Gospel Story Finder

At the age of eight I was baptized in borrowed white trousers. They were too long, but my mother tucked the legs up and fastened them with a few stitches. This worked fine until they got wet. As I stepped out of the water the weight of the wet cloth broke the stitches. I tripped over my borrowed pants and fell to my knees. The thought immediately came to me that this was a reminder to always kneel and pray for the help of our Heavenly Father in everything.

Elder Benson’s travel throughout Europe revealed one shocking sight after another. The scenes in Germany were sickening, like a vivid horror movie. Beautiful cities were in twisted, blackened ruins. Haunted-looking people shuffled along streets and children fled as his car approached.

Berlin, for example, was indescribable. Miles of the city lay in utter waste, and Elder Benson marveled that anyone had escaped war’s wrath at the epicenter. “I faced in a cold, half-wrecked 3rd floor auditorium off a bombed street 480 cold, half-starved but faithful Latter-day Saints.” In spite of the harrowing experiences they related—murder, rape, and starvation of loved ones—it was inspiring for Elder Benson “to see the light of faith. There was no bitterness or anger but a sweet … expression of faith in the gospel.”

I felt so different from everyone my age. Even if I was invited to hang out with friends and my parents encouraged me to go, I struggled to have fun because I felt guilty that my parents had so much to do at home. Other times I would have a hard time enjoying myself when Barbara was struggling with her health. Most of the time, I just wanted a friend to sit down with me and listen.

Sometimes I felt like no one understood what I was going through. But a few things helped remedy that loneliness. I decided I’d try to reach out to people who might be feeling similarly. When I did go to activities or church, I tried to include those who were sitting alone or who looked like they were having a bad day. As Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Miracles occur when we care for each other as He would.” 1 And I saw miracles come into my life. I felt much more comfortable going to activities and was happier when I offered love to others.

Maria twirled in the pretty new Sunday dress that her grandmother had made for her. It was pink with white ribbons. It was the prettiest dress Maria had ever had, and she felt very beautiful in it. She smiled at herself in the mirror and twirled again to make the skirt fan out. Maria was excited to go to church on Sunday to show her friends her new dress.
At church Maria liked hearing all her friends say nice things about her dress. In Primary she played with the ribbons on her dress instead of listening to Sister Sánchez’s lesson.
Maria didn’t pay attention to the testimonies people gave in sacrament meeting either. She was busy untying and retying each of the bows on her dress over and over again.
When the meeting was over, she noticed that some people had tears in their eyes as they left the chapel.
“Why are those people crying, Mama?” Maria asked.
“They felt the Spirit today,” Mama said as she wiped away a tear of her own. “And sometimes that brings tears to our eyes. The testimonies were wonderful, weren’t they?”
Maria didn’t answer. She couldn’t remember anything anyone had said.
That night as Mama tucked Maria into bed, Maria asked, “Why didn’t I feel the Spirit in church today, Mama?”
“The Spirit speaks in a still, small voice,” Mama said. “We must pay attention to notice it. When we go to church, we need to focus on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—then we can feel the Spirit.”
Maria thought about what she had been focusing on at church that day. She had been thinking about her new dress, not about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
The next week Maria wore her pretty pink dress to church again. But she listened to Sister Sánchez in Primary. In sacrament meeting she tried to think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Maria left church feeling the Spirit in her heart. She was glad she had gone to church not just to show off her new dress.

I always pray for guidance from Heavenly Father when I design a building or for anything in my life. I love Heavenly Father and the Savior, and I know They know me personally. I grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming, USA, and as an architect I helped design the new Star Valley temple! My son, Micah, even helped me turn a shovel of dirt at the groundbreaking. It is a blessing to help create a building that can bless so many lives.

