Gospel Story Finder

Hi! My name is Rachael.
Bullying was a problem at my school. My friend Lexi and I decided to challenge the kids in our school to be kind!
How It All Started
When I was in fourth grade, I saw a friend being bullied. I told my teacher, but I didn’t do anything else. I wished I had been brave enough to do something more. My mom said if I prayed, Heavenly Father could help me.
A Prayer and a Phone Call
I went to my bedroom and prayed about it. Just as I said, “Amen,” the phone rang. It was my friend Lexi. She could tell I had been crying. I told her what happened at school and invited her to come over.
The Challenge for Kindness
I decided to make a chart to help me remember to be kinder every day. I called it the “Challenge for Kindness.” Lexi said we should make one for everyone in our class.
Sharing the Challenge
We made a presentation about the challenge and sent it to our teacher. She invited us to present it to our class. I was super nervous, but we did it. Now everyone in our class had their own kindness chart.
Butterflies!
I still wanted to do more, so I sent our presentation to the principal. She asked us to share our challenge with the whole school! Now I really had butterflies. I said a prayer right before the assembly started. Lexi and I took turns talking about why people bully and what to do about it. At the end we both said, “We will make a difference! Together we will stop bullying!”
A Huge Warm Feeling
As I walked back to my seat, I had a huge warm feeling. Heavenly Father comforted me when I felt bad and prompted me to do something that made a difference. It felt good to know I had answered Heavenly Father’s challenge to be kind!

I have a photograph of my dad and me. It was taken at my Eagle Scout court of honor the summer before last. It is the last picture taken of my father before he became a quadriplegic. The court of honor was on a Saturday night. My father and I stood next to each other, his arm around me, while my mom pressed the button capturing us on film.
The next week I went to the beach with my parents, two younger sisters, and my friend Matt. Loaded down with baskets and blankets we journeyed to the beach. We found a good spot where there were not too many people around. My friend and I dropped everything and made a mad dash for the ocean. The water was warm, and the sky was clear. The waves did not look at all threatening. Everything was fine. We were swimming, body surfing the waves, and having seaweed fights. We were walking back to find our spot when I saw my dad go into the water. I decided to go back in and join him for a little body surfing.
We were standing next to each other, talking and waiting for the next wave. When it came, we both took it. My friend Matt was off somewhere swimming. I pulled out of it before it got too shallow. “Dad, did you have a good ride?” No answer. I looked around and I could not see him. I thought he was under the water and was going to grab my legs or something. Then I saw him. “Dad! Dad!” He was floating on his stomach, only his shorts and back visible.
I fought through the water to get to him. I remember thinking that he had to be all right because nothing like this could happen to us. I reached him and struggled to turn him over onto his back so he could breathe. This whole time I had been yelling, “Dad! Dad!” over and over again. I got him turned over and as his eyes met mine, my whole body shook with fear. There was no expression on is face, but I saw terror and panic in his eyes. At that moment a wave struck us, sending me reeling and tearing him from my arms. I fought back to the surface, but my father was not in sight. I started screaming, “Matt, help me find my dad! Find my dad! Help me find my dad!” I knew we had to find him before another wave came. I knew his life was in our hands.
I had no feeling at this time. I just knew we had to find him. We spotted his swimming suit a little ways off. We struggled through the water to reach him. I could see a wave coming and I felt like I was in some dream where people are chasing you but your feet are stuck to the ground. We reached him just before a wave hit us. Turning him over, we each grabbed under an arm and began to drag him in. This whole time we had been yelling for help. Two men appeared and then a lifeguard, and they helped us drag him onto the shore. I noticed that he was very white and that his lips were blue. His eyes were open and focused right on me. The lifeguard kept asking him to blink if he heard him, but his eyes just stared into mine.
All of a sudden my stomach just dropped. I had this wrenching feeling and I felt sick. I have never been so scared. I knew he must have a broken neck or back. He had some blood on his forehead so I guessed it must be his neck. We got him onto the shore, and before I knew it we were surrounded by lifeguards. They backed me off and began to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
My mother had no idea of what was happening. I told Matt to run and get her. I did not want to leave my dad. I was walking around in a circle, sick with fear. I saw one of the lifeguards put her ear to his chest. They began to do CPR. They began to pound on his chest. I lost it. I knew he was dead. I knew that his heart had stopped. I started hollering, “No way, this can’t be happening! No way! No way!” A lifeguard came up to me and said, “You’re not going to help him by getting mad.” I knew he was right, but my staying calm would not help him either. Nothing I could do was going to help him.
By this time there was a huge crowd of people and more kept coming. I saw my mom running towards me. She did not know what had happened, but seeing all the people gathered she imagined the worst.
She was right; it was the worst. I ran to meet her. She was in hysterics, yelling at me to tell her what was wrong. Through the crowd she could see the lifeguards giving him CPR. She tried to go to him, but I held her back. She grabbed me and began sobbing.
A lifeguard came to us to tell us what was happening. By now the paramedics had arrived, and I saw them pull out electric shock devices, the kind you see in movies. He was dead, and they were trying to shock him back into life. All the strength went out of me and I almost fell to the ground. I could not watch anymore. I turned away. My mom still clung to me. She was talking and crying, but I couldn’t understand her.
One of the lifeguards came over to tell us that they got his heart beating. I felt no relief from this. By this time they had a tube in his mouth giving him oxygen because he was not breathing on his own. People were coming up to my mom and asking her if they could pray for him. I wanted to comfort her and act old and mature and tell her everything was going to be all right. But the only thing I could do was hold her and let her cry.
He lay there on the beach for about an hour with the lifeguards working on him. He was still unconscious, and his heart was very unstable. They slowly put him into the ambulance, and my mom got in also. I remember just standing there watching it drive away, wondering what our life was going to be like from then on.
He did have a broken neck and a severed spinal cord. The cord was severed so high that not only was he totally paralyzed from the neck down, but he was also unable to breathe on his own. At first some doctors told us that he would never be able to talk again or even come home to live. However, after six long, difficult months in a rehabilitation center, he was able to come home. Because of special equipment, he can breathe, talk, and even control a powered wheelchair. By sipping and puffing, he can make his chair do anything he wants.
He has been home for ten months now. It is great to be a family again. However, all of our lives have been affected by what has happened. We, as a family, are maintaining all of his care. I have had to assume many responsibilities. I do many things for him that he used to be able to do on his own.
Through all of this my dad has had the best attitude. He never seems mad or discouraged about what has happened, and he never complains about it. He just accepts it and lives his life to the best of his ability. He has been the ultimate example to me. If he can cope with this without getting discouraged and complaining, then it seems to me that all my problems are nothing.
My dad has accomplished many things in his life. At the time of his injury, he was president of our stake. I’m sure that it is a great comfort to him now that he has done so many things. This teaches me not to waste away a moment of my life. You never know what is going to happen to you. Also, before his accident, I was never sure what I was going to do with my life. Now, with all of the care I have rendered to him, I feel that I would like to become a doctor. This terrible accident has, in fact, affected me in a positive way.
I have another photograph of me and my dad. It was taken last summer outside in our front yard. I am standing next to him with my arm around him, and he is sitting in his wheelchair. As I compare the two pictures I can see the difference. It is not that he is in a wheelchair. Others probably couldn’t see the change, but to me, we are not the same people who were in a similar picture a year before. There has been a physical change, but the true change has occurred within. I deeply sense it whenever I look at the last photograph.

