. The team members hesitated for only a minute, and then every little leaguer agreed wholeheartedly to the Sunday standby pitcher plan.

Sister Gayle Clegg of the Primary general presidency and her husband lived for a number of years in Brazil. Recently she had a Primary assignment in Japan. As she came into the chapel on Sunday, she noticed among the Japanese Saints a Brazilian family. “They just looked Brazilian,” she said. She only had a minute to greet them and found the mother and children very enthusiastic but noticed that the father was rather quiet. “I’ll have a chance to talk with them after the meeting,” she thought as she was quickly ushered to the stand. She delivered her message in English, which was translated into Japanese, and then she felt impressed to bear her testimony in Portuguese as well. She hesitated, as there were no translators for Portuguese and 98 percent of the people would not understand what she said.

After the meeting the Brazilian father came up to her and said, “Sister, the customs are so different here, and I have been lonely. It is difficult to come to church and not understand anything. Sometimes I wonder if I would be better off just reading my scriptures at home. I told my wife, ‘I’ll give it one more chance,’ and I came today for what I thought would be the last time. When you bore your testimony in Portuguese, the Spirit touched my heart, and I knew that this was where I belonged. God knows I am here, and He will help me.” And he joined the others in putting away the chairs.

Was it a coincidence that the only Portuguese-speaking member of the Primary presidency was sent to Japan instead of to Portugal? Or was it because the Lord knew someone there needed what only she could give—and she had the courage to follow a prompting of the Spirit? One of the great blessings of having a calling in the Church is that the Lord, through His Spirit, will inspire us to help those we are called to serve.

Kelly and the other fifth-graders had just come in from lunch when Mr. Aragon announced, “Our class is going to begin a special project tomorrow that I think you’ll find exciting. Are you all familiar with Victoria Benson School?”
Kelly nodded along with the rest of the students, but instead of feeling excited, she felt uneasy. Victoria Benson School was right next to their own school, Easton Elementary. The students at the two schools were approximately the same ages, but there was one big difference. Victoria Benson students all had mental disabilities.
“We’ll be visiting the school once a week,” Mr. Aragon continued. “You’ll be acting as tutors, helping the students one-on-one with the work they do in class.” As he explained some of the details of the special project, the students became more and more interested, until it seemed to Kelly that she was the only one who was still uneasy about the project.
She and her friends had sometimes watched the Victoria Benson students through the fence at recess. Some of their faces looked different around the eyes, and their speech was slow and slurred. They seemed awkward when they ran or threw a ball. As she knelt by her bed for prayer that night, she remembered the words to a Primary song her class had learned last year:
If you don’t walk as most people do,
Some people walk away from you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do,
Some people talk and laugh at you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.*
I know that Jesus loves the Victoria Benson students, Kelly thought as she turned out the light. Maybe I will, too.
When her class entered Victoria Benson School the next day, Kelly had the worst case of butterflies in her stomach she’d ever had. But the Primary song kept running through her mind: “I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you. That’s how I’ll show my love for you.”
Mr. Aragon led them into a sunny, brightly decorated classroom and introduced the class to Miss Donnelley, one of the teachers.
“We’re really glad to have you here,” Miss Donnelley said. “The students have been so excited this morning! They’re eager to meet you, so I’m going to assign you to areas and get you started right away.”
A few students were sent to the cafeteria to help four boys setting the tables for lunch. Several were sent to the math area of the classroom to help with counting objects, writing numbers, and matching shapes. Others were assigned to a writing table, where a few students were learning to print their names.
Maybe they’ll run out of assignments, Kelly thought, and I’ll be able to just watch today. But Miss Donnelley led her to what she called the dressing area and introduced her to Sandra, a girl with long dark hair. She gave Kelly a big smile.
“Sandra is learning to zip her jacket,” Miss Donnelley told Kelly. “I’d like you to help her.” Then the teacher left to give out another assignment.
By myself? Kelly thought. How do I do that?
Sandra was still smiling at her as Kelly took a deep breath, stuck her hands into her own jacket pockets, and introduced herself. “Hi.” She tried to put friendliness into her voice to hide her nervousness. “I’m supposed to help you zip your jacket.”
“Hi, Kewwy. I’m glad you’re helping me.”
Kelly smiled back. “Well, I guess we’d better get started. First you stick that straight metal part into the slot in the other part,” she began.
Sandra’s face took on a look of concentration. She held the two parts of the zipper in her hands and fumbled with them. Kelly waited a minute, then said, “Hold it at the top of the slot and then push it down.” Sandra tried again, but still couldn’t do it.
Kelly pulled her hands out of her pockets. “Look, Sandra—watch me. Do it like this.”
Sandra watched as Kelly zipped and unzipped her own jacket twice.
“Now you try again,” Kelly urged.
Sandra’s face looked even more determined as she tried again, but she just couldn’t fit the parts together. Now Kelly was the one frowning in concentration. What am I doing wrong? She wondered. Suddenly Kelly had an idea. Surprising them both, she reached out and grasped Sandra’s hands. “I’ll walk with—I mean, I’ll help you!”
With Kelly’s hands guiding hers, Sandra soon fit the parts together. As Sandra began breathing more quickly and nodding her head, Kelly let go and let her try it by herself. Kelly held her breath as Sandra fumbled a few times but finally fit the parts together. Kelly’s smile was as big as Sandra’s as Sandra slowly pulled the zipper all the way up.
“I did it! I did it!” Sandra grabbed Kelly in a big hug. Kelly was surprised, but she hugged right back. Then Sandra ran off to show Miss Donnelley, waving her hands in the air and still shouting, “I did it!”
As Kelly watched her go, she smiled and thought, I guess I did it, too!