2 Joseph F. never forgot one happy occasion when he sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith, brother of Hyrum. Joseph F. was only five years old and was playing on the bank of the Mississippi River when his father and his Uncle Joseph crossed the river on their way home to prepare to go to Carthage.
3 When they landed, little Joseph F. took his father’s hand, and they went with the Prophet to Hyrum’s house. There, while Hyrum was shaving, the Prophet took Joseph F. on his knee and said to his brother, “Hyrum, what’s the matter with Joseph; he seems so white?”
“Oh,” answered Hyrum, joking about the poverty of the family, “he lives on skim milk.”
4 Joseph F. always remembered the anguish he felt the last time he saw his father. He wrote, “Without getting off his horse, Father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me good-bye and put me down again, and I saw him ride away.” Several days passed before five-year-old Joseph F. and his mother, Mary Fielding Smith, had any news of Hyrum.
5 Then the tragic night came. Joseph F. later wrote, “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on Mother’s window after dark and, with a trembling voice, called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’”
6 Joseph F. always remembered the fear he felt that night as he lay in his bed listening to his mother crying.
7 Soon after Hyrum’s death, the family began making preparations to go west. With his father gone, Joseph F. assumed responsibility for helping his mother all he could. Not yet ten years of age, Joseph F. drove the oxen the entire distance from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley—over a thousand miles—in the summer of 1848.
8 This journey proved to be an extra hardship because the captain of their group was against Mary Fielding Smith and her family going on the arduous journey without a father to take care of their needs. He told Mary that she and her children would be a burden to the rest of the company. But Mary told the captain that she would ask no special favors, would make the trip without his help, and would even beat him to the valley! She kept her word, with much help from her young son, Joseph F., the future prophet.

Brady insisted, however, that he was going to be baptized. He had been looking forward to it for a long time, even though his disease had caused him to be so weak that much of his life had been spent in hospitals. His father prayed and had a calm feeling that somehow Brady would be able to be baptized without drowning. So when Brady turned eight, Brother Blaser didn’t ask if it could be done, he just gave me the job of figuring out how to do it. Not able to get any information from Church headquarters about anyone with a tracheotomy being baptized, we tried waterproof tape on Brady’s skin, and it seemed to stick even when wet. The baptism was scheduled.
Because my faith was not as strong as Brady’s and his parents’, we took resuscitation equipment to the baptism. After the spiritual talks, everyone waited while we took the plastic tracheotomy tube out of Brady’s throat, leaving a hole which the tightly stretched layers of special tape held together to keep the water out. Brother Blaser carried his son into the baptismal font, where I was waiting dressed in white. A doctor isn’t often needed in the baptismal font, but my job that day was to help Brady keep water out of his nose and mouth and to be there in case something went wrong. Nothing did. The spirit was there as Brady was baptized a member of the Church.
Medically, the baptism was impossible. But it was accomplished because of the faith and determination of Brady Blaser and his parents.

Years ago our 17-year-old son wanted to go on a weekend trip with his friends, who were all good boys. He asked for permission to go. I wanted to say yes, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable about the trip. I shared my feelings with my wife, who was very supportive. “We need to listen to that warning voice,” she said.

Of course, our son was disappointed and asked why we didn’t want him to go. I answered honestly that I didn’t know why. “I just don’t feel good about it,” I explained, “and I love you too much to ignore these feelings inside.” I was quite surprised when he said, “That’s OK, Dad. I understand.”

Young people understand more than we realize because they too have the gift of the Holy Ghost. They are trying to recognize the Spirit when He speaks, and they are watching our example. From us they learn to pay attention to their promptings—that if they “don’t feel good about something,” it’s best not to pursue it.

