Gospel Story Finder

In talking one day with her young daughter Elaine, Jean Shaw shared a personal insight. Jean told Elaine that she would not discover that “your faith is your own” until her parents died. Years later, when her mother passed away, Elaine recalled those words. Even in her grief, she realized she did indeed have her own faith in the Lord. Through believing the truth as it was taught her, receiving the ordinances of the gospel, and striving to keep her covenants, she had nourished her faith in the Savior. Her faith had grown gradually until now it could guide, comfort, and sustain her in the absence of her parents.

When the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., 17-year-old Yee Mun Lim got out of bed and got ready for the day. She left the house at 5:20 for seminary. At 6:30 a.m. she hurried to school, where she stayed until 7:00 p.m. for classes and co-curricular activities. Then she rushed to the stake center by public transport to practice for the stake musical production.
This was the standard routine of most youth in the Singapore Stake every Friday for five months. Sometimes exhaustion and fatigue set in, but throughout the entire preparation for the musical production, When a Prophet Speaks, there were no complaints or regrets, because the youth felt that the sacrifices they made were worthwhile. “This is the most amazing, awesome, spiritually uplifting, fun-filled, and heart-warming event I ever took part in,” said Yee Mun, of the Singapore Second Ward.

Babe never doubted that she would qualify for the Olympics. In 1928, when her father read to the Didrikson children about the Olympics from the newspapers, Babe and her sister Lillie decided to train for the next Olympics. Babe decided to be a hurdler because “I never was too good at straightaway running. I didn’t seem to want to stay on the ground.”
One of the ways she trained was to jump over the hedges between her house and the corner store. One of the hedges was too high for her to hurdle, so she asked the neighbor who lived there to cut it to the same height as the others. He did, and soon she could hurdle the hedges on the way home faster than her older sister could run there with no obstacles.
Babe was good at almost anything she put her mind to. “All my life I’ve always had the urge to do things better than anyone else. Even in school, if it was something like making up a current-events booklet, I’d want mine to be the best in the class. I remember once I turned one in with hand-drawn maps and everything, and my teacher … wrote on it, ‘Babe, your work is beautiful. A triple plus!’”
For a home economics assignment, Babe made a dress that later took a prize at the Texas state fair. And she once won an award for her typing.
Besides schoolwork and sports, Babe had work to do at home. Times were hard during the Great Depression, and “for several years Poppa couldn’t get work regularly. … Momma took in washing. All of us pitched in and helped her. … We’d wash the clothes and rinse them and hang them out, and then while that was drying we’d do another wash.”
Other chores included polishing shoes at night, helping to wash “those twenty-eight windows in the porch” every Saturday, grocery shopping, and ironing her three brothers’ clothes.
“Momma was a good organizer. She’d divide up the work so that everything got done. And we didn’t realize it then, but she was also teaching us. She was showing us that everyone has responsibilities in life. …
“I know [we] kids were a lot of trouble to raise. But I think we realized more than some kids do that Momma and Poppa had it pretty hard, and that we should try to help them.”
When Babe started to work at the insurance company, she sent almost all her earnings home. Later, whenever she could, she’d take her mother and her father shopping and buy them clothes or whatever they needed.
When Babe was about eight years old, she earned money for a harmonica by cutting some neighbors’ grass. It was so high that she had to cut it with a sickle before she could mow it. When she got the harmonica, she practiced for hours and hours. Her brothers played the drums, two of her sisters played the piano, her other sister and her father played the violin, her mother sang, and Babe played her harmonica. Even when she was older and famous for her athletic prowess, she was good enough to play her harmonica in public.
Although most people might consider winning the A. A. U. meet her most incredible feat, for Babe, it was simply her key to the door of the Olympics. She must have been disappointed at being allowed to compete in only three Olympic Games events. And she must have been even more disappointed to win only two gold medals—in the javelin throw and the eighty-meter hurdles, setting world records in both events.
In the third event, the high jump, her last jump was disqualified. The judges said that it was illegal because her head had preceded her feet over the bar. That’s not against the rules anymore, and Babe believed that a photograph taken at the Olympic Games proved that her feet had actually gone over the bar first. But in those days the officials had only their own eyes to judge with, so Babe had to settle for the silver medal.
In later years Babe became famous for her golf playing. She was the first American to win the British women’s championship, and she set a record that has never been beaten by men or women when she won seventeen consecutive tournaments!
After cancer surgery, Babe played golf again. And she made many guest appearances at benefits for cancer research. But at age forty-two she was defeated by a second attack of that dread disease.
Before she died, she related her life story, dedicating her book “in memory of my mother and father, and to my husband, George, without whom there never would have been a life to lead.”
Although Babe participated in only one Olympic Games, that competition was one of the highlights of her life. On pages 24 and 25 you will find a game reflecting some of the features of the original Olympic Games in ancient Greece.
NOTE: Most of the preceding information, and all of the quotations, are from Babe Didrikson Zaharias’s autobiography, This Life I’ve Led.

