Gospel Story Finder

We’ll be there, Linus. We’ll share your lonely vigil in that ever-so-sincere pumpkin patch. We’ll wait with you and hope with you and almost believe with you. But the Great Pumpkin won’t appear. He can’t. He always spends Halloween with the Hales family in Vestal, New York.
He doesn’t rise from among the vines though. He hides slyly in the mounds of orange-yellow globes at one of the several nearby pumpkin farms, and the Haleses have to come search for him.
Today they’re at Jackson’s Pumpkin Farm in Campville. The open-air pumpkin market is decorated with pumpkin animals, pumpkin people, pumpkin houses. Pumpkins lie all about in great glowing heaps.
Holly, age 14, rolls out a huge, round, golden pumpkin and looks at it critically. It’s beautiful, but it’s not the one. Stephen, age 11-going-on-deacon, studies an elongated pretender with a touch of green in its yellow skin. It would make a fine jack-o’-lantern, but it’s not the Hales family pumpkin.
Dad and Mom rummage about in the towering stacks of autumn gold. Lots of wonderful pumpkins here, but not the one-and-only-authentic-no-doubt-about-it-can’t-miss-right pumpkin.
They take their time. It’s not something they want to be wrong about. It is Kristin who finally finds it—Kristin Lehtinen and her brother Duane, ages 14 and 11. It’s hiding under an obese, presumptuous fruit that’s trying to pass itself off as the perfect pumpkin.
The judges gather around and confer. They examine the candidate from all angles. Yes, this is it! If it’s not the Great Pumpkin, it’s certainly a great pumpkin.
Kristin and Duane are the heroes of the day. They’ve saved the family from the unthinkable disaster of taking home the wrong official Halloween pumpkin.
If you’re wondering why the heroes are not Haleses, it’s because the Haleses and the Lehtinens are good friends who often do things together. Today, October 12, the Lehtinens have joined the Haleses for a Columbus Day family home evening activity. And thank heavens they have!
And that brings us back to the family home afternoon in October. After buying their pumpkins, the Haleses and the Lehtinens moved on to their favorite cider mill for a jug of fresh-pressed cider and a bag of crisp, juicy apples. The local apples are justly renowned, and cider squeezed from them is the sweetest, tangiest nectar this side of heaven. A frothy cider toast is one family tradition the Haleses will drink to at the drop of a cup.
Trailing the deep fragrance of apples, they next drove to the farm of Brother and Sister Hogan to get some cornstalks. Then they went home to make great jack-o’-lanterns out of their great pumpkins.
They decorated their front door and porch with pumpkins, gourds, and cornstalks. Up and down the streets around them, people were doing the same. It’s a tradition the whole town shares. Ghosts appeared in neighborhood windows, and monsters emerged from the shrubs.
It was starting to look like another traditional Hales Halloween, and that suited everyone just fine. Because in the Hales home, family traditions are a family tradition.

