Gospel Story Finder

When I was called to serve as a counselor in my ward’s Young Women organization, I accepted the call, but I was concerned about how to do it. I felt unprepared, and I was struggling with a trial.
Three months before receiving this calling, following a high-risk pregnancy, my baby boy, Nicolas, had been born. He needed constant medical care. A few weeks after his birth, a small red spot appeared on his eyelid and began to grow gradually. Our pediatrician explained that it was a benign tumor and would disappear after Nicolas was a year old. But the tumor developed rapidly. It occupied his ocular cavity and would eventually cause permanent damage to his vision if not treated.
We made the difficult decision to start chemotherapy. Nicolas’s fragile body reacted negatively to the treatment. He had daily fevers, constant infections, and low weight. The process made him cry a lot. My calling became harder and harder to fulfill under these conditions. I didn’t know how I could do it.
Thankfully, my husband supported me. Together, we felt I should continue. The Young Women president also supported me. She was a faithful and patient sister. She helped me see qualities I did not know I had and helped me find ways I could serve that I hadn’t thought of.
Being with the young women each week helped me not fixate on the routine of injections, examinations, and doctors. It kept me from wasting time feeling sorry for myself or questioning why this was happening to my small angel. My calling was a blessing, and before I realized it, Nicolas was growing and the treatment had concluded. Nicolas became a happy and healthy boy who was full of energy.
Serving those valiant daughters of our Heavenly Father has helped me overcome feelings of inadequacy, develop eternal bonds of friendship, discover my talents, and improve in my responsibilities as a mother and wife.
The Lord does not always take trials from us, but I know with all my heart that He is always willing to help us have the strength to confront them.

Rebecca’s best friend, Cindy, lived just down the street. They played together all the time. They played with the same dolls and rode on the same bikes and even liked to dress alike.
One day, Cindy came over to play. She was carrying a big plastic bag.
“I brought you some clothes I grew out of,” Cindy said. “I thought you might like them.”
“Thanks!” Rebecca said. “Now I can really dress like you.”
Later that evening, after Cindy had gone home, Rebecca’s mom came into her room and sat on the bed.
“Let’s try out those new clothes you got,” Mom said.
Rebecca squealed with excitement and dumped out the bag of clothes. She went through the clothes one by one. First, she held up a pink dress.
“What a pretty dress,” Mom said. “That will fit you perfectly.” She hung the dress in the closet.
Next they looked at a pair of blue pants.
“Hmm, they look a little small,” Mom said. “Let’s give those to your younger sister.”
Then Rebecca picked up a blue tank top.
“This is so cute,” Rebecca said, holding it up. “Can I wear it?”
“It’s a cute color,” Mom said, “but I don’t think you should wear it.”
“Why not?” Rebecca asked. “It will be great to wear this summer.”
“It’s not modest,” Mom said.
Rebecca thought for a moment. “What does it mean to be modest?” she asked.
“Being modest means dressing in a way that shows Heavenly Father we respect our bodies,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, it’s so cute. And Cindy used to wear it!” Rebecca said.
Mom patted Rebecca on the shoulder and said, “I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”
Rebecca sighed. She knew it was important to listen to her mom, but she really liked the shirt. So when her mom left the room, Rebecca hid the tank top in her drawer underneath some other clothes. She thought maybe she could wear it one day when Mom wasn’t home.
A few weeks later when Rebecca was cleaning out her dresser, she found the blue tank top.
She pulled it out. Once again, she saw how cute it was. But she remembered what her mom had said and decided that she would rather show respect for her body than wear something immodest.
She went to talk to her mom. “Mom, remember that tank top Cindy gave me?” Rebecca asked as she held it out. “Well, I kept it hidden in my drawer. But I decided I don’t want to wear it. I would rather please Heavenly Father.”
Mom smiled and gave Rebecca a hug. “I’m glad you chose the right,” she said.

In the late spring of 1967, our ward was asked to choose 16 youth to dance in the All-Church Dance Festival. For our little town in rural Idaho, this was an adventure. The festival was to be held in the giant University of Utah stadium with thousands in attendance. I was not a dancer and was reluctant in our initial practices, but I soon came to enjoy being together with good young men and women preparing for the dance festival. The thought of going to the large city of Salt Lake and staying at a hotel with a swimming pool motivated us.
We arrived in Salt Lake City on the appointed day and began to dress for our performance. I suddenly realized that I did not have the black trousers I was to wear for our ballroom dance. I had left them at home. We did not even consider going to the store to buy a pair of pants, because it would have been too expensive. I did not know what I would do.
The solution came as my Young Men leader, Brother Lowe, offered to let me wear his dark pants. When I put the pants on, I was happy that they were about the right length. However, I quickly realized that I had a problem: the pants were several inches too large in the waist. “What am I going to do?” I thought. I was grateful for the kindness of Brother Lowe but felt very embarrassed to wear the large pants. Brother Lowe and my friends assured me that no one would know because the pants would be mostly covered with my suit coat and I could use a belt to cinch them up tightly.
I still remember the feeling of arriving at the stadium and seeing hundreds of young men and young women from all over the country who shared my beliefs and convictions. It was a great moment for me to realize how important the Church was to so many.
When it was our turn, we moved onto the field. As the dance began, much to my horror, I could feel the big ballooning trousers slipping. There was no time to fix the situation; the music had begun. The dilemma added new steps to my ballroom experience. Not only was it necessary to remember all we had been taught, but I also had to invent some new movements to keep my trousers in place. At times these steps dismayed my talented partner, but they saved me from a more troubling conclusion.
I have never forgotten my brief precarious moments of ballroom dancing. More important, I have never forgotten the feeling that we were all part of something extraordinary—not simply a dance festival—but the restored Church and gospel of Jesus Christ.