I read of a young woman who exercised that kind of faith and trust. For many months her mother had been seriously ill. Finally, the faithful father called the children to her bedside and told them to say good-bye to their mother because she was dying. The twelve-year-old daughter protested:
“Papa, I do not want my mamma to die. I have been with her in the hospital … for six months; time and time again … you have administered to her, and she has been relieved of her pain and quietly gone to sleep. I want you to lay hands upon my mamma and heal her.”
The father, who was Elder Heber J. Grant, told the children that he felt in his heart that their mother’s time had arrived. The children left, and he knelt by his wife’s bedside. Later he recalled his prayer: “I told the Lord I acknowledged his hand in life [and] in death. … But I told the Lord that I lacked the strength to have my wife die and to have it affect the faith of my little children.” He pleaded with the Lord to give his daughter “a knowledge that it was his mind and his will that her mamma should die.”
Within an hour the mother died. When Elder Grant called the children back into her room and told them, his little six-year-old boy began to weep bitterly. The twelve-year-old sister took him in her arms and said: “Do not weep, Heber; since we went out of this room, the voice of the Lord from heaven has said to me, In the death of your mamma the will of the Lord shall be done” (Bryant S. Hinckley, Heber J. Grant: Highlights in the Life of a Great Leader, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1951, pp. 243–44).

Alexis also has a talent for kindness. In her class at school she noticed a boy with autism who didn’t have any friends. He was having a hard time learning and behaving appropriately. Alexis and four other girls decided to befriend him. They started helping him with his schoolwork and playing with him at recess. Pretty soon, he started getting along better with others. He’s a really good friend now, Alexis says.

President Oaks also is blessed with the spiritual gift of discernment and the ability to recognize the long-term consequences of proposals, decisions, and actions. This capacity is manifested in a question he often asks himself and others: “Where will it lead?”2 A person simply cannot talk or counsel in council with President Oaks and not recognize immediately how this ability has benefitted countless individuals and families and the entire Church during his lifetime of service to the Lord.

On a summer night in 1970, President Oaks had a frightening encounter with an armed robber on Chicago’s South Side as he returned to his parked car. His wife, June, was waiting for him in the vehicle.
“Give me your money,” the young mugger demanded.
“I don’t have any,” Brother Oaks replied, showing him his empty wallet.
“Give me your car keys,” he ordered. The keys were locked in the car with Sister Oaks. “Tell her to open the car,” the robber insisted. Brother Oaks said no.
The robber threatened,“Do it, or I’ll kill you.”
Brother Oaks said firmly, “I won’t do it.”
While the robber repeated his demands and threats, Brother Oaks saw an opportunity to wrestle the gun away from the young man. As President Oaks described in a 1992 general conference message, “Just as I was about to make my move, I had a unique experience. I did not see anything or hear anything, but I knew something. I knew what would happen if I grabbed that gun. We would struggle, and I would turn the gun into that young man’s chest. It would fire, and he would die. I also understood that I must not have the blood of that young man on my conscience for the rest of my life.”3
This miraculous manifestation of the gift of discernment enabled President Oaks to resolve the confrontation and ultimately saved his own life and the life of the young robber.
More recently, in a meeting of the Missionary Executive Council, which Elder Oaks chaired at the time, we counseled together about a proposal related to the missionaries serving in a particular area of the world. After all council members had expressed their views on the matter, Elder Oaks asked several questions and summarized what had been learned. He then stated, “I do not feel we are yet settled on this matter. We should wait upon the Lord and not make a final decision now.”
Events a few months later dramatically highlighted the inspiration that attended that decision to wait. The council, acting under the inspired leadership of Elder Oaks, had been blessed to make the right decision, at the right time, and in the Lord’s way to protect the missionaries and prosper the work.