Just recently I was very sick and hurt so badly I could not move. I had prayed a couple of times to ask Heavenly Father if He could help me. It just kept getting worse. So I called my dad at work and asked if he could come home to give me a blessing. He agreed.
When he got home, I had prayed four times already and told no one about it. What was so surprising is that in his blessing he said that he knew I had prayed about it and that if I kept praying, then I would heal very quickly. I know it was Heavenly Father talking to me through my dad, because Heavenly Father was the only other person who knew that I had prayed. I thought that was amazing.

“Dad, there’s a patrol boat in back of us,” Bob shouted over the noise of their inboard-outboard. “The ranger is signaling.”
Mr. Richards, intent on steering the boat through the choppy waters of Lake Powell, sighted the patrol boat through the thick plastic window. It pulled alongside.
“There’s a storm expected soon,” the ranger announced through the sound system on his boat. “Strong fifty-mile-an-hour winds and rain. No boats will be allowed on the lake. You’d better pull into Bullfrog Marina just ahead and wait it out.”
“Our food and gear are at our camp in Lost Eden Canyon. Can we make it there before the storm hits?”
“If you hurry. Then hole up until it’s over.”
Mr. Richards waved his thanks, turned the boat around, and headed in a northeasterly direction toward Lost Eden.
Bob’s face looked like a crumpled paper bag. “No water skiing today.”
Mrs. Richards looked at the heavy clouds, which had suddenly turned the day into evening. “I hope the storm doesn’t last all weekend. We’ve planned so long for this vacation.”
Just then the boat slapped down on a swell.
Mr. Richards frowned. “Check your life jackets, everyone. Be sure they’re securely fastened.”
Five-year-old Christian began to cry. “I’m scared!”
Merilee pulled him against her on the seat. “Don’t cry, Chris. It’s really exciting. We’ll be all right.”
Bob peered out the front window at the huge red rocks that lined the lake. Some were smooth and rounded; others towered into the sky as if a giant knife had chopped off a chunk. Some of the pinnacles had fantastic shapes and patterns carved by the wind and sand and water.
“I’m glad we have a top on our boat,” Christian said nervously, as the boat hammered down on a swell and sent a spray of water against the windshield.
“I am too,” Bob answered.
Mr. Richards glanced at the threatening sky. “We may not be able to have a fire when we get to our camp, but we do have warm clothing and sleeping bags and plenty of food. We’ll manage.”
Before long Mr. Richards turned the boat between two steep red rock cliffs into a small side canyon where the water was less choppy. Slowing the motor, he steered carefully around the dead branches of some partially submerged trees.
“I see our camp,” Christian shouted, as he untied his life jacket. “We made it!”
Bob unzipped the canvas top. Clutching the mooring rope in one hand, he crawled out on the bow of the boat. When it gently kissed the bank, he jumped out and tied the rope securely to a tree stump. Bob wished he felt as relieved as Christian seemed to feel. The wind was rising. It moaned down the canyon and flattened the sagebrush against the red sand. He squinted to keep the gritty particles out of his eyes.
A clap of thunder cut through the canyon as the family climbed out of the boat. The sound of thunder echoed against the cliffs until it was swallowed by the wind.
“Bob, see that driftwood stump?” Father pointed ahead. “Tie our boat to it, fore and aft.”
Bob pulled the mooring rope taut around the smooth wood, which was bleached white from the sun and water. Everything else around him seemed to be red. He squinted as the wind whipped the cinnamon sand into swirls that powdered their sleeping bags and dusted the boxes of food that were piled together on the shore. Then a few raindrops freckled the sand.
“At least we were able to get off the lake before the storm hit!” Merilee exclaimed.
“Yes,” Bob nodded, “but what happens now?”
He finished tying the rope and fastened the cover on the boat.
“We could build a shelter of some sort, but there are no trees,” Bob said as he looked around. “Wait a minute! What about climbing up under that huge overhang of rock there on the cliff?”
Merilee glanced up quickly. “It looks like a big open cave. We wouldn’t get wet under there.”
Bob called to his father. “Dad, how about taking our gear up under the overhang?”
“I was wondering about that too, but it must be seventy-five or a hundred feet up.”
“We can do it,” Bob urged.
“Let’s!” Christian shouted, as he grabbed his sleeping bag and ran over the sand toward the towering cliff.
The cave had been formed by rocks, large and small, breaking away from the underside of the cliff. The opening was strewn with rocks like a huge lumpy waterfall.
“I can’t tell whether there is a flat place at the top or not,” called Mr. Richards. “And we may have to spend the night. Let’s go. Each one take all he can carry. Hurry, it’s beginning to rain.”
Christian was already on the rocks, pulling himself up with one hand while he dragged his sleeping bag with the other.
Mrs. Richards took a box of food. “Bob, bring some driftwood for a fire. There’s a chill in the air.”
Packing their gear up over the rocks was no easy task. Some rocks were anchored, but others gave way when a hand reached for support.
By now the rain was falling steadily. “It’s a real cloudburst,” Mrs. Richards observed. “I do hope there is enough space at the top for our sleeping bags.”
When they were almost to the top, Bob shouted, “Look in back of you!”
Turning, they saw a cascade of water falling from the edge of the overhanging rock above them to the sandy beach, one hundred feet below.
“It’s like being behind a waterfall,” Merilee laughed.
“Or a silvery curtain of water,” her mother added. “When it rains down here, most of the water can’t seep into the rocks, so it just runs off.”
“It’s a good thing we decided to come up here,” Mr. Richards said. “Now if there is just enough room for sleeping and perhaps a fire …”
“There is enough room for sleeping, if we clear a few rocks,” Bob called to them. “It’s flat and sandy. We could live up here for a week.”
The last few feet of the climb seemed easy after that. Mr. Richards built a fire, and Mrs. Richards put on a kettle of chili. Bob built a low wall of stacked rocks around his sleeping bag. “Just like the Indians used to do,” he chuckled.
As the family sat around the fire, watching the rain and waiting for the chili to heat, they felt a sense of relief. The cave was warm and secure. The danger was over.
Bob grinned. “This has been some storm. We could write a book!”