By noon the group was hiking toward another lake. The trail switched back and forth gently, dropping down the slopes. Sometimes a lower part of the trail would be only a few feet away.
“We thought it was crazy not to take a shortcut,” Mike Worthington said. Some tried it. Greg stopped everybody.
“Stay on the trail,” he advised. “You think you’re saving time, but you’re not. And if the trail erodes the wrong way, you ruin it for people who come after you.”
“The next lake has golden trout in it,” Greg announced. “If we hurry, we might be able to catch a few before dark.” Packs were repacked and lifted to shoulders again.
Even though they’d been warned once about shortcutting, some of the young men thought the route back to the main trail was too roundabout and tedious.
“It looked like we could just cut through the trees,” Clay Drake said. “But we got lost. It took two hours for us to get back together with the rest of the group, and they all had to wait while the guides went back to look for us. The next time a guide tells me what to do, I’ll listen to him.”
There are times, the Explorers and Scouts found out, when you have to trust someone else, times when your safety and well-being depend on it. The young men also learned a little bit about perseverance. They hiked more than five miles each of the four days they spent in the Wind Rivers. Every day it became easier and more enjoyable.

I don’t look anything like my mother. I am short, muscular, and athletic, with my father’s dark eyes and curly hair. She is tall and thin, with long wispy hair, full lips and round eyes. She is the type of woman with color-coordinated fingernail polish. I never wear fingernail polish. First thing, the smell gives me a headache. Second thing, I also have my father’s hands: short and stubby and masculine. Polish just makes them look silly and fake, and I feel like I’m my 12-year-old sister, who tries way too hard to look chic by wearing blue eyeshadow. Besides, my left hand got slammed in a van door when I was 12 years old—at my first Mutual activity, in fact—and now my ring finger and my pinkie are permanently crooked. So, as you can see, fingernail polish has never really been my thing. Neither have Mutual activities.
Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.
My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.
So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.
“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.
“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”
I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.
I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.
As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.
When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.
Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.
Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.
For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.
He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.
“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.
“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”
I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.
“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.
“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”
John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.
The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.
At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.
The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.
I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.
“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

The following Wednesday, I turned down an invitation to a Young Women activity so I could go to the movies with Amy and a few other friends before the summer ended. When I pulled up I saw Amy and Beth standing along the brick wall outside the theater. As I began walking toward them, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Amy and Beth were smoking!
After a few moments of trying to hide my discomfort, Amy leaned toward me and whispered, “Just do what I do, and Beth won’t know you’ve never smoked before.” She handed me a cigarette. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the lighter as she handed it to me. Reaching down to pick it up, I caught a glimpse of my pink neon shoelaces. I remembered the Pink Penguins. I remembered seeing those laces help carry me to share my testimony. This time was different. Those laces carried me across the parking lot to my car and straight to the Young Women activity.
That evening as I crawled into bed, I couldn’t help but notice the peace and happiness I felt. I reflected on how the evening might have turned out if I had accepted the cigarette. I knew the Spirit would have left me. My pink laces were nothing more than a symbol—a symbol that someday would grow old and wear out. I knew the joy I found would not wear out as long as I continued to keep my actions consistent with my beliefs.

1. Cory and his family entering the meetinghouse where Cory will be confirmed a member of the Church.
2. Inside, Cory sits with his family and friends.
3. After the babies are blessed the confirmations will take place.
4. When Cory’s name is called he and his father go to the front of the congregation where Cory sits down in a chair. Cory’s father and friends stand in a circle around him.
5. They place their hands upon Cory’s head while his father, who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood, calls Cory by name, confirms him a member of the Church, gives him the gift of the Holy Ghost, and a blessing.
6. After the prayer has been given, the men in the circle shake Cory’s hand and congratulate him.

I’m writing this to “Saying no in Utah” and “All alone” in the September 1988 Feedback. I first want to say that both of you are awesome, and I love you.
You see, I lived in California and Arizona until I was 16, and it was easy to say no, and when I did that I gained people’s respect. But at 16 I moved to Utah, thinking what most people think—that it was going to be Zion. I found out real quick that I was wrong. I still said no to my new friends (who were LDS) and got laughed at. I soon found myself with no friends. I was all alone. But after prayer, lots of prayer, I found four more people who were in the same boat. To the person who wrote “All alone,” there are lots of others in Utah like you, so get on your knees and find them.
I’m serving as a missionary now, and I’ve learned that people have the same idea about missionaries as they do about Utah. But now I can say no and keep my friends. The gospel is true.
Elder Darrin Van ValkenburgCalifornia Santa Rosa Mission