My first glimpse of Craig Record was from a distance. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, leather breastplate and kilt, sandals and shin guards (also of leather), a blue cape, and a tall, white-plumed helmet. In any other crowd, he would have stood out just a little. But he was on stage at the Hill Cumorah Pageant, portraying Moroni. I watched quietly with thousands of others as he received the gold plates from Mormon (played by his own father) and carried them up and off the stage and into the darkness.
All day long, I had been looking for him among the crowd of cast members. “Sure, I know Craig. But I haven’t seen him today.” Everyone knew him. Nobody had seen him recently. Now he had disappeared again. And after the performance? Gone in the crowd of cast. Finally, late that night, I reached him by phone and we arranged to meet.
The next day, Saturday, last day of the performance, I met the Record family under a tree at the foot of the hill. Craig wasn’t there yet, so his dad and I talked for a while.
I started with one of the deep, probing questions for which I am famous: “So, what is Craig like?”
His answer reads like it was equally deep. But his tone of voice told me he actually meant it: “Craig’s just a real neat guy.”
We talk a lot about sons respecting fathers, but here is a son who has earned his father’s respect. As Craig’s dad talked, I learned something about how and why. For example, when the missionaries call, Craig drops what he’s doing and goes out with them. Then there’s the fact that by applying himself last year in school, Craig raised his grade point average one whole point.
But mainly, Craig’s dad respects him for what he is, for what he has become at a fairly young age. “He’s faithful; he’s honest; he’s true. He has good goals in life.” Then, like any dad, he has to add: “Of course, he’s an everyday guy, too. We still have to tell him to pick his shoes up. And his room looks like a hurricane hit it. He’s far from perfect,” Brother Record laughs. “But if I were like him, at that same age, I think I could be pretty well pleased with myself.”
We had been sitting on a bench at the foot of the Hill Cumorah. Pageant cast members were constantly streaming by on the asphalt path, coming back from lunch, going to a devotional, etc. When Craig arrived, the midday sun had grown too warm, and the background noise was too distracting. So we moved off the path to a shady patch of lawn beneath a tree.
Craig is tall—at least he’s taller than my six-foot-two height by a couple of inches. And he loves basketball. “It’s high on my list of priorities,” he admits with some understatement. His skills, honed by countless hours of practice, have earned him a spot in the starting lineup of his high school team. And he has gained some local notice as a valuable player. But he also reminds himself that he lives in a small town where there is less competition. “It keeps me humble,” he grins.
Another challenge to Craig’s humility might be the role he has played in the Hill Cumorah Pageant for the past several years. As Moroni, he is not on the stage very long. But when he is, there are just Craig and his father (playing Mormon) on that huge stage. And finally, there is just Craig/Moroni, carrying the gold plates upward from level to level and into the darkness beyond the spotlights. It’s an important moment.
“How do you like being in the pageant with your father?” I wanted to know.
“It’s super; it’s just great. I can’t often look him in the eye while we are on stage because I am supposed to be looking toward the audience. But when I do look him in the eye, the emotion is there and it’s hard to hold back. He’s saying that tomorrow will be the last battle of the Nephites and they’ll be destroyed. And when my father says that, I feel it. It’s like it’s real. And then I have to go and do my part as best I can.
“I wasn’t very confident with the part at first. I was very nervous. But after four rehearsals, and getting my lines and actions down, everything just worked out from there. Now it’s great. I can go up there and think about the audience and try my hardest to share my testimony—Moroni’s testimony—with them.”
As we talked, I couldn’t help but look around. This really was the Hill Cumorah looming behind me. Across the highway, just beyond the field and woods, were the Joseph Smith farmhouse and the Sacred Grove. To the right, just down the highway, was Palmyra, where the Book of Mormon was first printed. What would it be like to grow up in such a place? Craig had mentioned sharing his testimony. Had living here since he was seven made it easier to gain that testimony?
The following day, Sunday, Craig and I met at the Sacred Grove. There the thick canopy of trees keeps the grove in almost total shade, and we found some relief from the early afternoon sun as we walked and talked. The damp forest earth muffled our footsteps. The stillness was broken only by the whine of insects, bird calls, the occasional low voices of other visitors, and our own quiet conversation.
“Craig, do you remember the first time you came to this place as a young boy?”
“No. But I remember that when I was young, this was mainly a place to catch frogs and to look at the signs telling the ages of some of the trees. It started to make an impact on me when I was about 12. And then, when I hit 14, I realized that Joseph Smith had been my age when he had the First Vision.”
But living in the so-called cradle of the Restoration does not guarantee a testimony. “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place,” Craig explains. “Before, I was going to go on a mission. But I was going to do it because everyone wanted me to go. I mean, I sort of wanted to go. But last year really decided it.”
Last year. It was during pageant time. Craig, as a cast member, had been assigned to one of the study groups. And in that same group was a young woman from Utah named Jana.
“We became great friends; there was kind of an automatic bond. I couldn’t believe she had such a strong testimony. To see how much she loved the Church, well, it just blew me away.” That level of spirituality became Craig’s goal, not only for himself but for the kind of woman he wanted eventually to marry.
One day, the study group went to the Sacred Grove. When they got there, they split up, and Craig went into the grove by himself.
“I was sitting there alone on one of the benches, thinking about what had happened here, and just started to cry. The Spirit witnessed to me that it was all true.”
The experiences of that summer were a turning point for Craig. For one thing, he saw the kind of young woman he would someday want to marry. And he realized that he would need to do better in school to prepare to someday support a family. He had always been able to do pretty well in school if he applied himself. Now he applied himself and raised his grades one full point.
His feelings toward his family were also affected. “It made me draw closer to my younger brothers and sisters. I had always considered them brats. Now I try to understand them a little more,” Craig says.
Does he have to work hard to maintain his testimony? Craig’s emphatic yes almost seemed out of place in our quiet surroundings. “You have to be active in the Church. It helps so much to be around other young people with the same standards. Reading the Book of Mormon is really important too. But you can’t just read it and then stop and say, ‘Okay, now I’ve read it.’ “ Craig is currently into his third reading. “And of course there’s prayer. You have to make a habit of it. Even on the nights when you are so tired you think you could just pass right out.”
One more question: “Craig, how do you feel about your priesthood now?”
“I believe in it a lot more. I believe in its power. The priesthood does work.”
We continued our walk, back out of the grove and down the path across the meadow toward the Joseph Smith home and the parking lot. The route to Craig’s house would take us within sight of the Hill Cumorah. His words came back to mind: “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place.”
True. And before young Joseph Smith reached out and made the effort, he was just another young man. He was a young man of great promise, true, but he had to reach out. And it was the reaching out and the Spirit’s sweet answering witness that made the difference, not the place. That’s why it doesn’t matter if it’s a young man in Bangor, Maine, or a young woman in Bangkok, Thailand. The process is the same. And the effect.
And Craig Record in Upstate New York? In some ways, this article was about him because he is not unique. He is an average guy who loves basketball and motorcycles. Who is a pretty good student when he applies himself. Craig is just an example of what happens when you reach out for a testimony and then act on that witness. He’s an example of how a fairly average guy can also be pretty outstanding in the ways that matter most.
Survival Tips
Wherever you live, live righteously.
Study the Book of Mormon.
Make a habit of prayer.
Gain a testimony and share it.
Associate with those who bring out the best in you.