While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.

Until I attended a sacrament meeting in the San Miguel Ward, Lima Perú Maranga Stake, my only knowledge of the Church came from my father. He had been a member for many years but did not attend.
Unfortunately, my first impression at the meeting was not very favorable. I expected to see a lot of Americans, but there were none. The man conducting the meeting was not particularly striking or imposing—he had a slightly heavy build and not much hair.
By the end of the meeting I realized my mistake. The man gave the concluding address, and he spoke with authority on parents’ responsibility to teach their children. When he finished, I felt a burning feeling, difficult to describe, in my chest. I soon learned that this man was the bishop.
Eventually I was baptized, and the bishop and I became good friends. One day, he asked me to find out if my father would speak with him. I tried to avoid responding to his request, but he persisted until I did as he asked. I was surprised to find that my father would be happy to have the bishop visit.
The bishop soon came to our house and spoke with my father. I stayed upstairs, praying with all my heart that all would go well. After their conversation, they called me to come down, and I saw the bishop and my father affectionately saying good-bye.
The following Sunday, my father attended church for the first time in more than 20 years. Two months later, he was called to serve as the bishop’s first counselor.
My first impression could not have been more wrong. Our bishop’s service has blessed me and my family abundantly. I know that our Church leaders are called of God and are inspired in the counsel they give us.

Participating Athletes
Among the 1,000 athletes from 36 countries who competed in the Salt Lake 2002 Paralympic Winter Games were two Latter-day Saints. Lacey Heward, a 22-year-old member of the Mount Mahogany Ward, Highland Utah East Stake, skied past personal fears and most of her competitors on 11 and 14 March, winning two bronze medals in the women’s mono-ski division.
Sister Heward was only 18 months old when an accident left her disabled. But a physical disability has not slowed her self-proclaimed drive “to be the best that I can be.”
“I’ve worked so hard just to get to this point,” she said. “It feels so good to finally be here, to finally get the adrenaline going, to get out there and go for it.”

As the Church grew in Bulgaria, so did the idea of a public, Christ-centered Christmas program. President and Sister Warner asked Zlatina Biliarska, a retired journalist and member of the Church, to compose the script for the program. Zlatina was hesitant.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she told Sister Warner. “I have no idea how to do such a program. It is too difficult.” Sister Warner encouraged Zlatina to think the assignment over before rejecting it completely.
The next morning Zlatina contacted Sister Warner. “I went home and started thinking about it,” Zlatina said. “It came to my mind what the program should be.” The following day she handed Sister Warner the draft of a three-part program that she had worked on all night.
“It was absolutely beautiful,” Sister Warner said. “It was perfect. She had truly caught the vision of Christmas.”
With the help of Sister Warner and Sister Leslie Davis, a missionary, Zlatina completed the final draft. The program was not simple. It involved three separate scenes—a traditional Bulgarian scene, a secular Western European scene, and a simple Nativity scene. It contained 28 songs—many of which would need to be translated into Bulgarian. It called for elaborate scenery and costumes and for a cast and choir of more than one hundred people. The prospect of the members putting on such a production was truly daunting.
Sister Evanka Pashinova, who had been an opera singer before she joined the Church, orchestrated the production. She translated unfamiliar songs into Bulgarian and organized the choir. Despite the distances members had to travel to rehearse (as long as two hours’ travel each way), choir members were enthusiastic and committed. They never missed a rehearsal. The musical portion of the program began to come together.
Several individuals blended their talents to create the costumes and scenery. Elena Shtilianova, a fine seamstress, made or found the costumes for all three scenes. An investigator who is an actress with the National Theater arranged for the Father Christmas costume. Another sister who is an artist painted exquisite backdrops. In a country where rolls of paper are often not available, she somehow found the materials needed to create the scenery. The investigator who had provided the Father Christmas costume also borrowed spotlights from the National Theater—as well as the union technicians who came with them.
As the complexity of the production and the number of participants and guests outgrew the meager facilities of the mission office, a banquet room at the Moscow Hotel in Sofia was reserved with funds from the mission office. Although it had only a small stage, an upright piano, and very limited space, it was the best that could be found. The choir members laughed about “standing room only” and offered to stand offstage when they weren’t performing so everyone could squeeze in.
The work took on a rhythm of its own as the weeks of rehearsal went on. The members’ excitement crescendoed into confidence, and everyone began to look forward to the chance to sing of the birth of the Savior and of his place in their hearts.
But as the excitement grew, the group’s harmony was invaded by discord. Newspapers and television spoke against the Church. Missionaries were physically abused. Rocks were thrown through the windows of the mission home and the mission office. One night the whole front of the mission office was painted with obscenities.
As the anti-Church sentiment grew, the manager of the Moscow Hotel began to worry about the possible consequences of allowing the Church to hold a Christmas program in her hotel. Less than 36 hours before the program was to begin, she notified the mission office that the members would not be able to use their reserved room after all.
Some of the members were devastated by the news, believing that the Christmas program would have to be canceled. President Warner was more trusting.
“Heavenly Father knows where we are and how much we need to have this program,” he said. “Let’s leave it in the Lord’s hands.”
The Lord heard their prayers. When the assistants to the mission president, Elder Trent Murray and Elder Hannon Ford, returned to the Moscow Hotel to get the mission’s money back, the manager explained why she was reluctant to allow them to use the reserved room on the main floor and led them to a room on the second floor.
“If you can promise that your people will come in the back door instead of the front door, go up the back stairs, and not use the lobby, you can use this other room,” she said, opening the door to a much larger ballroom. It was two and a half times larger than their reserved room, and it had a wonderful grand piano. It even had a Christmas tree and other holiday decorations.
On a cold Saturday afternoon in Sofia, missionaries met the members and investigators arriving for the program and directed them to the back door, where they entered the hotel inconspicuously. More than 400 guests crowded into the ballroom. Even the dour faces of the spotlight technicians, who were unhappy to be working on a holiday, could not spoil their festive spirit.
The 150 choir members sang beautifully, and the audience joined in for a sing-along. By the time a young couple placed their baby in the manger for the final scene, the room was filled with joy and music. Even the spotlight technicians were singing and clapping along with the others.
The Spirit was so strong that no one wanted to leave. But like every performance, the Christmas program had to conclude. The same child’s a capella solo that had opened the program—her “Silent Night”—ended it. As the audience and the participants returned home, echoes of their experience—their “Joy to the World”—reverberated in their hearts and warmed the chill in the Bulgarian air.