When I was a young bishop, an experience in our ward taught me about covenant belonging as manifested in the strengthening of one another in the Savior’s love. Ward families Hans and Fay Ritter and Larry and Tina O’Connor, along with other wonderful families, were constantly ministering to others and were beloved by all.
One day our stake president asked if I would check on the Ritters. When I arrived at their home, I noticed some sagging in the floor and a well-used kettle.
“Bishop, it’s like this,” Brother Ritter said. “Our water heater leaked, and warm water seeped through the floor. Termites came. That’s why the floor sags a little. We had to shut off the water heater, and that’s why we heat water in a kettle.”
The Ritters agreed to let me discuss their situation with our ward council. Our ward council was amazing. Members knew someone who could help with floors or walls or carpets or appliances or paint. Volunteers came and helped in countless generous ways. Among them was Larry O’Connor, a skilled builder who was frequently at the Ritters’ house.
Larry’s wife, Tina, recalled that Larry and other quorum members would sometimes go to the Ritters on Friday and stay all night. “One Saturday morning, I took them breakfast,” she said. “There was Larry coming out of a bathroom holding plumbing tools.”
Tina added that it was from men like Hans Ritter and others “that my husband learned to become a man—kind, thoughtful, tender. As my Larry served together with such good men, including in the nursery, he became an even more wonderful husband and father.”
When the house was finished, we all rejoiced.
Hans and Fay Ritter have been gone for some time, but I spoke recently with two of their sons, Ben and Stephen. They remember that the quiet service of others maintained the dignity of their father, who worked tirelessly to take care of his family.
While at a ward activity not long after the Ritters’ home was completed, Larry and Tina O’Connor received emergency word that their home was on fire. They rushed to their home and everywhere saw broken windows (to vent smoke) and punctured walls (to check for hidden flames).
“We were devastated,” Tina said. But then the ward came.
“Everyone helped,” Tina and Larry said. “The whole ward came together in love. We were there as a family.”
And who were among the first to come and the last to leave as the O’Connor home was being rebuilt? Yes, the Hans and Fay Ritter family.
Ben and Stephen are modest but remember their family coming to help the O’Connors. “We were all there together,” they said. “That’s the way service works. We all take care of each other, sometimes by helping others and sometimes by allowing others to help us.”
To me, there can be a wondrous, virtuous, harmonious circle as we strengthen each other in the Savior’s love. The O’Connors help the Ritters, the Ritters help the O’Connors, and all the while a community of Latter-day Saints is being established. Each day in myriad ways, we each need, and can offer, ministering love and support in small, simple, powerful, life-changing ways.

The young man walked through the door, then stopped, not quite sure what to do next. He had an important question to ask, but he didn’t know who to talk to.
Marion Peterson, the education vice-president of the Utah office of the American Cancer Society, went into the hall to help him.
“He asked me,” said Marion, “if I would look in his mouth and see if he needed to be worried. He had been using chewing tobacco for a while. He pulled down his lip, and it looked horrible, suspiciously like cancer. I told him he had to get help immediately. But he said his mother didn’t know about his habit, and she would find out if he went to the doctor because of their insurance. I begged him to go to a clinic. But he left, and I never knew his name.” Marion still worries about this boy and wonders if he got help in time.

I realize that before me are hundreds of young men, many of whom are deacons. I remember when I was a deacon. (It has been a long time ago, however.) I thought it was a great honor to be a deacon. My father was always considerate of my responsibilities and always permitted me to take the buggy and horse to gather fast offerings. My responsibility included that part of the town in which I lived, but it was quite a long walk to the homes, and a sack of flour or a bottle of fruit or vegetables or bread became quite heavy as it accumulated. So the buggy was very comfortable and functional. We have changed to cash in later days, but it was commodities in my day. It was a very great honor to do this service for my Heavenly Father; and though times have changed, when money is given generally instead of commodities, it is still a great honor to perform this service.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told of a young man who was the brunt of his peers’ teasing during his school years. Some years later he moved away, joined the military, received an education, and became active in the Church. This period of his life was marked with wonderfully successful experiences.
After several years he returned to his hometown. However, the people refused to acknowledge his growth and improvement. To them, he was still just old “so-and-so,” and they treated him that way. Eventually, this good man faded away to a shadow of his former successful self without being able to use his marvelously developed talents to bless those who derided and rejected him once again. What a loss, both for him and the community!

Even Maricar Mendoza, who admits she’s somewhat shy, didn’t hesitate to raise her hand when her teacher one day asked who in the class wasn’t Catholic. A discussion of religion was going on, and Maricar felt she had to speak up. “I said, ‘Ma’am, I’m a Mormon.’ I explained to her what our church is, and I was able to discuss a lot of things such as latter-day prophets, Joseph Smith, and the plan of salvation,” she says.
Maricar still considers herself shy. But she’s glad she spoke up.