When I was about nine years old and attending elementary school here in Salt Lake City, all of the youth in the city’s schools were asked to fill out a form indicating what we wanted to be when we grew up. The lists were then to be placed in a waterproof metal box and buried beneath a new flagpole which graced the entrance to the City and County Building grounds. Years later, the box was to be opened and its contents made available.
As I sat with pencil in hand, I thought of the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” Almost without hesitation, I wrote the word cowboy. At lunch that day I reported to my mother my response. I can almost see Mother now as she admonished me, “You get right back to school and change that to banker or lawyer!” I obeyed Mother, and all dreams of being a cowboy vanished forever.

When I got baptized there were a lot of people who came to see my baptism. I had lots of family to support me. Most of my friends who came were not members of the Church. They were all happy for me. Now one of my friends who came to my baptism has chosen to be baptized in her own church. It makes me feel happy because every time she talks about her baptism, it reminds me of my baptism, and it brings a greater joy to my heart.

Let me tell you how one of my sons learned obedience. When he was about deacon-age, our family went to visit his grandfather in Wyoming. My boy wanted to start training a horse he had been given. It had been running wild in the hills.
It took nearly all day to round up the horses, get them to the corral, and then tie up my son’s horse with a halter and rope.
I told him that his horse must stay tied there until it settled down; he could talk to it, carefully touch it, but he must not, under any circumstance, untie it.
We finally went in for our supper. He quickly ate and rushed back out to see his horse. Presently I heard him cry out. I knew what had happened. He had untied his horse. As the horse pulled away from him he instinctively did something I had told him never, never to do. He looped the rope around his wrist to get a better grip.
As I ran from the house, I saw the horse go by. My boy could not release the rope; he was making great leaping strides to try and keep up with the galloping horse. And then he fell down! If the horse had turned to the right, our son would have been dragged out the gate and into the hills and would certainly have lost his life. But the horse turned to the left, and for a moment slowed down—just long enough for me to loop the rope around a fence post and to free my son.
Then came a father-to-son talk! “Son, if you are ever going to control that horse, you will have to use something besides your muscles. The horse is bigger than you are, it is stronger than you are, and it always will be. Someday you may ride your horse if you train it to be obedient, a lesson that you must learn yourself first.” He had learned a very valuable lesson.
Two summers later we went visiting again to look for his horse. It had been running all winter with the wild herd. We found them in a field down by the river. I watched from a hillside as my son walked carefully to the edge of the field. The horses moved nervously away. Then he whistled. His horse hesitated, then left the herd and trotted up to him.
My son had learned that there is great power in things that are not seen, such unseen things as obedience.
Just as obedience to principle gave him power to train his horse, obedience to the priesthood has taught him to control himself.

Elder Alan and Sister Sheri Erickson, serving in the Liberia Monrovia Mission, enjoyed an inspiring “Light the World” event with the members of the Buchanan 2nd Branch.
For several weeks the sweet Relief Society president, Sister Nagbe, felt inspired to invite the sisters to participate in what she called an “outreach”. Instead of having an end-of-year social for Relief Society, she thought a better use of energy and time would be to invite others throughout the community to come and see.
Elder and Sister Erickson provided 100 “He Is Risen” pass-along cards to be handed out by the Relief Society sisters as invitations to people in the community.
On Dec. 9, one week after the branch moved into its beautiful new meetinghouse, eight sisters excitedly arrived at the church.
Aren’t these sisters beautiful standing outside the front of the new meetinghouse! Relief Society president, Sister Nagbe is in front in the yellow shirt. The sister in orange, Sarah, was baptized the previous Saturday. The sister in rust and white, Sophie, was the most eager and enthused. She is waiting to get married so she can get baptized.
They divided up the pass-along cards and wrote the location and time for Sunday services on the back of each. Then they headed out in groups of two or three to invite people. Some also carried copies of The Book of Mormon.
They had decided upon a target community, but on their way there, they couldn’t wait to start sharing the cards. Soon the idea formed to record the names and contact numbers of those they met.
A usual greeting went something like this:
“Good morning! We are from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We want to invite you to service on Sunday at our new building on God Bless You Hill, next to the auto parts. You are most welcome.”
Almost every person greeted was happy to give their name and number, resulting in a list of 77 names and about 70 numbers (some people did not have a contact number.)
Every card was passed out and a few copies of The Book of Mormon as well, all before 1 p.m. Several of the sisters decided to call those they had met to remind, encourage, and invite them again to come and see.
It was amazing! A true wonder and marvel! All the sisters who came felt so enthusiastic about sharing the gospel. They said:
“We want to do this the last Friday of every month! Soon we’ll be many branches, even a stake!”
With that kind of vision and enthusiasm we don’t doubt but that it will come true.