I was named the winner of the speech contest, and the gift I received for winning the speech contest was a copy of Jesus the Christ by James E. Talmage. I took it home and read it. It was written by an Apostle and was full of the words of the scriptures. My feelings for the Savior, which had been tender before, became profound. I was drawn to Him and found that the words of the scriptures helped me to know Him and taste of His love. What began as a goal to read the Book of Mormon to know of its truth became a lifelong hunger and thirst to know Him and His word—a thirst that is satisfied fully and deliciously by reading, pondering, living, and sharing the truths of the Book of Mormon.

As I left the missionary training center in Provo, Utah, USA, I had a very long flight ahead of me, with three layovers before I would finally arrive in my mission in Recife, Brazil. When I landed in Rio de Janeiro for the last leg of my journey, I missed my flight. It was rebooked, but I was left with a 14-hour wait in a country I had never been in before, and I couldn’t say much in Portuguese.
Hours passed as I sat there feeling lonely, forgotten, and tired from all the flights. As I began to cry, a voice said to me, “Elder, pray!” I prayed for help harder than I ever had before. As I said “Amen,” I heard a man sitting directly behind me speaking English. I turned and tapped his shoulder. The man was a returned missionary from South Africa who was fluent in both English and Portuguese. We got something to eat together, and he helped me communicate with my mission president. He helped strengthen my testimony that God will never forget His children! I felt His love that day, and I can truly testify that He hears our prayers.
Sione T., Oregon, USA

I had dreamt of serving in Italy. Missions are about serving people, not about serving in areas. But I prayed that I would serve in Italy, specifically the city of Gaeta, where my father’s ancestors had lived since the 10th century.
After serving in Rome and Sicily, I received the glad news that I was being transferred to the area that included Gaeta. Before that transfer in early 2023, my companion and great friend Elder Jack Beck gave me a gift I will never forget. Elder Beck is a talented artist. From a small picture I had of my father, Elder Beck drew a beautiful portrait of him.
I looked at that portrait every day during personal study. It gave me strength to share the gospel.
As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.

Elder John Sonnenberg’s parents joined the Church in Germany just prior to his birth. His father had been a Lutheran, his mother a Catholic. The missionaries knocked on the door of their home in Schneidemühl and said, “We’re missionaries from America. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ, and we would like to teach it to you.” His father invited them in, and the missionaries taught them the gospel. Elder Sonnenberg’s father joined the Church first.
His mother, a brilliant lady with a photographic memory, “was a little resistant to their message. She wanted to prove the Book of Mormon. Upon reading the challenge given in the tenth chapter of Moroni, verses four and five, she recognized that the Book of Mormon could only have been written under the instrumentality of Jesus Christ. She came to know for herself that it was of the Lord.”
Elder Sonnenberg’s father emigrated to America in 1927, going ahead of the family to earn enough money to bring them over. A year later Elder Sonnenberg and the rest of his family sailed to America on the Columbus. “It was a scary trip for my mother,” he recalled. “She had three little children to care for, and she spoke no English.
“On arriving in America, we moved to a suburb of Chicago. Because we couldn’t speak English, we were frequently ridiculed. Mother often escorted us to school for our protection. My brother and I, in turn, were very protective of our little sister.
“We attended the Logan Square Branch in the Northern States Mission and usually had to walk the five miles to get to church, but we enjoyed it. Sometimes we had enough money, three pennies or so, to ride the streetcar. A number of the members were of German extraction, and we were greeted with open arms. Two of my choice teachers were President Marion G. Romney’s sisters, Merlyn and Jasmine. Joseph Janse and Carl Waldvogel also spent much time with us. We lived very humbly, and they looked after our needs. I have a well-worn copy of the Book of Mormon that was presented to me when it was new by my Primary teacher for good attendance in 1929, my first year in America.
“When we left Germany, the country was in the midst of skyrocketing inflation; a million marks wouldn’t even buy a loaf of bread. Upon arriving in America, we found it in the throes of the Depression. My father’s professional skills as a tool and die maker were in short demand, and he couldn’t find work. My mother, however, was able to find housework. Because she was an extremely good cook, she also was able to get a job with a German salad-making company. She worked hard just to put food on the table for us. Then Dad got a job as a maintenance man, and I helped him during much of my growing-up years. We would go early in the morning to about fourteen or fifteen different buildings and shovel coal into the furnaces.
“Because we had to work hard, we developed strength. My brother and I participated in basketball, baseball, football, tennis, table tennis, and swimming and became quite good. Our classmates began to accept us more readily. Our family still enjoys sports together.
“My father was the oldest of eleven children, and he was the only one who accepted the gospel. Some of our children who have gone on missions to Germany have testified to my relatives, but none of them have yet accepted the gospel.
“I was born in a land that is now behind the Iron Curtain. Probably one of my choicest experiences was to be at the dedication ceremony of the Freiberg Temple. The temple is very near the place where I was born. It was a soul-stirring experience to see my own people waving white handkerchiefs to President Gordon B. Hinckley and Elder Thomas S. Monson as the bus pulled away at the conclusion of the dedication.
“My suggestion to children is this: Live each day so that the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion. Serving the Savior will bring abundant blessings to you, and family ties will be made stronger and homes will be more heavenly. Sustain your leaders and follow their counsel.”