Years ago, my adventurous son Jeff and I were traveling on an old bus bouncing along on a dirt road in Central America at 1:00 a.m. We took the early, early bus because it was the only bus that day. A half hour later, the driver stopped for two missionaries. When they got on, we asked them where in the world they were going so early. Zone conference! And they were determined to do whatever it took to get there. At 2:00 a.m. two more elders boarded the bus and enthusiastically greeted their fellow missionaries. This scene repeated itself every half hour as the bus climbed the remote mountain road. By 5:00 a.m. we had 16 of the Lord’s finest as fellow passengers and were basking in the spirit they brought on board.
Suddenly, we screeched to a halt. A massive mud slide had buried the road. Jeff said, “What do we do now, Dad?” Just then, the zone leader shouted, “Let’s go, elders. Nothing is going to stop us!” And they scrambled off the bus! We looked at each other and said, “Follow the elders,” and we all sloshed through the mud slide, trying to keep up with the missionaries. There happened to be a truck on the other side, so we all hopped aboard. After a mile, we were stopped by yet another mud slide. Once again the elders plowed through, with the rest of us close behind. But this time there was no truck. Boldly, the zone leader said, “We will be where we are supposed to be even if we have to walk the rest of the way.” Years later, Jeff told me how those missionaries inspired and motivated him tremendously as he served the Lord in Argentina.
Although we overcame the mud slides, we were all spotted with mud. The missionaries were somewhat nervous about standing before their president on zone conference day when he and his wife would be carefully checking their appearance.

In my early teens, life seemed to fly by. I was testing the wings of young manhood and feeling a lot of turbulence along the way. Every turn brought new discoveries.
In the midst of this period I discovered something that I grew to cherish. It was something I never expected.
In those days our family would often spend our weekends in a small community nestled in the peaks of the Oregon mountains. As soon as my dad came home from work we would grab the fishing poles and mosquito repellent, throw them into the back of the camper, and drive off.
Full of anticipation, my sisters and I, and on occasion, our friends, would all lie on the top level of the bunk bed in the camper, leaning our faces up against the window screen to get relief from the summer heat. There we would plot out our upcoming adventures. During our planning sessions, I would never forget to tell the newcomers of the great summer attraction.
The great summer attraction was a large wooden pipe which carried water, under pressure, from a dam several miles to its powerhouse. The pipe was made of planks bound by steel bands. Over the years, time and moss had taken their toll, eating little holes in the pipe. This made the pipe resemble a gigantic lawn sprinkler, the kind that you stretch across the lawn but can never get both ends to lie right side up at the same time, resulting in water shooting for yards in every direction. This constant spraying was not only a refreshing retreat from the summer heat, but it kept the forest deep green. In winter it transformed the forest into a heavenly white, with every stream of water making its own unique ice sculpture.
On one of those summer outings, I sat in the cab of the truck and listened with the intense fascination of a boyish heart to Dad tell of his boyhood. He had grown up in this community. He told of spending the summers as a sheepherder in the alpine meadows, when the mountains would awaken and put on their summer green. In the winter, when the layers of white would again start to cover the high country, he would return to the small town below.
I had been to this community many times before and had visited his grandmother’s grave and the old house where he used to live. I had even wandered around his old high school. But never had my dad’s life seemed so real to me as it did that day. I spent the day as he had, at his old hangouts. He pointed to one of the meadows where he had herded sheep. We went to one of his favorite fishing holes, where a dam had stood. We continued to the lower dam. This was the place of the wooden pipe.
As I walked along the pipe that day, I felt different than I ever had before. I realized that there were just as many fish elsewhere. It wasn’t the fishing, or even the pipe, that was so special. It was my dad’s life. This place is my father’s link with the past, I thought. He had made a niche, a sanctuary, a home here. And his stories had become a part of me. Retracing the footsteps of my father’s childhood that day, I felt as if I was my dad. I knew that he had traveled this pipe often in his younger days, and I marveled at our newfound similarities. We were different; yet we were much the same. He wasn’t perfect, as I was not, but he, like the ice sculptures, was unique, a masterpiece of God’s creation.