Third, the pioneer sisters had “spunk.” Spunk is a sixteenth century word that meant spark, like a spark of light. More recently it has come to mean a lively creature; someone who has spirit, mettle, pluck. To show spunk or spirit means to stand up, to assert oneself spiritedly or courageously.

Sarah Rogers Driggs, who as a child had sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith and whose brother had served in the Mormon Battalion, felt such an independence of spirit. One day she was out raking the yard when Starling Driggs, a fellow who had been courting her, hurried up to her and said, “President Brigham Young told me to tell you he wants to see you up at his office.” It seems that the prophet had called Starling to go with a company to help settle San Bernardino, California. Starling told President Young he was willing to go if he could take along Sarah as his wife. He said he liked her but she didn’t seem to like him. When Starling came running up to her, Sarah thought she knew what was in store, so she quickly replied, “You go back and tell President Young, Starling Driggs, that he’s got as much shoe leather to wear out as I have, and he can come here if he wants to see me.” Then after Starling had gone, she hurriedly got cleaned up and went to the President’s office. After receiving the call to go to San Bernardino as Starling’s wife, she accepted and made the trip. Unfortunately, Starling lost his life in a threshing machine accident a few years later. Sarah did not remarry, but sustained herself and family by keeping a boardinghouse. When she was troubled by a molester, according to her family, she simply hauled out her six gun and demonstrated how accurately she could shoot.12

When I was in high school I was determined to be the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. These were depression days, and that was the only quick way I knew to a million dollars. I was a big boy, and in some amateur bouts in high school, I had won with ease. Visions of what I would have in just a few short years lured me on. Yet, I realized vaguely that I had not had very much competition and that I probably needed some expert coaching before becoming the “logical contender.”
When a wiry little man moved in next door, and I got a look at his face, I felt my needed help was at hand. I ran out to help him move in, and the first question I asked him was, “Are you a fighter?” He kind of grinned and said, “It does show, doesn’t it, son? Yes, I’ve had seventy or eighty pro bouts.”
I said, “I’m a fighter!” He looked at me and said, “Well, you’re big enough.” I continued, “I haven’t had any real instruction, though. Could you give me a few pointers? I’ve won all my bouts so far.” After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Well, okay. Come on over to my garage one of these days.”
I did not wait for one of these days. I was over that afternoon. He smiled a little at my eagerness but finally managed to locate some big sparring gloves. He weighed about 120 to 125 pounds; I came close to 190. I stripped off my shirt and said, “I kind of outweigh you a little, don’t I?” He didn’t reply to that, but as he laced his gloves, he said, “Now, son, I fight from instinct. I can’t think before I hit you. If I see an opening I’ll nail you. I want you to understand that if I hit you a little harder than you think I ought to, I’m not doing it on purpose.” I said, “Oh, sure, I’ll take it easy on you, too.” He looked up at me, and he didn’t smile. He just said, “Don’t worry about it, son.”
The rest of the story is merely pitiful. I didn’t touch him—I didn’t touch him. Suddenly, after about a minute, when I was obviously wide open and didn’t realize it, he hit me on the point of the chin. His huge sparring glove felt as if it had an iron bar in it. I went down like a sack of meal. I was not quite knocked out, but I was pretty dazed. As my head cleared and I looked up, he was taking off his gloves. I jumped up and said, “Oh, come on! I know the difference between an amateur and a pro, now, but you can help me.” He kept shaking his head and taking off his gloves. The vision of a million dollars began to fade. Almost in a panic I reached for him and asked, “Won’t you help me?” He shook himself free.
Just then a bright young fly came winging by. He reached out and captured it. He said, “Now, son, you grab the next fly.” A moment or so later a senile old fly came within range, and I made a couple of passes at it. I didn’t come close to grabbing it. He said, “That’s what’s wrong with you, son. Your reflexes aren’t fast enough. They never will be. There’s nothing you can do about that, boy. You’re kinda tall; have you ever thought of playing basketball?”
I stumbled home, my whole world crashing about me. My mother was ill in bed, as she had been a good deal of her life. Actually, it was the last summer she lived. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I went in and told her what had happened. I said, “Why did it have to be this way for me? Why aren’t my reflexes faster?” As I went on complaining about this, I guess my mother got a little tired of it. She was in pain, and finally she said, very firmly, “Oh, Bobby, what you have is enough!”
Nothing my mother ever said to me has been so useful. “What you have is enough.” If you feel weak and inadequate, may I insist that what you have is enough, provided that—in the memorable phrase of Henry James—you are “the kind of a person on whom nothing is lost.” You never need be as ignorant as you are today, never as awkward or ill-prepared. You can capitalize on such strengths as you have and move forward positively.