They couldn’t hold another quorum meeting without Bill. So, with cooperation from Bill’s mother, Brother Perry and the young men he led entered Bill’s bedroom one Sunday morning.
“We started the meeting with a spirited opening hymn,” said Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Bill came up out of those sheets like he had been shot out of a gun.” By meeting’s end, however, Bill knew he was valued and appreciated.1

One of my duties back on the farm was to feed my fathers sheep. During the cold winter their survival was dependent on my supplying them with hay and grain we had stored from the summer.
Beneficial as that was, nothing could compare with the Spring, when I would open the gate and guide the sheep out onto the grassy slopes where they could forage for themselves. Instead of huddling in bunches waiting to be fed, they would move freely over the hillsides, searching for and feasting upon living food from its original source. By fall they were always fat and healthy.

How well I remember the challenges confronting the youth in the ward over which I once presided.
One evening a lovely teenage girl came to the office with her boyfriend to talk things over with me. The two of them were very much in love, and temptation was beginning to make its inroad.
As we counseled together, my young friends each made a pledge to the other to resist temptation and keep uppermost in their minds the goal of a temple marriage. I suggested a course of action to follow and then felt impressed to say: “If you ever find yourselves in a position of compromise and need additional strength, you call me regardless of the hour.”
Early one morning at one o’clock, the telephone rang and a voice said: “Bishop, this is Nancy. Remember how you asked me to call if I found myself being tempted? Well, Bishop, I’m in that situation.” I asked where she was, and she described one of the more popular moon-watching spots in the Salt Lake Valley. She and her fiancé had walked to a nearby phone booth to make the call. The setting wasn’t ideal for providing counsel, but the need was great and the young couple was receptive.
Months later, when the mailman delivered her wedding announcement to our home and Sister Monson read, “Mr. and Mrs. __________ request the pleasure of your company at the wedding reception of their daughter, Nancy,” she sighed, “Thank heaven! No more 1:00 A.M. telephone calls.” When I noticed the small print at the bottom which read, “Married in the Salt Lake Temple,” I said silently, “Thank heaven for the strength of Latter-day Saint youth!”
Choose your friends with caution.

Ellie loved hugs. Hugs from Dad. Hugs from Grandma and Grandpa. Hugs from Mom. Hugs made her feel warm. And safe. And happy.
That’s why Ellie hugged Mom during church. She loved sitting on Mom’s lap. Mom always held her close.
Then sacrament meeting ended. It was time for Primary. Ellie loved Primary. She was a big girl now. Three years old! She even had her own scriptures!
But today Ellie just wanted to keep hugging Mom forever.
Mom carried Ellie down the hall. In the Primary room, Mom sat Ellie down on a chair.
“Can I go with you?” Ellie said.
“No,” Mom said. Her voice was kind. “You need to be in your class,” she said. “And I need to be in my class.”
Mom kissed Ellie’s cheek. Then she walked out the door.
Ellie felt tears rolling down her cheeks.
She thought about Mom holding her. Mom always held her when they read the Book of Mormon. They usually read with the family. Sometimes Ellie and Mom read by themselves.
Ellie picked up her Book of Mormon. Inside was a picture of Jesus.
Ellie closed the book and hugged it. She felt like she was hugging Jesus. She felt warm. And safe. And happy. It was the best hug ever!
What helps you feel better when you are sad?