Let’s start a secret club,” said Goose.
“What a good idea!” exclaimed Squirrel. “Who will be in the secret club?”
“That will be the secret,” said Goose. “Anyone with feathers may be in our club.” Goose ruffled her snow-white feathers.
“Oh,” said Squirrel. He shook his long tail.
Goose smiled. “Anyone with feathers or a long tail may be in our club,” said Goose.
“Good,” said Squirrel. “Let’s tell my friend Turtle.” They went off to find Turtle.
“Hello, Turtle,” said Squirrel. “This is my friend Goose. We have a secret club.”
“Terrific!” said Turtle. “Who’s in it?”
“Goose and I,” Squirrel replied.
“And anyone with feathers or a long tail.”
“Oh,” said Turtle. She pulled her head into her shell.
Squirrel looked at Goose. They smiled.
“Anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell may be in our secret club,” said Squirrel.
“That’s fine,” said Turtle. “Let’s tell my friend Dog.” They all went off to find Dog.
“Hello, Dog,” said Turtle. “These are my friends Goose and Squirrel. We have a secret club.”
“Do you?” said Dog. “Who’s in it?”
“Goose and Squirrel and I,” said Turtle. “And anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell.”
“Oh,” barked Dog. He looked at his own short tail.
Turtle looked at Squirrel and Goose. They all smiled.
“Anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks may be in our secret club,” said Turtle.
“Good,” barked Dog. “Let’s tell my friend Frog.” They all went off to find Frog.
“Hello, Frog,” said Dog. “These are my friends Goose, Squirrel, and Turtle. We have a secret club.”
“Really?” asked Frog. “Who’s in it?”
“Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, and I,” Dog answered. “And anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks,” explained Dog.
“Oh,” said Frog. He stuck out his tongue and caught a fly.
Dog looked at Goose, Squirrel, and Turtle. They all smiled.
“Anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks or eats flies,” said Dog.
“Fine,” said Frog, swallowing the fly. “Let’s tell my friend Rabbit.” They all went off to find Rabbit.
“Hello, Rabbit,” said Frog. “These are my friends Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, and Dog. We have a secret club.”
“Really?” said Rabbit. “Who’s in it?”
“Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, Dog, and I,” said Frog. “And anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks or eats flies.”
“Oh,” said Rabbit. She twitched her long ears.
Frog looked at Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, and Dog. They all smiled.
“Anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks, eats flies, or has long ears,” said Frog.
“Super!” cried Rabbit. “Let’s tell my friend Pig.” They all went off to find Pig.
“Hello, Pig,” said Rabbit. “These are my friends Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, Dog, and Frog. We have a secret club.”
“You do?” asked Pig. “Who’s in it?”
“Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, Dog, Frog, and I,” said Rabbit. “And anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks, eats flies, or has long ears,” said Rabbit.
“Oh,” said Pig. He rolled over in the mud.
Rabbit looked at Goose, Squirrel, Turtle, Dog, and Frog. They all smiled.
“Anyone with feathers, a long tail, or a shell, or anyone who barks, eats flies, has long ears, or likes to roll in the mud,” said Rabbit. She was out of breath!
“Perfect,” said Pig. “Let’s tell my friend—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Goose.
“Remember, this is a secret club. Does your friend have feathers?”
“No,” said Pig, “she doesn’t have feathers.”
“Or a long tail?” asked Squirrel.
Pig shook his head.
“Does she have a shell?” asked Turtle.
“No,” Pig replied.
“Does she bark?” barked Dog.
“No, she doesn’t,” said Pig.
“Then she must eat flies,” said Frog.
“Never,” said Pig wearily.
“Well, does she have long ears?” asked Rabbit.
“No,” answered Pig, “her ears are very small. She doesn’t like to roll in the mud either.” Pig looked sadly at his friend Rabbit as he brushed some mud from his nose. “But she’s still my friend,” Pig said at last.
Rabbit twitched her long ears at her friend Frog.
Frog ate a fly that buzzed around his friend Dog.
Dog barked softly at his friend Turtle.
Turtle poked her head way out of her shell to look at her friend Squirrel.
Squirrel shook his bushy tail at his friend Goose.
Goose pulled a long white feather from her tail and gave it to Pig. They smiled at each other.
“Pig knows the secret of this club,” said Goose. “It’s not feathers, tails, shells, barking, flies, ears, or mud. The secret is friendship.”
And they all went off to find Pig’s friend.

Shaking Sister Turner’s hand was like handling a delicate antique. [Names have been changed.] We had come as we did every Sunday.
“My, your hands are like ice!” she exclaimed for the 10th time in 10 visits. I smiled as I set the sacrament bread and water on the bedside table.
“It’s a cold walk from the church to here,” I explained, sweeping snow off my white shirt for effect.
“Well, where’s your jacket then?” came the quavery accusation, to which I could only shrug as usual. The slow rasp of some medical machine was the only sound as my companion priest opened the Doctrine and Covenants to find the sacrament prayers (see D&C 20:77, 79).
I thought back to when, as a new priest, I had been assigned “home sacrament.” With some embarrassment, I had had to ask who these homebound members were and where they lived. How long had I lived in this ward? Twelve years without even meeting these members?
After blessing and passing the bread, my companion handed me the open scriptures. Clearing my throat, I read the prayer with what I hoped was a voice powerful enough to match the furrowed concentration on Sister Turner’s face.
Watching Sister Turner struggle to raise the cup of water to her lips, I ached in sympathy. How did this fragile sister do it? How could she stay so pleasant after suffering immobilizing pain as long as she had? My thoughts turned to the others we would be visiting. Each of them, despite suffering terribly from the effects of sickness or old age, exemplified endurance, compassion, and love. Each of them had a treasure trove of stories, studded with gems of wisdom. But most of them, as the beeping machines attested, had little time left. Why hadn’t I discovered these treasured brothers and sisters long ago?
As we rose to leave, Sister Turner predictably joked, “You have to be 102 to get this sort of service.” We chuckled and wished her a fond “See you next week,” with a silent “we hope.” We stepped out into the snow with the fervent thank-you from Sister Turner’s daughter still in our ears. We sometimes doubted whether or not Sister Turner remembered us, but we never doubted that she sincerely appreciated our visits.
We knocked at another door. “Come in, boys! I was hoping you would come today!”
I smiled again as I shook the snow out of my hair. “Sister Holt! It’s a pleasure to see you!” And it was.