James loved everything about Christmas—the songs and stories about baby Jesus, the twinkling lights, the bright packages under the tree, and the smell of yummy treats. He also loved the Christmas traditions with his grandparents, Nana and Papa. Every year Nana made steaming mugs of her special hot chocolate and baked dozens of sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees. All seven grandchildren would gather in Nana and Papa’s kitchen to frost and decorate the cookies. Then James and his cousins would play games with Papa. Last year, Papa taught eight-year-old James, the oldest grandson, how to operate the train that circled the Christmas tree.
Christmas would be different this year. Papa had died at the beginning of December, and Nana felt too sad to plan their special Christmas traditions. James felt very sad, too. He missed Papa.
“Christmastime feels wrong without Papa,” James told his mom one snowy afternoon.
Mom thought for a minute before she hugged James. “James, why do we celebrate Christmas?” she asked softly.
“Because that’s when Jesus was born,” he answered quickly.
“That’s right. We celebrate Christmas to remember Jesus Christ’s birth. And we know that Jesus made it possible for us to see Papa again and be together forever as a family. So don’t you think we can think about Papa and Christmas at the same time?” Mom said.
James hadn’t thought about that before. He still missed Papa, but he felt happier remembering that they could be together forever.
“I’m glad I’ll get to see Papa again,” he said.
“Me too,” Mom said. “And I’m going to go visit Nana in a few minutes. You can come with me.”
At Nana’s house, James looked around in surprise. He didn’t see any Christmas decorations—not even a tree.
“Where is your Christmas tree, Nana?” James asked. “And where is the train?”
“I’m not having a tree this year,” Nana said sadly. “It takes too much work to buy one and put the lights on it. I can’t do that all alone. And I don’t know how to run the train. Papa always did that.”
“Oh,” James said softly.
“We need to help Nana,” he told Mom as she tucked him into bed later that night. “She is so sad.”
James crinkled his forehead in concentration as he and Mom thought about what they could do. Soon they had a plan.
The next evening, the whole family met at James’s house. James and his cousins giggled as they piled into cars and drove to a Christmas tree lot. They looked at many different trees. Some were too tall. Others were too fat or too prickly. Some had drooping branches and bare spots. Finally, Uncle Max found a perfect tree. They paid for it, put it in the back of the truck, and drove to Nana’s house. Then James and his cousins huddled together on Nana’s front porch and began singing Christmas carols as Dad unloaded the tree.
Soon the door cracked open and Nana peeked out. “Surprise!” James called. Nana opened the door wide. “What’s this?”
“We got you a Christmas tree,” James bubbled. “And now we want to help you decorate it!” Dad hefted the tree into the house while Uncle Max rummaged through some bins to find a tangled strand of white lights. Uncle Ben positioned the tree in its metal stand, and Mom placed a red cloth under it. Christmas music streamed from the radio as they hung sparkly star-shaped ornaments from the tree’s branches. Then Uncle Ben carried a big brown box up from the basement. Inside, James saw the shiny red train engine and black train tracks. He carefully helped Uncle Ben connect the tracks in a circle around the tree.
When they finished, Nana looked at the tree and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She smiled at James and his cousins.
“Thank you,” she said. “Papa would have loved this.”
“Well, you know, Christmas is the perfect time to think about him,” James said, reaching for Nana’s hand. He nudged her over to the tree, where the little train circled happily. “And one more thing. I need to teach you how to run the train.”
“I wish that each of us will have a fuller and richer appreciation for all that the great gift of the Savior’s birth, life, and death means to us and our eternal happiness. Christmas is a season of hope.”President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “Speaking Today: First Presidency Christmas Devotional,” Ensign, Feb. 2001, 73.