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I sat at the window in the living room and looked out. The snow had piled up almost every day for a week, but now the skies were clear and the air was icy. I could hear Mom, Tara, and Laurie in the kitchen, making treats for the neighbors. Next to me the Christmas tree twinkled, and there were piles of presents stacked beneath it. Usually on Christmas Eve I would feel each package and shake and smell it. I didn’t care about the packages this year.
Christmas had always been fun before. As soon as all the presents were exchanged, I would call Bryan, and we would spend the rest of the morning together until it was time to visit our cousins.
I couldn’t ever remember a time when Bryan and I hadn’t been best friends. We did everything together. We studied together, weeded our gardens together, had a paper route together, joined Cub Scouts together.
Bryan and I were both planning to play football in the pros. He was going to be the quarterback, and I was going to be the end. What a team we’d make! But now I wasn’t sure if we would ever play football together again.
Ever since Bryan had told me about the cancer in his left leg, I had prayed for him. I had even fasted two different Sundays. But the doctors still took his leg off, just above his knee. They said that they thought that they had caught the cancer in time and that it hadn’t spread, but his leg was still gone, and right now he lay in a hospital bed with nothing but a TV and a stack of books and magazines to keep him company.
“Randy,” Mom said, coming into the living room, “you sure look glum for a Christmas Eve.”
“I keep thinking about Bryan,” I mumbled.
“He’ll be fine,” Mom declared. “His mother told me that his whole family is going to celebrate Christmas Eve in his hospital room tonight.”
“But it’s not the same thing. Besides, I wanted to give him something … something super.”
“You already sent a present over.”
I nodded sadly. “A book. But that’s nothing, even if he does have to stay in bed and reading is all that he can do. I wanted to give him something extra special, something that he’d never forget.” I stopped for a moment, then blurted out, “What he really wanted was a football, an official leather football so that we could practice to play in the pros.”
Mother smiled understandingly. “That’s what you’ve both wanted for years, I know.”
“Bryan really did want a football, Mom. But you know how much they cost.”
Mom smiled again and just said, “Yes, I know how much they cost.”
I glanced in toward the tree and stared at the package wrapped in gold foil paper that was nestled under the far side of the tree. Yes, I thought, Mom knows how much footballs cost.
Then she asked gently, “Are you forgetting Bryan’s leg?”
“Bryan won’t always have a stump for a leg,” I told her. “They make legs. Good ones. There was a guy that had his leg cut off because of cancer, and he walked clear across Canada. If he could do something like that, Bryan will be able to play football. And if he had a football now, he’d have something to look forward to, something to work for. We’re still going to play in the pros!”
Mom went back to the kitchen, and I looked out the window again. Christmas would soon be here. If I was going to do anything for Bryan, I would have to do it soon. Then an idea came so quickly that for a moment I could hardly breathe.
Hurrying to my room, I pulled on my sweatshirt, wiggled into my heavy coat, pulled the hood over my head, stomped my feet into my snow boots, grabbed my gloves, and raced back to the living room. I reached for the gold-wrapped package under the tree, called to Mom that I’d be back in a while, then slipped out of the house.
The snow squeaked and crunched under my boots, and my breath puffed out of my mouth and nose in steamy clouds as I sped down the street. Finally I reached the hospital. I pulled open the huge glass doors, walked rapidly down the long hall, and got on the elevator and pushed the third floor button.
Bryan didn’t see me slip into his room, so I whispered, “Hi, Bryan.”
His head turned toward me, and his face and eyes brightened. “Randy!” he cried. “I knew you’d come.”
“How do you feel?” I asked, setting the package on the floor by the bed.
“Oh, OK I guess.”
“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you came, Randy.”
“I knew you couldn’t have much of a Christmas here,” I told him. “A hospital is no place for Christmas. And I knew I could never have Christmas without seeing you. I just had to come—and I brought you something.” I bent over, picked up the package, and handed it to Bryan.
“But you already gave me a present. It’s over there, under the tree.”
I glanced at the small silver tree in the corner. My book, wrapped in Santa Claus paper, lay with several other packages. I shook my head. “That’s not my real present,” I told him. “This one is. Open it now, while I’m here.” I pushed the package across the covers to where Bryan could reach it.
He tugged at the gold wrapping paper, pulled the lid off the box, and caught his breath. Then he reached in and lifted out the football. “But, Randy, this was supposed to be yours, wasn’t it?”
“But I want you to have it,” I faltered. “It’s the only thing I could think of that was super special enough for you. It’s one just like we’ve always talked about. Now we’ll play in the pros for sure!”
For a long time Bryan stared at the ball. Then tears came to his eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s a real one, just like they use in the pros. I just knew you’d have to have one because—” The words caught in my throat. I looked down at the flat place on the bed where Bryan’s left leg should have been.
Bryan was staring at the flat place too. “I can’t take your ball, Randy,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can even play any more.”
“Yes you can—we’ll still play together!” I burst out. “It’s just like I was telling Mom. They make artificial legs, Bryan. Good ones. And the quarterback doesn’t have to run much. You can still play. We’ll still be a team.”
Bryan smiled weakly. “Maybe I ought to be the coach,” he said. “The coach doesn’t have to run at all. All he has to do is yell and blow his whistle, and I can at least do that.”
Bryan stared again at the flat place. I caught my breath, starting to feel sick.
Suddenly Bryan grinned up at me and declared, “It’s a super ball, just what I’ve always wanted. I’m glad that you brought it. Real glad.” Then his smile faded. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need anything. There’s only one thing I really want, and that’s for you to get well and leave here.” There was a terrible, hurting lump in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, but it was stuck. I bit down on my lip. “Every night I pray for you. And every Sunday in Primary we pray for you too. We never forget you, Bryan.”
“I know, and it means a lot to me. But I still want to give you something. I want to give you a super gift too.” He held his new ball tightly. “You know I’ve always wanted a football just like this, and to play in the pros,” he said, rubbing his cheek against the ball. He looked up at me. “You’ll have to play for both of us.” He stopped, then holding the ball out, added, “You’ll need a good ball. The very best. Take this one and play for both of us. It won’t hurt so much if I know I’m helping you out, that you’re playing with my ball.”
“But if I take your ball, that will mean I didn’t give you anything good.”
“Oh, but you did, Randy. You gave me the best gift of all, just by coming.” Bryan smiled. “I waited all day. I didn’t even sleep. I just lay here and looked out the window. I knew you’d come because you’re my friend, the best friend in the world, and having a friend like you is the very best Christmas present of all.”
I could feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I reached out, took the ball from Bryan, and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow too.”
Bryan nodded.
As I trudged back home through the snow, I knew that now I could enjoy Christmas.