I didn’t think that tithing settlement was such a big deal, but Brother Jacobs, our home teacher, seemed pretty excited about it. He and his son Brian were over and, like always, they asked for my dad’s permission to have a prayer. My dad grunted yes and Brother Jacobs gave the prayer. As he prayed, something he said caught my attention. Brother Jacobs said, “And bless Brother Johnson that he will respond to our message.”
My dad is really a good man, but he didn’t go to church or even want to talk about it. It had taken almost a year of the home teachers knocking on our door for my dad to let them in the house, but I’m glad he did.
I wondered what Dad would do. It was rare that he would even stay in the room when the home teachers were there, but he did nothing. Brother Jacobs was pretty brave to say what he did with my dad listening. He was lucky Dad didn’t leave the room.
Dad was his usual self. He was willing to talk about most things—sports, his yard, the weather—but not about the Church. We were talking about Dad’s favorite football team when Brother Jacobs blurted out, “Brother Johnson, we want you to come to tithing settlement.”
I thought Brother Jacobs had made a big mistake because Dad got very quiet and looked uncomfortable. Finally he said, “Why should I come to tithing settlement? I don’t pay tithing.”
Now I got quiet and felt uncomfortable. How was Brother Jacobs going to answer Dad’s question?
Brother Jacobs said, “Because the Lord loves you.” Brother Jacobs said the bishop had asked all the home teachers to go to every member and invite them to tithing settlement. He told Dad that he wanted him to go because he wanted our family to have the blessing of going. My dad got quiet again.
Brother Jacobs told Dad that tithing settlement was a simple way for the Lord to bless our lives. If we paid tithing or not the Lord would bless us for going to tithing settlement. Tithing settlement only takes a few minutes, he said, and the bishop does not make anyone feel ashamed or guilty. Brother Jacobs also promised that if Dad took his family to tithing settlement, he would have a happier home and each one of his family would become a better person.
Dad didn’t say much. He really loves us and wants to do what is right for us. When Brother Jacobs asked if he would go to tithing settlement, Dad said yes.
The end of the month came, and my Dad took us to tithing settlement. Just before the bishop called us in, I wondered what Dad was thinking. He was awfully fidgety. I think he didn’t want to be there. I remembered Brother Jacob’s promise and wondered if our lives would change.
When the bishop asked us in, he greeted Dad like his best friend. I don’t know if that made Dad feel at ease or more uncomfortable. The bishop talked to us briefly, then asked my youngest sister, Suzie, if she knew what tithing was.
Suzie said yes, tithing was when you get ten coins, you give one to the bishop. The bishop said that was true, but it was the Lord’s money and he, as the bishop, received it for Him. The bishop asked Suzie if she had received any money this year. Suzie said she had gotten some money for her allowance. The bishop asked Suzie if she paid a full tithing. She said yes.
The bishop then asked Maggie, my older sister, if she was a full-tithe payer. Maggie said yes like she was Joan of Arc going off to be burned. She said every bit of money she got was tithed and she was a full-tithe payer. Maggie was always too dramatic.
Now it was my turn to say if I was a full-tithe payer. I was about to say yes, but then I remembered that I had done some yard work last summer and hadn’t tithed the money I got for it. I had to tell the bishop no, I wasn’t a full-tithe payer.
The bishop asked me if I wanted to be a full-tithe payer. I said yes, I guess so. Then he asked if I had the money now. I pulled out my wallet and gave him what I had. It still wasn’t enough. Then I felt some pressed into my hand. It was my dad giving me the money needed to pay a full tithing. I looked at my dad and he said I could pay him back later. I gave the bishop the rest of my tithing, and he wrote down that I was a full-tithe payer. It was a pretty good feeling.
The bishop then asked my mom if she paid a full tithe. She said yes. She had tithed the money she got for watching the neighbor’s children.
It was Dad’s turn to declare. He is a proud man, and I knew he hadn’t paid any tithing this year, so I was surprised that he had come at all. What really surprised me was when my dad pulled an envelope out of his pocket and gave it to the bishop. Dad said it wasn’t a full tithing but it was a start.
The bishop became quiet. He just stared at my dad. After what seemed to be forever, the bishop told my dad he was glad that my father had set a good example for his family and as long as my father kept his promise, the Lord would keep his.
We were all pretty quiet on the way back home. I wondered what the bishop meant about promises. My dad looked pretty surprised when the bishop said it. I didn’t find out what the bishop meant until three months later, but I did find out that Brother Jacobs was right almost right away. Two weeks after tithing settlement Dad came to church for the first time in years. And he has kept going. Just last fast Sunday I found out what had happened.
It was a real spiritual meeting. Even I got up to bear my testimony. And before I was able to sit down, Dad got up to bear his testimony. He told how five years ago he had got out of the habit of going to church. Back in November he began thinking seriously about his children and how the world would affect them as they were growing up. He saw how his children’s friends were influencing them to start to do things that he knew would lead to trouble. This is what he was thinking when the home teachers came over. When Brother Jacobs promised Dad that his family would be better people if he took them to tithing settlement, he knew he had to take the opportunity.
As the time for tithing settlement got close, my dad began to think about why he didn’t pay tithing. He used to pay it and didn’t miss it at all. He only stopped paying because he stopped going to church. My dad thought that if he could believe going to tithing settlement would help his family, then he could believe that paying tithing would also help. My dad said a silent prayer where he promised the Lord that he would start paying tithing and he expected the Lord to keep his promise. Right at that moment, my dad began to change.
My dad then told the ward that when he met with the bishop, it really felt good to give, even though it wasn’t a full tithing. He learned that starting was the important part. He also told the ward that when the bishop had told him the Lord would keep his promise, my dad knew the Lord had answered his prayer. He also found out what Brother Jacobs had said about tithing settlement was true. My dad said that if he hadn’t gone to tithing settlement he would not be in church today. After going to tithing settlement my dad began to think where he was headed. He realized that it wasn’t too late to change his life, so he started by coming to church.
He told everyone that tithing was a true principle that had changed his life. And, you know something, he’s right.

The Summiteers (girls who’ve certified in the camping program) agreed. Though smaller by about half in numbers, they were no less enthusiastic about their own independent campsite and schedule. Like the Adventurers, the Summiteers represented a cross section of wards and stakes.
This group made no duty roster. Instead, “everyone pitched in when the work needed to be done. The whole campsite was a group effort.”
The Summiteers did have one planned activity—an overnight canoe trip across Sylvan Lake. It began as a survival trip, “but by departure time, we’d packed a little food in the canoes.” Feeling like true mountain explorers, the group at one point had to make their precarious way through a patch of bullrushes where one canoe got stuck.
“The lake was calm as a mirror that night,” they recalled. “You almost hated to disturb it with your paddle. And the forest was quiet. For a few hours there, we were the only people in the world.”
Even though they ended up packing food, the girls felt that they possessed the necessary knowledge to live off the land.
“Not many girls could eat a snake or a gopher,” one confessed, “but we do know what kinds of edible vegetation to look for. We’ve had enough training to be able to survive.”