I am so grateful I was blessed with the strength to break the unhealthy cycle with my ex-husband. It took a while for me to forgive him, but as I continued to study the Book of Mormon, I learned it was possible for me to forgive through the power of Jesus Christ’s Atonement.
I felt a huge weight lifted from me as I learned to completely trust that God would judge righteously knowing all the facts of our circumstances. I realized I was hurting myself by holding on to pain and resentment toward my ex-husband. I needed to forgive him in order to heal myself.
Elder Tad R. Callister, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, once wrote:
“One of the blessings of the Atonement is that we can receive of the Savior’s succoring powers. …
“… His spirit heals; it refines; it comforts; it breathes new life into hopeless hearts. It has the power to transform all that is ugly and vicious and worthless in life to something of supreme and glorious splendor. He has the power to convert the ashes of mortality to the beauties of eternity.”2
I know this is true, because I experienced it.
I am so blessed that I have been able to experience the succoring power of the Savior. He healed my heart so I could forgive. He transformed all that was ugly into a glorious experience. I have been filled with joy, and I can honestly say I’m grateful for this trial because it helped me become a stronger, better disciple of Christ.
Years later, I am still saddened at times about my divorce, but it is no longer a painful memory. It is merely an experience in my life that taught me so much about myself and helped me gain a closer relationship with God. And my ex-husband and I have remained cordial, thanks to the Savior’s healing power.

Twenty-four out of twenty-five! They had tied! In a five-shot free throw playoff, Ray Swanson, a deacon from the 18th Ward, Pocatello Idaho West Stake, edged out his Indiana opponent to be declared the national winner in the 12–13 year-old division of the Elks Hoop Shoot contest. (He received a 2 1/2-foot-high trophy for his efforts and was greeted at the airport by schoolmates, city officials, and a pep band when he returned home.) To become eligible for the basketball free throw competition held in Kansas City, Missouri, Ray also won local, district, state, and Northwest Region titles. Since he began competing four years ago, he has won every local and district title in his age group and three state titles also. Ray is the teachers quorum secretary in his ward.