With the permission of President Jeffrey Holland and his lovely daughter, Mary, I’d like to share their story of several years ago. It is an example of what I have tried to say today—not truth in theory, but truth in action.
Brother Holland begins:
“One night I came home quite late from work. My nine-year-old daughter Mary seemed visibly distressed. … I asked if she felt all right; she nodded that she did; but I guessed otherwise. I waited as she got ready for bed. Sure enough, she walked softly into the living room and said, ‘Daddy, I have to talk to you.’ I held her hand and, as we walked into her bedroom, she started to cry.
“‘I was at Grand Central this morning and saw a ladies’ compact I knew Mother would love. I was sure it was quite expensive, but I picked it up just to admire it.’ More tears and struggle to get it all said: ‘It fell out of my hands onto the floor. I quickly picked it up, but Daddy, the mirror was cracked. I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t have enough money to pay for it, and I was all alone. … I put the compact back on the shelf and left the store. Oh, Daddy, I think I’ve been dishonest.’ And then she wept and wept.
“I held her in my arms as that little nine-year-old body shook with the pain of sin being expelled. She said, ‘I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t say my prayers. What will I do? I won’t ever get it out of my mind.’
“Well, Mother joined us and we talked quite a while that night. We told her that we were very, very proud of her honesty … and we would have been disappointed if she had been able to eat or sleep very well. I told her … the compact probably wouldn’t cost too much, and that we would go back to the store manager, tell him of the problem, and, between the two of us, cover the cost. If the compact was still there, [perhaps we could] buy it for Mom. That little cracked mirror could be a reminder for as long as she owned it that her little girl was unfailingly honest and spiritually sensitive. …
“The tears gradually stopped, her little body began to relax, and Mary said, ‘I think now I can say my prayers.’” (“The Excellence of the Actors,” unpublished manuscript, BYU faculty assembly, 1978.)

In more than 165 countries of the world, our sisters are being instruments in the hands of God. I think of a ward in Brazil that has an influx of new members every week. The sisters in that Relief Society decided to set a goal to not let even one week pass without each newly baptized sister receiving a visit in her home and a copy of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” and the Relief Society Declaration. So far they haven’t lost any sisters to inactivity.

Fortunately, there are seldom-reported but marvelous-to-consider stories of great patience. Recently I attended the funeral of a lifelong friend. His son told a beautiful story of parental patience. When the son was in his youth, his dad owned a motorcycle dealership. One day they received a shipment of shiny new motorcycles, and they lined them all up in the store. The boy did what every boy would like to do, and he climbed up on the closest one. He even started it up. Then, when he figured he had pushed his luck far enough, he jumped off. To his dismay, his dismount knocked the first bike down. Then, like a string of dominoes, they all went down, one after another. His dad heard the commotion and looked out from behind the partition where he was working. Slowly, smiling, he said, “Well, Son, we had better fix one up and sell it, so we can pay for the rest of them.”

I think my friend’s response personifies parental patience.