A whistle sounded down the track as the early-morning, Vienna-bound train came into view. “Right on time!” Josef cried. He looked up at his sister with excited, sparkling eyes. “I can hardly believe it, Berta! At last I’m going to see the white stallions—the Lippizaners!”
“Ja (yes),” Berta said, but there was a worried look on her face. “You are young, Josef, to go to the city alone. And you are so often careless with your money.”
Josef grinned. This was one time he could not afford to be careless! Before he could speak again, the train shuddered to a stop.
“Auf Wiedersehen (good-bye), Berta!” Josef swung aboard and found a compartment; it was empty except for a small girl in a bright red coat. He opened the window and waved to his sister, who waved her white handkerchief in farewell as long as the train was in sight.
Josef closed the window and turned to the girl. “My sister thinks I’m too young to travel alone,” he said in German, smiling. “She’s afraid I will lose my money or give it away.” His smile faded when the girl gave a little choked sob. “Is— is something wrong?” he asked, anxiously.
As Josef spoke, a tall, uniformed conductor entered the compartment. “She does not understand German, so she does not know what you are saying,” he explained.
“She is American.”
“Is she traveling alone?” Josef asked in surprise. “Ja, to Vienna. Her grandfather will meet her there,” the conductor replied. After the conductor left, Josef stole a glance at the girl. How young she is, he thought, and how frightened! “My name is Josef,” he said in careful English. “What is your name?”
At the sound of the familiar words, the girl’s face brightened. “Margaret Taylor,” she said eagerly, then started speaking so rapidly that Josef threw up his hands.
“Slowly, please!” he pleaded. “I have studied English only a short time.”
Margaret started over and Josef understood. The girl went to a private school in Switzerland and was on her way to meet her grandfather, who was in Vienna on business. Mademoiselle Dumont, a teacher who had planned to travel with Margaret, had learned the night before that her mother was ill. “I told Mademoiselle I was not afraid to go alone,” Margaret continued, her voice catching in a sob, “but I am afraid. Maybe I won’t be able to find my grandfather. What will I do then?”
Josef’s kind heart melted. “Do not be afraid, Liebchen (little one),” he said to comfort her. “I will help you find your grandfather.”
Margaret turned to Josef, her eyes bright. “Oh, thank you!” she cried. “I will not be afraid with you for a friend.” After a moment she asked, “Do you live in Vienna, Josef?”
“No,” he replied. “I am going there to see the Lippizan horses.”
“The white horses that dance!” Margaret cried. “I have heard about them.”
“Ja!” Josef’s eyes sparkled. He slid his hand into his pocket to make certain his purse was safe. In it were the Austrian schillings he had earned working in Herr Meyer’s grocery store every day after school. “It has taken me a long time to save enough money,” he said.
“I will ask Grandfather to take me to see the Lippizaners, too,” Margaret said.
“It is not expensive,” Josef explained, “not if you buy standing room in the second gallery, as I will do.”
A whistle sounded, and the train pulled to a stop at a small station. A boy holding a tray of bottled drinks and crusty bun sandwiches tapped on the window. Margaret eyed the sandwiches longingly.
“Are you hungry?” Josef asked.
Margaret’s eyes clouded. “Mademoiselle forgot to leave me any money,” she said in a small voice.
“I will buy us each a sandwich,” Josef said, and he opened the window. Margaret selected two ham sandwiches and two cherry-flavored drinks.
Josef gulped when he heard the price. He took out his purse and carefully counted out the schillings. “Ach!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Food is expensive when one travels by train.”
“My grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret said confidently, smiling at him.
“I did not mean that!” Josef said, blushing. “I still have enough.” He placed his purse on the seat beside him in order to take the sandwich Margaret handed him.
Margaret chattered away happily, and in no time at all—or so it seemed to Josef—the train stopped at the next station. A man selling china figurines came to the window. Margaret gave a cry of delight, opened the window, and picked up one of the figurines, a white Lippizan horse with a crimson-coated rider. “I want it, Josef. Please!” she pleaded.
“It costs too much!” Josef protested when he heard the price.
“Oh, please, Josef, Grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret insisted.
Josef reluctantly paid for the figurine. Then he counted the coins he had left: fifty groschen—only half a schilling. “It is a good thing the next stop is Vienna,” he groaned.
“Don’t worry,” said Margaret. “I told you Grandfather will pay you back.” She slipped the figurine into her pocket, snuggled down in her seat, and was soon fast asleep.
When the train pulled into the Vienna station, Margaret’s eyes flew open. “Are we there?” she asked.
Josef nodded. “Where is your luggage?”
“Mademoiselle sent it ahead,” Margaret explained. She clung tightly to Josef’s hand as they stepped from the train onto the busy platform. Then she gave a sudden squeal of joy, broke away, and ran toward a tall gray-haired man who hugged her warmly. As Josef started toward them, a troop of uniformed schoolboys marched in front of him. When the boys had passed, Margaret and her grandfather had disappeared.
They’ll be waiting for me inside, Josef decided. But they weren’t there. He searched the station and the platforms and then ran outside to where a line of taxis waited, but there was no sign of Margaret or her grandfather.
Josef’s heart sank. How foolish he had been! How Berta would tease when she learned that he had spent his money on a little American girl who forgot all about him when she saw her grandfather. Josef smiled wryly. At least he had his return train ticket and enough money for trolley fare to the palace where the horses performed. I might get a glimpse of them in their stables, he thought.
Josef got off the trolley and was walking toward the hippodrome (arena for horse shows) at the palace when a taxi screeched to a halt at the curb. The door flew open, and a streak of crimson dashed toward him.
“Josef! Josef!” Margaret cried happily. After giving Josef a hug, she gave him a handful of schillings. “Here is the money I owe you.” Then she turned to face the tall man who had come to stand beside them. “I told you we would find him here.”
“I’m Samuel Taylor, Margaret’s grandfather,” the man said, smiling. “I hope you will forgive my granddaughter. She was so happy to see me that for a while she forgot how kind you had been to her—”
“We went back to the station, but you were gone,” Margaret interrupted. “Grandfather was very angry when I told him I had spent your money.”
“I still am,” Mr. Taylor said, but his lips quirked a little.
Margaret tugged at her grandfather’s sleeve. “Tell him, Grandfather!” she urged.
“We would like you to be our guest at the performance of the Lippizaners today, Josef. I have seats for us in the royal box at the end of the great hall.”
“Thank you, sir!” Josef cried, his eyes sparkling. Instead of standing in the second gallery, he would watch the Lippizaners from the box where the kings and queens of Europe sat.
Margaret slipped her hand into Josef’s. “We’ll have just as much fun there as in the gallery!” she cried.
“Indeed, we will!” Josef agreed and laughed aloud.