“Vroom, vroom, vroom!” Brandon pushed his red toy convertible across the kitchen floor, driving it around the table and under the chairs in a zigzag pattern.
“Vroom, vroom, vroom!” Daniel echoed, driving his blue sedan in the same pattern.
Brandon parked his car under his chair. “Mom, what are we having for breakfast?”
Daniel parked his car right next to Brandon’s. “Yeah, Mom, what are we having for breakfast?”
“How about pancakes?” Mom asked.
“Yea, pancakes!” Brandon cheered.
“Yea, pancakes!” Daniel cheered just as loud.
“Will you make me a car pancake?” Brandon asked.
“Yes, I will,” Mom said.
“Will you make me a car pancake too?” Daniel asked, climbing up on his chair.
Brandon frowned. “Why does Daniel always have to copy me?” he asked. “Everything I do, he has to do, and everything I say, he says.”
Mom smiled as she stirred pancake batter. “Little brothers like to follow big brothers because they think their big brothers are really special. When Daniel copies you, he feels special too.”
“But it bugs me, Mom.”
“I can understand that,” Mom said. “But remember that Daniel’s not trying to be annoying. He thinks you’re great, and he wants to be just like you. That’s why it’s important that you set a good example for him.”
Brandon shook his head. “Daniel is lucky that he doesn’t have a little brother to copy him all the time.”
Mom poured batter onto the hot griddle. A wonderful smell soon filled the room. “Brandon,” she said, “you aren’t the only big brother who has a younger brother imitating him. Don’t you like to build model jets just like the ones Jeffrey builds, and drive your train on the track he put together?”
“Yeah, but Jeffrey doesn’t care if I copy him,” Brandon said. “And besides, I don’t say the same thing every time.”
“Jeffrey doesn’t care if I copy him either,” Daniel added.
Mom laughed but then grew serious. “I can think of a person whom we honor when we try to follow His example. Do you know who I mean?”
“Who?” Brandon and Daniel asked together.
“Jesus Christ. Did you know that He is the Firstborn of Heavenly Father’s spirit children? He is our Savior and sets the example for us.”
“Oh yeah,” Brandon said. “You told us that before.”
“He wants us to follow Him. One of the reasons He came to earth was to show us the things we should do and how we should act. Can you think of some ways you can follow Jesus?” Mom asked.
“We can get baptized,” Daniel said.
“And love little children,” Brandon added.
“Good answers,” Mom said. “And how about little brothers? Do you think Jesus loves little brothers?”
“Yes,” they both answered.
“What kind of things do you think Jesus would do to show His love for little brothers?”
“Help them clean up,” Daniel said.
“Help them build things,” Brandon said.
Mom turned the pancakes over. “You’re both right,” she said. “When you help your brother, you’re treating him the way Jesus would treat him.”
“So I can follow Jesus by letting Daniel follow me?” Brandon asked.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Whenever you treat someone with kindness you are following the Savior.”
“OK, Daniel,” Brandon said. “Should we both have syrup on our pancakes?”
“Yes!” Daniel exclaimed. “I like being like my brother!”

I was introduced to the Book of Mormon as a 21-year-old young man by missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Little did I know the incredible impact that this book would have on my life. Even now, 34 years later, I marvel and can only express the deepest gratitude for this treasure that I have found.
For myself, my quest to know whether this book was truly from God, started by reading it. As I followed the journey of Lehi and his family from Jerusalem to the promised land, their experiences and interactions with God inspired me. I, myself, needed guidance and I could see how Nephi had perfect faith that Heavenly Father would answer his prayers when faced by adversity. I could see also how his determination was key for him to receive from the Lord.
I learned that the right attitude to have in approaching God is to believe that the Lord can make things known unto you. Ponder, pray and sit still to hear His voice. At first, I did not hear it, but as I continued reading, the Spirit of God — The Holy Ghost — as referred to by Nephi, softened my heart little by little, and I felt His comforting influence. I felt inspired and had a greater desire to know. I prayed, waiting on the Lord to come and visit me. Little did I know that He had already started to visit with me, by sending those feelings in my heart. He had started to light a small fire in my soul. In countless verses, the Lord spoke to me reassuring me that He wanted to talk to me if I would let Him prepare the ground and make it softer to plant a seed that would sprout to a sure knowledge of His infinite love, care and desire to reveal Himself to all of His children.

During a spiritually low moment in my life as a member of the Church, a particular incident renewed my faith.
I was on a boat in the Philippines, traveling to visit my mother. The boat was filled with passengers, some enjoying the beauty of the blue horizon, others laughing and chatting with friends and acquaintances. I felt alone and lost amid the crowd of people. The anticipation of seeing my mother after a few years of separation was coupled with hesitancy.
I belong to a very religious family. When their daily religious rituals began to seem endless and without meaning, I investigated other churches until I eventually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because of the Church’s strong programs, sound doctrines, relevant gospel teachings, and friendly atmosphere, I felt a lot happier than I was before I embraced the gospel. My family, however, was not pleased with my choice.
But then after my baptism, in what I later recognized as a test of faith, I began to doubt, and I gradually lost my firm grasp on the iron rod. I didn’t commit any major sins, but I wasn’t as diligent as I should have been. Then I remembered my mother, a pious, gentle, and understanding woman who, despite the many trials in her life, remained steadfast to her faith. When I had told her of my decision to join another church, she said with a look of sadness, “The religion we belong to is a legacy from our ancestors, but if you think you will be better off with that new church, then go ahead. But make sure you will be true to it and will defend the truth you uphold.”
These thoughts sent a surge of embarrassment through me. How can I face my mother with my now flickering flame of faith? What if she asks me how I am faring with my newfound religion? Will I be able to meet her gaze without blushing?
As I struggled with these questions, I heard the words church and religion. A man, probably in his mid-40s, seemed to be forcing some tenets of his church onto an uninterested lady sitting next to me. Sensing her discomfort, I tried to help.
Looking straight into his eyes, I asked, “What church do you belong to?” For a split second, his eyes glowed with excitement and pleasure, as if to say, “Here’s a soul willing to open her ears to my preaching.” He sprang to his feet and moved close to me. He introduced himself as a minister. I recognized the name of his church; it is well known for religious debates.
An alarmed feeling crept into my heart, but I tried not to show it. I thought, Not now when I’m losing my spiritual equilibrium. How am I supposed to defend my faith when mists of doubt lurk in my mind? A quick glance at the lady I had rescued made me secretly wish I had not intruded. But she met my gaze with a reassuring look, encouraging me to defend my beliefs. I gathered courage and prayed silently and earnestly for assistance in this unexpected confrontation.
A feeling of confidence enveloped my whole being. I told him, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Without giving me a chance to say more, he interrupted, “I know all about your church and your founder.” He went on to make offensive remarks about the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the Book of Mormon. He said they were all fallacies.
What I felt next surprised me. I felt a strong desire to defend my religion. But hadn’t I been drifting slowly from the Church?
What surprised me most were the firm declarations that came from my mouth, attesting to the truthfulness and reality of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the First Vision, and the Book of Mormon. I added that people’s negative opinions of Joseph Smith would not change my testimony that he was chosen by God to restore His Church in this last dispensation.
I could hardly believe how confidently those truths flowed from my lips. At that moment I knew with a surety that the Spirit was there to testify in my trial of faith.
With renewed faith, I remembered the statement in Ether 12:6: “Ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” I offered a silent prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father as that verse sank into my heart. Peace filled me, and I realized I was ready to face my mother and to share with her the blessings of joy and peace that the gospel brings into my life.