“Hey, do you want to dance?”
I turned around to see a guy I vaguely recognized looking at me quizzically. The lights were dim and the music was loud, but I thought he was in my English class.
“Sure,” I said, and we made our way through the crowd to the dance floor.
“So, what’s your name?” he yelled. I couldn’t hear him very clearly above the music and voices surrounding us, but I knew what he said anyway. The dance conversation at BYU is always the same. It goes: “What’s your name? What’s your major? Where’re you from?”
I know this seems like an innocent conversation and nothing to complain about, but that third question is a real problem for me. I know my name, and I’ve known my major since I was a freshman, but to answer “Where are you from?” is practically impossible.
You see, my dad was in the U.S. Air Force the whole time I lived at home, and we lived in nine different places before I turned 18. So you tell me—where am I from?
Sometimes I give my origin according to my mood. Do I feel like I’m from Nebraska today, or is it more an Alaska day? Maybe I feel Southern and I’ll say Georgia, but then there’s always Colorado, Arizona, or California, if I feel like being from the West.
Of course, this method can get dangerous if friends start comparing notes, so I generally stick to a more honest answer. Lately I’ve taken to saying where my parents live right now. It saves time and gives curious people the definite answer they crave. It’s especially useful for loud and crowded dance floors.
One day I spent a lot of time thinking about where I was from. I tried to imagine a house I would call home, streets that would bring back childhood memories, and friends that could remember elementary school with me. And I realized that for me, home is not any of those things.
For me, home is my family. My two brothers, my sister, and my parents are what I think of when I think of home. Sure, I remember the houses we’ve lived in, but after my family left, the houses weren’t home anymore. I’ve gone back to look at some of them, and there always seems to be something missing.
I remember places I played when I was a child, too, but I don’t have any reason to go back to them now that my family is gone. And the only people who have known me since childhood are the members of my family.
I remember certain pieces of furniture that have been in our different houses, and I admit that I associate those with home. But they could change, just like the houses and towns and states have changed, and I would still have a home. Everything about a house can change, and as long as the love of the family that once lived there stays the same, there is still a home.
At times in my life I have craved a hometown and dreamed of one house to call home.
Now that I’m on my own, I know it’s not a house that I miss but my family. They are my home. Maybe I did miss out on some traditional aspects of home-town America. But I think I gained something beyond the memories of a particular house on a particular street. Instead, I know that no matter where my family happens to be, I can always go home.