This is a good time to tell you the rest of the story about my Economics 110 class. When I returned to school after my mission, which had taught me good study habits, the first class I signed up for was Economics 110 again. This time, I had a different kind of hope. I had hope that I would be more disciplined. I had hope that I could probably do better than a 22% on the first exam just by cracking open the book now and then. I had hope that I could tap into the power of my Savior’s atoning sacrifice to enable me to stretch beyond my own capabilities. That hope motivated me to study hard, and ultimately led to a solid A in the class, giving me hope for the rest of my college career.

If you’re a seminary student in Gig Harbor, Washington, you decided to find out. Since you can’t go yourself—things like school and work prohibit cross-country travel—you send a teddy bear in your place.
A teddy bear? Absolutely. Gig Harbor seminary students loaded a stuffed bear they named “America” into a box, along with a camera, a journal, and a list of questions. “We just wanted to pretty much find out what it is like to live in different areas,” says Nick Sabin, a senior from Gig Harbor. The students sent the bear to 13 different seminary classes located near Church history sites. They asked its recipients to take pictures and to write back about their experiences in seminary.
The bear’s first stop was a class in Sharon, Vermont, birthplace of the Prophet Joseph Smith. From there it was mailed to seminaries near the Hill Cumorah, the Mormon Battalion muster site, Liberty Jail, and Winter Quarters, among other places.
Nearly a year later, America returned to Gig Harbor with gifts: students who received the bear mailed back souvenirs, including a leaf from the Sacred Grove and stones from the Susquehanna River, where Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery received the Aaronic Priesthood and were baptized. They also sent two rolls of film and a journal filled with messages about attending seminary and living near Church history sites.
Included here are excerpts from the journal.
Editor’s Note:Just a word to the wise—seminaries along the Church history trail were happy to participate in this one-time activity. But you can imagine the burden on their resources and time if they started to receive similar requests from others.

I knew the changes my life needed.
I should be studying my scriptures deeply. I should be exercising regularly. I should participate in hobbies I once loved. These were all things that would improve my spiritual, physical, and mental health. I knew that—that’s what I was taught from a young age.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to do them.
Why? Because the changes required a major shift in my lifestyle, and I couldn’t sustain them.
I’d try and fail. Things would go well for a week or two, and then I would fall back into old habits. So, I decided to take a more gradual approach—one step at a time, “line upon line” (2 Nephi 28:30). With that in mind, I focused on truths of slow, sustainable goal setting:
Routine is vital to me, and I noticed my mornings and nights felt rushed and unproductive. I was often tired and didn’t accomplish everything I needed to. To make a change, I started with an important, foundational habit that set up a good pattern for me to continue changing.
For me, the foundational step was my bedtime. I set a goal to read scriptures at night and to go to bed earlier. Over the course of several weeks, I shifted my bedtime by one hour per week. I made a conscious effort to stick to this plan and be consistent.
My efforts weren’t perfect every night, but over time, I began to notice a significant improvement. I shifted my bedtime by several hours, and with that, I was able to get more sleep than ever before. And once I was better rested, it was easier to incorporate scripture study.
This method of changing my habits did wonders for me, so I started using it in other areas of my life. I started working on things like my temple attendance, exercise and nutrition, and hobbies. One good habit can lead to forming more good habits. Figuring out what foundational habit you want to create can help you start on the path to healthy change.
Breaking my goals down into steps made them seem smaller and more manageable. For one week, I would focus on a small aspect of my goal and discuss my progress with my husband. The following week, I would add another small aspect. If I stopped, I knew I had added too much too quickly, so I would go back to the previous step that I had already mastered.
Repentance is change, and like all change, repentance is a process. Making these small changes every week helped me experience the joy of repentance. I felt supported and empowered by Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, which improved my quality of life drastically.
My motivation for change has increased with these principles. I have implemented many small changes, but over time, the impact of small acts has been large. Becoming better and increasing motivation will be a lifelong pursuit, not a one-time event.