Several decades later, when I was in my fifties, while living outside my country, I began to feel a great lack of spirituality within me, but I did not know what to do or where to look.
Since I was Catholic and I was living in a very Catholic country (France), I decided to choose a church where I could go every Saturday to worship.
The beautiful church I found was often empty, with just a few little old women kneeling in prayer, and from time to time getting up to light one of the candles placed on a table at the back of the room.
And I imitated them because I didn’t know what else to do.
I did this for about seven months until my older sister, who was also seeking the truth, changed churches and convinced me to become a Pentecostal like her.
From that moment on I started reading the Bible, without understanding much about it.
But the advantage was that I started keeping the commandments and applying the teachings I received.
Still, I felt like I was missing something.
One night I had a dream in which someone said to me: “Blessings for you and your family can be found in your home country.”
I didn’t understand what that meant, but because of my son’s health problems, I had to leave the foreign country I was living in to return home to Cameroon to support my sick son.
Arriving in Cameroon in September 2009 after more than 30 years of absence, I went from one pentecostal church to another, but I still had the same feeling within me that something was missing.
I often saw young men passing by, dressed in a white shirt and ties, two by two. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And, since I was looking for the truth and didn’t know where to find it, why not try them? I said to myself.
When questioning them, they introduced themselves as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After two lessons, they invited me to attend sacrament meeting, and, miraculously, I finally felt inner peace. I finally felt at home because I had found the truth I was seeking.
Seven years later, when I went to the temple, I finally understood the meaning of the dream I had, because I performed ordinances for several people in my family.
I testify that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true restored Church on the face of the earth.

As a boy of fifteen I was called to preside over a quorum of teachers. Our adviser was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, “Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?”
I responded with a warm “Yes.”
Then he proposed, “How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?”
This time I answered, “Yes, sir!” You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.
He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The next day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived. He took me to his loft, which was in a small barn at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, “Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world.” I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen. I asked what made her so different. He responded, “Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye.” Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. “Take them home to your loft,” he counseled. “Keep them in for about ten days and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place.”
I followed his instructions. Upon releasing them, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold, my adviser, and asked: “Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?”
“Come on over,” said he, “and we’ll have a look.”
As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, “Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum.” This I already knew. Then he added, “What are you going to do to activate Bob?”
I answered, “I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week.”
Then he reached up to a special nest and handed to me the one-eyed pigeon. “Keep her in a few days and try again.” This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience, “Come on over and we’ll see if she returned here.” Came the comment as we walked to the loft, “Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?”
“We’ll have him there this week,” I volunteered.
This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that, indeed, Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon; the only bird in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the teachers quorum president every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience to help me prepare for opportunities which lay ahead.

On another Sunday, Roslyn had written, “Yesterday when Shelly and I finished our morning chores, we fixed sack lunches and went exploring on the cliff by our house. Chips went with us. It was kind of scary because Chips kept running between us and the cliff. He’s a very protective dog. I said a silent prayer that we would be safe—I didn’t want to fall into all those spiky trees and bushes below us! My prayer was answered, and Chips helped Shelly and me eat our picnic lunch as we sat on our hillside ’thrones’ (the big ‘chairs’ we carved in the dirt).”

As we talk, Tyson Warner tells of when things changed in his life. He had just been ordained to the priesthood and felt it was time, as he put it, to step up. “When I was about 12, I had a hard time reading the scriptures regularly. I made a goal that I would give up sleeping in, and I would wake up 30 minutes earlier every morning and spend the time reading my scriptures. It was difficult. I thought, ‘What’s the point in doing this?’ After a month I started to feel changes in my life. I was more in tune with the Spirit. I started noticing things in the scriptures better than I could before. That’s how I knew the Church is true.”
Now, four years later, Tyson says, “I like the book of Alma because that was what I was reading when I really started to feel the Spirit. That book is special to me. It was a turning point in my life. I gained a strong testimony.”