Jerrison had made certain he read his English assignment: Ernest Hemingway’s “The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber.”
With any luck, Jerrison figured Mr. Hammel shouldn’t call on him to respond to the story about a man who wounded a lion in Africa, then ran from the beast’s charge—leaving guide and gun bearer to deal with it until later finding his courage again. There were over 30 students in the class. Three or four would be sufficient for enough discussion to do the Hemingway story justice, then move smoothly to the next author. At least that had been the pattern of Mr. Hammel’s literature challenges in past English classes here at Churchill High School.
But the law of averages wouldn’t prevail, Jer reasoned, because Mr. Hammel now suspected he was LDS. Jer was the only active Church member in his school, and his family was one of the few LDS families in the entire eastern Canada community. And hadn’t Jer just had the courage, or the gumption, or the gall, or whatever you call it, to disagree with the teacher just the week before? At issue was the presence or absence of deity in Mark Twain’s “The Mysterious Stranger” and whether there was any hope for an afterlife. Lars Hammel had been quite adamant about that. Jer had never seen his teacher so unyielding on any point. Perhaps Mr. Hammel deserved his reputation as an unrelenting atheist.
“Miss Cromar,” came Mr. Hammel’s inquisition, “What did you think of the lion incident in Hemingway’s Mr. Macomber?”
Dana smiled awkwardly. “He, well, he ran away from the lion. He was a coward.”
But Mr. Hammel would not let Dana off so easily. “Why is that being a coward, Miss Cromar? Wouldn’t any of us run from a lion suddenly charging directly at us from the tall grass? And wouldn’t we expect a professional guide who makes his living at this sort of thing to have the skills necessary for dispatching the creature?”
It wasn’t normal conversation, thought Jer. But then what English teacher speaks normally? Even a sympathetic one?
“I, I guess so, Mr. Hammel.”
“You’re easy to get along with, are you not?” The teacher looked down at her from his oak desk.
“Yes, yes,” she agreed.
“And Mr. Allred, do you concur with Dana here?”
“Macomber ran away. He was a nerd. Even his wife thought so.”
Mr. Hammel paused thoughtfully. “Well, let us see what Mr. Broman has to say about Mr. Macomber’s temporary lack of courage.”
Jerrison felt too tall in his seat now. He ran large hands through his dark hair. His mouth groped to synchronize with precisely the right words. “Relatively speaking, I don’t think the man was as much of a coward as some might think,” Jer heard himself say.
“Eh? Intriguing thought here. Why do you say that, Mr. Broman?”
“Well, he chose to go on the lion hunt. He didn’t have to go on a safari like that. And no one forced him to shoot at the lion, or wound it in the first place. And he did finally overcome his fears.”
Mr. Hammel waited. “And is that all there is to it, Mr. Broman?”
“It’s just that this is only an example of one-time courage. Physical courage.” Jer found that it came out easily. But then, “His greatest fault might have been talking so much about the whole thing.” Jer felt all eyes on him now, and he turned his heavy thumbs up above the desk. “I’ve seen greater examples of true courage in everyday life than shooting a lion, anyway.”
“An example, please?”
“Well, my aunt …” Did Jer have to go into all this?
“Your aunt?” It was true what they said about Mr. Hammel. Couldn’t he see that this matter was becoming more than Jer had intended it to be?
“I guess some would think she didn’t have much to live for each day. Robert, her husband, left her, and she has a Down’s Syndrome baby, and she has to work nights …”
“Is she not remarriageable?” Mr. Hammel said evenly. The class tittered.
“Not much chance of getting remarried right away. Not to just anyone, right now.” Jer squirmed.
“I see, Mr. Broman. And tell me, how would you compare this item of literature with what you read of Twain’s ‘Stranger’?”
“I liked Hemingway better. I like to read about courage.” Now he was warming up. “At least if it’s real courage. And if the author tries to honestly discover the full meaning of courage, not just an outside veneer.”
“Mm, Mr. Broman. Could you please see me after class? I’d like to talk with you privately if you don’t mind.”
When Jerrison appeared at the long oaken desk, Mr. Hammel was smiling only faintly. “I’m intrigued with your definition of courage,” he said. “Tell me more about your aunt, Aunt …”
“We call her Ren, Rennie.”
“Your Aunt Rennie. You say she has courage.”
“Every day. The child—and her job. They’re her lions.”
“And she handles this without lashing out at the world?”
“Ren … doesn’t usually talk about it.”
Mr. Hammel frowned. “Yet, what choice does she have?”
“She’s always smiling. But she knows Becky will always be dependent on her.” Jer felt an impatience stealing over himself now.
“Then there’s no reason to smile?”
“Some might say that.”
The teacher turned his head. For several minutes he did not speak.
Jer was about to say something, maybe “See you tomorrow” or now that he thought of it, a clever “Who’s next, Thoreau?” But then it didn’t seem so clever, and he heard Mr. Hammel speaking, low at first, then with more voice.
“Your aunt is a remarkable woman,” he said at last. “I know someone like her.”
“Who is that?” Jer said softly.
“Not really important. But you have not yet told me what it is that gives your aunt her courage.”
“First,” Jer said, “you must tell me your background. What is your feeling about God. Do you agree with Mr. Twain?”
“Yes, I see. That is a hard point. I don’t know. Jerrison, I would like to meet with you tomorrow, or the next day, after the last class.”
“Wednesday? I think I could do that. Right after school?”
The next day Jer thought he noticed a change in Mr. Hammel’s mood. The man appeared brisk and abrupt. He stood talking to another teacher, something about sophomores and assignments. “I’m in charge of the 10th graders’ get-acquainted party,” he was saying. “These kids are so glum these days about helping the new ones. Can’t get the haves to mix in and include the have-nots. No compassion.”
When the other teacher walked away, the two just stood there. Jerrison waited. Finally, Mr. Hammel looked directly into Jerrison’s eyes. “What is it that gives this woman the strength, as you say, to fight lions … every day?” He said it as a statement, not a question.
“Are you certain you want to know?” Jer asked.
“Yes, I would not have asked a year ago, or perhaps even a month ago. No, certainly, not even a month ago. Before I knew you. Now, go on, tell me.”
“The same thing which enabled Daniel to subdue his lions, the ones in the den.” Jer had not managed any eloquence. But he had said it.
Mr. Hammel studied him. “You are a Mormon, are you not?” he broke the silence.
“Yes.”
“And you … you’re saying …” he broke it off. “Yes, I see what you are saying. It is very clear.”
Two days later, Mr. Hammel again asked Jer to remain for a few minutes following class. “Mr. Broman.” His voice seemed again aloof and piercing. “I have a special assignment for you. For extra credit, of course. Would you write me a story about courage. What it means to have courage? Compare it with Mr. Macomber, if you will.”
That night, Jer struggled with the assignment. What did Mr. Hammel want from him? He had told him how he felt. What else could he say? He asked his father about it. “What do you regard as courage, Dad? True courage? It’s an English assignment.”
His father seemed slightly puzzled. Jer tried to help, without putting any words in his father’s mouth.
“Let’s put it like this. Is a man a coward for running away from a charging lion?”
“Yes, I think so. But wasn’t there anyone around to stand up to the lion?”
“The guide. An Englishman stopped the animal a few feet away. Stood there and pumped lead into a roaring lion.”
“I’d say that was an act requiring some courage. But who attacked whom in the first place?”
“The American. He shot the lion. Macomber. He hit it in the flank with a bad shot.”
“Oh. Sounds like the lion had a bit of courage himself, eh?”
“I told Mr. Hammel that there are many greater acts of courage, if an author wants to write about courage.”
“You said that?”
“Yes. I told him about Rennie.”
“You did?”
“I think she has courage.”
“You know what, Jer? I think you’ve got it. Courage.”
Later that night, on the assigned paper, Jer wrote:
“Many of us think of courage as a single act of dramatic proportions, with the world watching, reporters ready to describe in detail the slaying of the lion in our lives. But if the world was watching to give us a badge or a compliment, giving life our best wouldn’t be that difficult. The real test comes in rising to meet the challenge every day, and again, with no fanfare, when you are alone, and you know what you ought to do, and determine to do it with your full zeal and strength.”
On Friday Mr. Hammel asked Jerrison what grade he thought his paper deserved.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I wrote it because that’s the way I feel. Not for a grade. It’s the way my aunt is.”
“That’s why I’m giving you an A,” Mr. Hammel said. “For courage. And your aunt … I’m giving her an A, too.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
“Oh, and a … tell her I’d like to test her courage—helping me with the backward ones at the class get-together coming up. I haven’t reached them in a dozen years. Maybe your aunt can give me some clues. Anything.”
“And the baby?” Jer asked.
“My mother. Put up with me. I guess she’s got the courage to put up with your aunt’s baby for one afternoon.”