In the Dominican Republic capital of Santo Domingo is a small school for poor children, held in the patio of a dedicated LDS sister by the name of Lubian Sequi.
When the youth of the West Bountiful Ninth Ward, West Bountiful Stake, heard about the school, they decided they wanted to help. After all, Sister Sequi was funding the school out of her own pocket, and she didn’t have much to spare.
The youth chipped in with their own money to buy school supplies like crayons, pencils, and paper, and they decorated school boxes for each of the students. Then they collected clothes from ward members to include, since Sister Sequi noted that sometimes the children were absent because they literally did not have shirts on their backs.
Once all the things were put together, a local shipping company helped them get the supplies overseas and through customs.
“It was one of the best service projects we’ve ever done,” said Scott Thomas, a priest. “More people came out to this project than any other. They came because they thought it was such a good cause. It makes you feel great to know that you’re helping those little kids.”

Sophia and Allie were twins, and they were best friends. They liked different things, but that made it more fun! They loved to play together.
One day at school, Sophia checked out a book about dinosaurs from the library. She was excited to show it to Allie.
“You can’t read that,” said Timmy, a boy in her class.
“Why not?” Sophia asked.
“It’s a boy book,” he said. “Dinosaurs are for boys.”
Sophia frowned. Why couldn’t she like dinosaurs too? She put the book in her backpack. She was going to read it anyway.
All day, Sophia thought about what Timmy had said. She still felt upset when she got home from school.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“Timmy said I couldn’t read a book about dinosaurs,” Sophia said. “He said dinosaurs are just for boys. That’s not true, is it?”
“Of course it’s not,” Mom said.
Sophia looked down. “Then why did Timmy say that?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know any other girls who like dinosaurs,” Mom said. “But Heavenly Father didn’t make us all the same. And He wants us to be kind to each other.”
Mom gave Sophia a hug. “I’m sorry Timmy treated you like that. But Heavenly Father loves you. And so do I.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Sophia said. She felt a lot better now.
“I’m going to talk to your teacher about this, OK?” Mom said.
Sophia nodded. “OK.”
Sophia went to play with Allie. They made up a game called Super Princess Racer, where Allie’s dolls were race-car drivers. It was a close call, but Princess Lightning Cheetah was the winner! Sophia and Allie cheered.
“Want to see the dinosaur book I got today?” Sophia asked.
“Sure!” Allie said.
Sophia smiled. She was glad she always had fun with Allie.
The next day, Sophia’s teacher had an announcement. “Class,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you. It’s OK to like different things. All of our books and toys are for everyone.”
Sophia was so excited! At reading time, she took the dinosaur book out of her backpack.
Timmy came her desk. “I’m sorry I said you couldn’t read that book,” he said. “I like dinosaurs too.”
“It’s OK,” Sophia said. “Do you want to read with me?”
“Sure!” Timmy sat down by her. “Thanks.”
Sophia opened the book. She and Timmy were different, but it was nice to share with a new friend.
This story took place in the USA.

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of soft and lazy day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a lift back to civilization, and I’d caught a bus for home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet spell of the early summer day still tugging at my brain, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to envision the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was only about half full. There were several empty seats between the front and myself, so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydream, I caught sight of that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed headed straight for the one next to me. He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean jeans and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, probably a hand-me-down. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat in favor of one of the empty ones behind. No such luck.
“Hi, mister,” he said, plopping down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help myself.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“Nice day, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little kid about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again, conjuring up visions of playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“You married?”
“No.” I answered coldly, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile fading. I seemed to have momentarily caught him off-guard. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back, “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had caught me off-guard. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly it hit me! He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his back pocket and handing it to me.
“Hey, mister, I got to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, fingering the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, mustering my biggest smile, I asked, “Say, are you married?”