My six-year-old sister, Emily, eats catsup sandwiches. Just bread and catsup. It looks gross. She walks around the house, talking to herself too. Sometimes she even crawls around barking and howling like a wolf. Mom says she has a vivid imagination. I think she’s just crazy.
Usually I try ignoring Emily, but that’s hard to do because we share a bedroom. My half is neat, and my clothes are put away. Emily always leaves her bottom drawer open, and her bed is lumpy. There are stuffed animals all over the place, and she talks to them. I shut the door and find a quiet place to read. That’s what I was doing when Mom made her big announcement. “I have a new job,” she said. “It’s only on Saturdays. I’m going to work at the ceramic shop.”
“Wow!” Emily exclaimed. “Can I come?”
Mom looked right at me with her serious look. I felt my whole stomach flop over.
“Margaret,” she said, “I’ll need you to keep an eye on Emily. It’ll only be until your dad gets home at noon.”
I blinked hard, then nodded reluctantly. Sometimes I hate being eleven.
That first Saturday, Emily woke me up at eight o’clock. “Mom just left,” she reported. “Want to play checkers? Want to play dress up? You can be the witch, and I’ll be the princess.”
“No,” I muttered. “Definitely not.”
“OK, you can be the princess. I’ll be the witch.”
“Forget it,” I said a little louder. “Emily, I just have to watch you. No one said I have to act out fairy tales.”
She shrugged. “I’m going to eat my breakfast.”
Dana called me at ten o’clock. She wanted to go bike riding.
“I’d have to bring Emily,” I told her, but she still wanted to go.
I had a long talk with Emily. “No making animal noises,” I said. “And absolutely no talking to pretend people when you’re with me—got it?”
Emily nodded.
We rode down to the library and picked out some new books. Emily wanted one on unicorns, but I helped her find a beginning mystery instead. I was starting to feel a little better about things. Maybe I could straighten crazy Emily out.
At lunchtime, I made us all normal peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Emily ate hers without saying a word. In fact, she hardly said anything all morning. Then Dad came home, and I left to play basketball. I walked Emily to school on my way. She had play practice.
On the next Saturday, Dana wanted me to come over to her house. She was helping her mom make cookies for a bake sale. She didn’t mind about Emily. That’s because Dana’s my very best friend.
I told Emily not to talk to the cookies or try any other funny stuff. She nodded. Then I found a clean red shirt.
“Here, put this on,” I said. She didn’t move for a minute; then she pulled off her old green one real slow. She wore it every Saturday, and I hated that shirt. Next, we smoothed out her bed and picked up the room.
Emily was pretty quiet at Dana’s. Even Dana noticed. “Are you OK?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Emily didn’t even wiggle her eyebrows.
I smiled at her. She was shaping up, after all.
On Friday Emily burst into the house after school. Our school play was that night, and she had a small part. Not me. I’d melt if they made me get on a stage in front of a million people. “You’re going, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course,” I told her. “Dana and I are going together.”
The play was about Alice in Wonderland. Emily was a giant green caterpillar. Everyone laughed when she shouted out her lines. Then they clapped real hard for her.
“Your sister is soooo funny,” Dana giggled. “You must be laughing all the time at home.”
I kind of squirmed around in my chair, and I felt sort of sick.
Afterward, Emily came running up with her long tail bumping behind her. “Did you like it?” Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were laughing.
“You did great,” I said.
“Do you really think so?” she asked.
I nodded, and she smiled bigger than ever. Then I did some thinking about Emily and me.
The next day was Saturday. Emily didn’t wake me up. She was eating cornflakes and watching cartoons when I checked on her.
“What are we doing today?” she asked. She didn’t seem too excited.
I smiled. “Guess!”
“Are we going to Dana’s?” she sighed.
“Nope,” I said, pleased with myself. “I’m going to take you to the puppet theater at the library if you want to go.”
Emily exploded. “Hip, hip, hurray!” Then she froze in her tracks. “I’ll go change,” she said.
I eyed the green shirt. “You’re fine,” I said, “but don’t forget to make your bed.”
After the puppet show, we invited Dana over to our house for lunch. Before we ate, Emily put on the whole puppet show all over again. Dana laughed until her face was as red as Mom’s pickled beets. I even laughed too.
Then we ate lunch. My catsup sandwich tasted kind of zingy, but it was really good.