Last year my family moved from Utah to Oklahoma. On our first Sunday at church, I didn’t know anyone, and everything seemed strange. Even the building seemed strange because we met in the public library while a chapel was being built. At first I felt scared and out of place in Primary. I wondered if I’d ever belong. Then a good thing happened. Primary started with a song I had often sung in my old Primary. I felt a happy feeling inside, and I didn’t feel strange or different anymore. I sang the familiar words louder than usual. Some things might be different, but the songs were the same. They gave me comfort and helped me feel at home. I am grateful for Primary songs.Preston C., age 11, Oklahoma

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
Our small western town had one of the better rodeo grounds in the area, and it was an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the deserted grounds and let our imaginations run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and wrestled the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the honeycomb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and each took a honeycomb from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, hide your honeycombs,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Good evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we were beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out rather late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us uneasy. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.”
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our honeycombs and returned them to the hives.

As part of a service project, I traveled to Rwanda along with a few other physicians to help with medical needs. After two weeks, near the end of my trip, homesickness crept in. I missed my family, my comfortable bed, and my home.
On my last Sunday in Africa, I was able to coordinate my schedule so that I could attend church. Though the Church was not yet formally recognized in Rwanda, I was able to find a meeting time and directions on the Church’s website.
And what directions they were: “Walk down the cobblestone road across from the Ministry building. Look for an open gate. Then walk down the steps.”
As I followed these directions, I began to hear the distinct refrain of a familiar hymn. I descended the steps, and the words of “How Firm a Foundation” (Hymns, no. 85) reached my ears. The steps ended at a small building, where dozens of smiling people were milling around the entrance. Despite the fact that I was a stranger to the congregation, I felt immediate kinship. Dozens of Rwandan brothers and sisters stepped forward to shake my hand, and as they did, an oppressive load of loneliness lifted off my back—I was home!
Entering the building, I attended a typical three-hour meeting block that was no different from the one in my home ward in California. Holders of the Aaronic Priesthood passed the sacrament, the talks centered on the Savior, and even the Sunday School lesson was the same one taught in my home ward that week.
Most important, the Spirit of the Lord permeated the services. Clearly, the Lord smiled favorably on these good people trying their best to serve Him. I learned that during the previous year, only a handful of Rwandans attended services here. Yet I counted more than 100 attendees, half of them smiling children.
Now that Rwanda has been opened to missionary work, I suspect the missionaries will find great success as the Spirit testifies to increasing numbers of Rwandan investigators that the restored Church is the kingdom of God for the entire earth—for every continent, for every people, and for every child of God. How grateful I am for the Church, whether found on the central coast of California or down a cobblestone path in central Africa.

“If every kid did something like this, just think how it could change the world.” This comment was overheard at a neighborhood swimming pool last summer in Craig, Colorado, a small community of 8,000 people. It was 13-year-old Evan Pressley they were talking about—and still are.
Evan, a deacon in the Craig First Ward, Meeker Colorado Stake, went door-to-door in his hometown last June asking for money, not for himself, but for orphans in China. He managed to raise $2,418. “And 45 cents,” he adds. He turned what he raised over to a Chinese nonprofit, tax-exempt service organization headquartered near Denver, Colorado.
Evan’s inspiration to help orphans living thousands of miles away in China began with his visit to that country in December of 1996. Evan accompanied his parents, Dave and Mary Pressley, when they adopted his little sister, Marianne Kai Yue. “After I got home, I just wanted to help some babies who are not as fortunate as my little sister, who has found a family.” Marianne and Evan have two older brothers, Ben, 19, and Dan, 18.
In the spring of 1997, Evan sent a handwritten letter to Lily Nie and Joshua Zhong, directors of the agency the Pressleys went through to adopt Marianne, informing them of his project. His goal was to raise $2,175. He exceeded that goal and came up with a total of $2,418 (and 45 cents). He made a list of specific things he wanted done with that money: repair a child’s cleft palate and lip; buy a heavy-duty washer and dryer; provide enough formula for eight babies for one month; buy a crib and some toys; set up a small children’s health clinic. All this for $2,418! “Money goes a long way in China,” Evan explains.
Several articles were published in the newspapers about the Evan Project. Later, Joshua Zhong sent a letter to one newspaper thanking the people of Craig, Colorado, for their support. He also sent a letter to Evan expressing his feelings. “I want to thank and salute you for an incredibly moving and successful fund-raising effort. I am deeply touched by your love for the Chinese children. … You are an amazing kid with a very BIG heart!”
What does this “amazing kid” have in mind for the future? You guessed it. He’s not through helping orphans in China. He’s given it a lot of thought, and he’s getting close to earning his Eagle Scout Award. For his project he’s going to do something like gathering baby formula—lots of it—to send to Chinese orphanages. After all, when you have a BIG heart, it can strrreettch a whole lot to make room for one more Chinese baby … or 50 … or 150.

I used to find it difficult to use my beliefs as a response to a question as simple as “Why don’t you drink coffee?” In the past I came up with excuses like “It’s too bitter” or “I don’t like the taste.”
Why was I embarrassed? Why was I so afraid to stand up for what I believe? Looking back now, I don’t understand exactly what I feared. But I do remember exactly when I stopped hiding behind excuses.
One day in my high school English class, the teacher announced that we’d be viewing an episode of a TV show I knew I shouldn’t watch. While other students cheered in excitement, my classmate Sarah raised her hand and asked if she could leave.
When the teacher asked why, Sarah responded matter-of-factly, “Because I’m Mormon and I don’t watch shows with profanity.”
Her courage to stand up in front of the class was amazing. Thanks to Sarah, I too stood up and waited outside with a clear conscience for the show to finish.
I was forever changed. I started explaining my beliefs instead of avoiding the subject. And as a result, I found confidence in myself and participated even more in Church and school activities.
I never told Sarah how much her example meant to me, but I try to emulate her example of confidence. I now realize that being a member of God’s wonderful, sacred Church is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. I hope that I can, through my example, be someone else’s Sarah.