I enjoy playing football and have always dreamed of playing on a team. This past season I worked hard and earned a first-string spot on both offense and defense on my fourth-grade team. We had a great team and an undefeated season. We were going to the championship playoffs! After a week of getting ready for the playoffs, my coach announced after the last practice that the first game would be on Sunday. I knew immediately that I would not play. I told my coach, and he asked my mom if I couldn’t play since it was an important game. My mom explained our beliefs about the Sabbath day but said she would leave the choice up to me. I told my coach again that I would not play. My team won the game without me, so I was able to play in the championship game on Saturday, which we won! It felt great to win the championship, but it felt even better to keep the Sabbath day holy.

Jennilee Adams from Ogden, Utah, appreciates the common bond with those in institute. When she came to college, she felt nervous and alone because she didn’t know any other students. “Will I find friends?” she wondered. “Will I be okay living so far away from home?”

It didn’t take her long to get over those worries, however, because Jennilee went to the institute building the first week of school to sign up for classes and to attend opening activities. At institute she quickly found friends.

Today, one year later, Jennilee is a different person than she was when she first came to CEU. Thanks to institute, she is confident in herself and her testimony of the gospel. In fact, Jennilee is the president of an organization associated with institute that functions as an activity and service club for LDS women. The LDS men have a similar organization. These associations give institute students a chance to meet for fun, weekly activities on campus.

“It’s just a chance to get to know a bunch of girls that have your same beliefs, who are experiencing the same things, and are making the same choices,” explains Jennilee. She says that she will always keep in touch with the wonderful friends she has met through institute. Needless to say, Jennilee does not feel alone anymore.

“Invite Mr. Wood* to seminary.” The thought popped into my mind as soon as I heard the announcement, and I immediately thought it was crazy. Why would I invite my music teacher to come to seminary at 5:30 in the morning?
The seminary president had just told our class that we would be having a teacher appreciation day. We were challenged to invite some of our schoolteachers to join us for a morning of seminary where we would thank them for their service. The entire week after hearing this announcement, I thought about inviting Mr. Wood. Every time I went to seminary or saw him in music class, the thought came back: “Invite Mr. Wood to seminary.” After several days of this, I couldn’t ignore the thought any longer.
One morning as all the students in music class were getting out their instruments, I put my trombone aside and approached Mr. Wood. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking, but when I opened my mouth to extend the invitation, I felt comfort.
To my surprise, Mr. Wood said that he would come! He was curious about why I went to seminary every morning before school and wanted to learn more. After giving him all the details, I walked away full of joy.
During this experience, I didn’t feel a burning in the bosom (see D&C 9:8). But I did feel the Holy Ghost. The recurring thought to invite Mr. Wood (see D&C 128:1), the comfort I felt when I invited him (see John 14:26), and the joy I felt after I invited him (see Galatians 5:22) all came from the Spirit. But if I had been looking only for a burning in the bosom, I might not have recognized when the Holy Ghost was prompting me.

While living in a small townhouse apartment, Noelle Campbell, of Houston, Texas, USA, discovered that most of the materials she needed to plant a garden were right in her own home. On her patio, she began planting vegetables in used containers—anything from laundry soap containers to kitty litter buckets.
She was amazed at the amount of food she could produce in the small containers. She then expanded her garden, still using materials collected from her home. Old bookshelves and bins became a vertical garden. The frame of an old personal-sized trampoline is now used to support beans, peas, and other climbing plants. She even uses old grills from barbecues to keep her tomatoes from leaning.
“I love the challenge of container gardening, of seeing my patio transformed from a tiny 8-foot by 8-foot (2.5 m by 2.5 m) concrete slab into a green, living, producing garden,” Noelle says.