After a family home evening lesson on obedience, four-year-old Brandon was anxious to try harder to obey his mom and dad. He and his mom decided that a reminder might help him. Brandon would repeat, “If I choose to obey, I’ll be happy all day!”
One day Brandon wanted to play at his friend’s house. He raced across the yard when suddenly the words “If I choose to obey, I’ll be happy all day!” came to his mind. Remembering that he should ask his mom first, Brandon headed back to his house.
When he turned eight, Brandon was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. He read in his scriptures that the Holy Ghost would show him all things he should do (see 2 Ne. 32:5). Brandon knew the Holy Ghost would remind him to follow Jesus Christ.

Some members remained faithful despite years of isolation. Gunter Schulze, now bishop of the Dresden Ward, spent much of his time during that period finding and caring for isolated members—some in Poland, some in outlying areas of the German Democratic Republic. One of these was an elderly sister in Upper Silesia.
“We visited with her a long time,” recalls Brother Schulze. “Finally she went behind the stove and brought out a knotted stocking and began untying the knots, several knots. Then she held out her two hands like a scale and weighed money from the knotted stocking. She said, ‘This is my tithing. I have been saving it for over twenty-five years now. I knew the priesthood would come into my home again someday!’”

For example, think of the faith of a boy, about eight years of age, who was facing an emergency operation for acute appendicitis. As he lay on the operating table, he looked up at the surgeon and said, “Doctor, before you begin to operate, will you pray for me?”
The surgeon looked at the boy in amazement and said, “Why, I can’t pray for you.”
Then the little fellow said, “If you won’t pray for me, please wait while I pray for myself.” There on the operating table, the boy got on his knees, folded his hands, and began to pray. He said: “Heavenly Father, I am only a little orphan boy. I am awful sick, and these doctors are going to operate. Will you please help them that they will do it right? Heavenly Father, if you will make me well, I will be a good boy. Thank you for making me well.” He then lay on his back, looked up at the tear-filled eyes of the doctors and nurses, and said, “Now I am ready.”2
His physical recovery was complete, and his spiritual power was developing.

Over a hundred and eight years ago, some parents in Farmington, Utah, were worried about their children. They wondered how they could help them understand the gospel so that they would live happier lives.
Bishop John Hess was concerned about some of the children in his ward who were staying out late at night, and some who were behaving rowdy. He called a meeting of the mothers in the ward and talked about the importance of guiding the minds of young children.
Sister Aurelia Spencer Rogers was one of the mothers in the Farmington Ward. Aurelia loved children and wanted them to live the gospel. She thought about the things Bishop Hess had said.
Sister Rogers recorded in her journal: “I had reflected seriously upon the necessity of more strict discipline for our little boys. … What will our girls do for good husbands, if this state of things continues? … I had children of my own, and was just as anxious as a mother could be to have them brought up properly. But what was to be done? It needed the united effort of the parents.”
One day Eliza R. Snow, the General President of the Relief Society, had been to a conference in Farmington. The train back to Salt Lake was not due for some time, so Sister Snow decided to visit her friend Aurelia.
Sister Snow had no children of her own, but she had a great interest in them. She was a poet and a teacher and had written songs and stories for little children. She was pleased with Sister Rogers’s idea about an organization for little boys where they could be taught everything good, and how to behave. Sister Snow agreed to discuss the matter with the First Presidency, who later gave approval. A letter was written to Bishop Hess, asking for his permission to organize the children in his ward.
After Bishop Hess received the letter from Sister Snow, he talked with Sister Rogers and asked if she would be willing to preside over an organization of the children. Sister Rogers said: “I felt willing, but very incompetent. From that time my mind was busy thinking how it was to be managed … As singing was necessary, it needed the voices of little girls as well as boys to make it sound as well as it should.” Sister Snow agreed with Sister Rogers. “‘We must have the girls as well as the boys—they must be trained together.’” She suggested that the organization be called “Primary.”
On August 11, 1878, Bishop Hess set apart Sister Rogers and her two counselors, Louisa Haight and Helen Miller. He suggested that they visit every home in the ward during the next two weeks, which they did. They took the names and ages of two hundred twenty-four children and invited them to the first meeting.
The first Primary meeting was held on Sunday, August 25, 1878, in the rock chapel in Farmington.
Sister Rogers said, “Imagine our feelings as we stood before an audience of children who had come there to receive instructions from us. We were very weak indeed, but felt to lean upon the Lord.”
The meeting began with prayer; then the children were given instructions and taught to sing.
The children were asked to “see how much they could do for their fathers and mothers without grumbling.”
Children were also asked to not quarrel with brothers and sisters. Little boys were instructed to not go into orchards and melon patches that weren’t their own, and little girls were told to not hang on to wagons, a practice not only wrong but dangerous.
The reason for Primary is still the same: to help every child learn how to be happy by living the gospel of Jesus Christ. As we radiate the light of the gospel, the world will see how happy we are and want to live the teachings of Jesus too.
Happy birthday, Primary! We are glad to celebrate with eight hundred seventy-five thousand boys and girls everywhere.