Each group of young people displayed amazing talent and determination. The group from Tønsberg, Norway, was typical. They decided to build a ten-meter-long horse costume and do a dance in it for the circus to be held as part of the conference. It was impossible, of course. There were only four active youth in the town, and they needed ten people to fill the costume. Not only that, they had no building in which to build the costume and practice the dance. Being too hardheaded to simply give up, they promptly recruited non-Mormon youth to build and dance in the costume with them. They built the horse and practiced the dance in the open fields around Tønsberg, and when the time came, they all went to Festinord, members and nonmembers alike.
Communication proved to be no problem for the young men and women of three nations. Their languages are similar enough that they could understand each other with some hard listening, and whenever that didn’t work, they simply switched to English, a language in which they all were fluent.
As a result of Festinord, the people of Aalborg have a warm feeling for the Church, while the young people, many from very small branches, were strengthened by their association with one another. Per Herry from Frolunoa, Sweden, said it all: “It’s wonderful to have a festival with so many LDS people.”

For the fourth time, Jenna tried to make her second and third fingers move quickly back and forth from B to B-flat. But her trill still didn’t sound smooth and even. Jenna rested her palms on the piano keys. She looked at the clock and sighed. Twenty-five more minutes to go.
From the kitchen, Mom called out, “Keep it up, Jenna! Your trill is definitely improving.”
Jenna rolled her eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t like music. In fact, she loved it. But now Mrs. Maitland was giving her harder pieces by composers like Bach and Scarlatti. Jenna’s fingers couldn’t get through the runs without stumbling over each other.
“This sonata is going to sound awful in the recital!” Jenna grumbled.
Jenna stared down at her fingers. She obviously didn’t have what it took to be a good pianist—not as good as Mia, the star of Mrs. Maitland’s piano recitals. Jenna’s fingers just weren’t coordinated enough. What was the point in keeping it up if she was always going to be second best? Maybe she would ask Mom and Dad to let her quit piano.
Jenna looked around for something else to play. There was her blue Children’s Songbook. She opened it to page 228, her favorite Primary song. “Whenever I touch a velvet rose or walk by our lilac tree.” It always made Jenna feel like spring. In the illustration under the song title, the little girl’s raincoat was the same color as the daffodil, and her red umbrella matched her galoshes.
Jenna smiled and put her hands back on the keyboard. She loved the part where the notes go up for “I’m glad that I live in this beautiful world” and then come back down for “Heav’nly Father created for me.” The notes weren’t exactly a run, Jenna decided. They were more like a walk for her fingers. And she loved the word expressively at the top. It was exactly the way she liked to play. As she played the notes with their gentle, rocking rhythm, her frustration started melting away.
Jenna was starting on the second verse when Mom came in. “Sister Hardy just called,” Mom said. “She has to miss Primary on Sunday, and she can’t find anyone to substitute for her as pianist. Do you think you could do it, Jenna?”
The thought of playing in front of the whole Primary made Jenna’s stomach fluttery. But she loved the Primary songs. She would have her blue songbook, and the music wasn’t too fast or too hard.
Suddenly, Jenna felt glad that she had kept up her piano lessons. Her fingers didn’t need to be the fastest. And she didn’t really need to be the star of the recital. She could play the songs she loved for Heavenly Father. And that made it all worth it.

The Otara Stake organised around its stake centre in heart of South Auckland, home for many Polynesians. SouthSeas Healthcare provided the vaccination services in cooperation with the NRHCC. The chapel is located on a very busy road, so a group of volunteers went out to the sidewalk and waved colorful Polynesian flags at the passing vehicles. Many stopped in to queue up for vaccination.
Aupito William Sio, the minister for Pacific peoples, minister for courts and a member of the New Zealand Parliament, joined the event. He offered his congratulations on a great turnout and on the level of collaboration between government, community, and religious organizations.
“I appeal to all in our community to come together around our traditional values to protect our families and loved ones so that we can endure into the future,” he said. “In the villages of Auckland, we have the power of the chiefs who can use their voices to persuade others to do the right thing. While this is a remarkable work, this effort must go on.”