I don’t really know where a young man begins to go wrong. I couldn’t have had a happier childhood. My father was a nature lover, and he had schooled us in the beauties and appreciation of the out-of-doors. My mother enriched our lives with her wit and her songs. And I grew up in the Church. I loved the gospel stories, and I looked forward to becoming a deacon. I remember my baptism day and the feeling that accompanied this ordinance.
But about the time I became a teacher, I began to sit with a crowd of boys in the back who were without a streak of reverence, I’m afraid. From this time on, I never really appreciated the gospel or made the effort to study the scriptures and gain a testimony, and any person without the gospel and spiritual motivation in his life will naturally turn to worldly things. It took a terrible accident and three years to do it, but I finally was able to see through the fads and falsities that had become a part of my life in the early years of high school and to realize just how plastic and superficial many of those values really are.

“That was excellent! You are certainly ready for the recital, Gideon,” said Mrs. Allen, Gideon’s violin teacher.
Gideon smiled. He enjoyed playing his violin. After he put away his instrument, he looked through Mrs. Allen’s collection of stickers.
“I think I’ll take this shiny one,” he said, holding up a “Happy Birthday” sticker for Mrs. Allen to see.
“That’s right! It’s almost your birthday, isn’t it?” Mrs. Allen asked.
“Yes, and not just any birthday. This one is extra special,” Gideon said. He stuck his new sticker on the cover of his music book. “I’m going to be eight years old, and you know what that means?”
“No, I don’t know what it means.” Mrs. Allen looked confused.
“It means that I can be baptized,” Gideon said.
“Oh, you weren’t baptized as a baby?” Mrs. Allen asked.
“No. In our church we are baptized when we turn eight. That’s when we know right and wrong and can choose between them,” Gideon explained.
“I guess that makes sense,” Mrs. Allen said. “I never thought of it that way.”
“I have an idea!” Gideon said. “Why don’t you come to my baptism and then you can see what I mean?”
Mrs. Allen was interested, so Gideon told her when and where he would be baptized.
On the day of his baptism, Gideon and Dad dressed in white pants and shirts. Gideon smiled as his mom took pictures. Then he saw Mrs. Allen and went to greet her. “I’m glad you could come,” he said.
“I’m happy to be here,” she said. She shook hands with Mom and Dad. They sat together while Brother Roberts conducted the meeting.
As Gideon sang and listened to the talk on baptism, he paid close attention to the words. He hoped Mrs. Allen would understand why he was being baptized at age eight.
Then it was time to be baptized. He went down into the font with Dad, listened carefully to the words of the baptismal prayer, and bent his knees to go under the water. When he came up, he wiped water from his eyes and smiled at Mom and Mrs. Allen.
He and Dad changed their clothes and slipped quietly into the row beside Mom and Mrs. Allen. They were watching “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” from the Family Home Evening video. It was about a violin that gets damaged, but then is repaired by the man who made it. Gideon noticed Mrs. Allen wiping her eyes as she listened to the poem and watched the master play the old violin.
After the video someone spoke on the gift of the Holy Ghost. Then Dad confirmed Gideon.
“Did you like my baptism?” Gideon asked Mrs. Allen following the closing prayer.
“It was wonderful!” Mrs. Allen said. “Now I understand why your church waits until age eight to baptize children.” She smiled. “I liked the video too, but it was awful watching that beautiful violin get damaged!”
“I know,” Gideon said. “But I’m glad it was fixed in the end. It’s kind of like repentance. I’m clean now, but when I make mistakes I can be fixed, just like that violin.”
Mrs. Allen laughed. “What a good way to think of it. I’ll remember that every time I play my violin.”

Thank you so much for the article called “What Does It Mean to Be Perfect?” (Jan. 2006). Lately, I have been unhappy with who I am and what I am achieving. I didn’t realize this was due to my perfectionist personality. As I read this article I knew that the Lord was watching out for me and blessing me. I am now learning how to deal with this perfectionism. Whenever I lose heart, I read this article again. I now know that I don’t have to be perfect immediately, but it is a process. Thank you for printing this article.Name withheld