The last night of Joseph’s life on earth he bore a powerful testimony to the guards and others who assembled at the door of the jail of the divinity of the Book of Mormon, also declaring that the gospel had been restored and the kingdom of God established on the earth. It was for this reason that he was incarcerated in prison, not for violating any law of God or man.
It was late at night when the prisoners tried to get some rest. At first Joseph and Hyrum occupied the only bed in the jail room, but a gunshot during the night and a disturbance led Joseph’s friends to insist that he take a place between the two of them on the floor. They would protect him with their own bodies. Joseph asked John S. Fullmer to use his arm for a pillow while they conversed; then he turned to Dan Jones, on the other side, and whispered, “Are you afraid to die?” And this staunch friend answered, “Has that time come, think you? Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.”
Joseph replied, “You will yet see Wales, and fulfill the mission appointed you before you die” (History of the Church, 6:601).

One of the great examples of mercy in our time was extended by the Prophet Joseph to W. W. Phelps during the troubles of the Saints in the state of Missouri. Elder Phelps fell into apostasy. After suffering buffetings, on June 29, 1840, while in Dayton, Ohio, W. W. Phelps wrote to the Prophet Joseph:
“I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. … I will repent and live, and ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. …
“… I have done wrong and I am sorry. … I have not walked along with my friends according to my holy anointing. I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.”
To this the Prophet Joseph replied:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough … , was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. One with whom we had oft taken sweet counsel together, and enjoyed many refreshing seasons from the Lord—‘had it been an enemy, we could have borne it.’ …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, … and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last.’
“Yours as ever, Joseph Smith, Jun.”
W. W. Phelps remained true and faithful and wrote the words to the marvelous hymn “Praise to the Man,” affirming his great love and admiration for the Prophet Joseph:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.

It was a cold day, and I was scared. I shook hard in my speed suit. It was my first ski race since I had been injured. The course was a long blur of blue and red gates. My coach skied by me.
“Noah, are you OK?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, but I was actually scared out of my skin!
It was time for me to be at the start gate. Oh no! I thought as I skied down to the start gate. But then I remembered something I had learned in Primary: I can pray anytime, anywhere.
So I prayed, Heavenly Father, please help me to be safe and do well. Right then, I pushed out of the start.
What came next was natural instinct. Left, then right, gate after gate, for what felt like days until I finally crossed the finish line. Boy, I was slow! I thought. But I looked at the timer. I was 12th in my category!
“That was so good!” Mom said.
During the excitement, I silently thanked my Heavenly Father for answering my prayer.

Youth in the Walla Walla Washington Stake participated in a service-project youth conference last summer, but most youth will agree that it’s hard to say who had more fun—those who gave service or those who received it. They visited a camp for disabled children at a nearby mountain retreat and helped with a day of sports, craft activities, and a dance.
The highlight of the evening was a “prom,” complete with modest formal dresses for the girls and boutonnieres for the boys. Because some of the campers have hearing impairments, the music was played full-blast—something that both the hearing and nonhearing participants seemed to enjoy.
At the conclusion of the day, when the campers were off to their cabins, the LDS youth prepared to leave by holding a testimony meeting. They agreed that going to the camp wasn’t just a service experience; it was a fun experience—one they want to repeat very soon.

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to hold their attention, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally halted, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning toward one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.