Gospel Story Finder

I know of a prominent worker with a big church assignment who had no ward responsibilities. Weekly she went to Sunday School and sacrament meeting and came away feeling that she was no part of the program. Then she became aware of a sister who had been raised without a knowledge of the gospel, who would come to the door of the church on Sunday but was afraid to enter, and would then return home. She helped her to enter and to become enlarged in her soul. Then she noticed a man, a nonmember who was almost a member, and changed his outlook into membership. She noticed several single girls without purpose and gave them the desire to be what they could be. She was interested in the aged, and gave encouragement to young men nearing the age to go on missions. Suddenly she found herself a big part of the ward, not by a bishop’s appointment but by obeying the law which calls us to be our brother’s keeper.

We see this promise fulfilled in the lives of faithful people. It was a little over a year ago that I was privileged to meet Travis and Kacie. They were married civilly in 2007. At the time, Travis was not a member of the Church. Kacie, though raised in an active Latter-day Saint home, had drifted from her faith in her teens and had strayed from her foundation.

In 2018, Travis met the missionaries, and he was baptized in 2019. Travis became a missionary to Kacie, who also experienced a life-changing conversion. They were sealed in the temple in September 2020. About two years after his baptism, Travis was called to serve in the bishopric.

Travis has a rare disease that continuously forms clusters of tumors in his internal organs. He has undergone many surgeries to remove the recurring tumors, but the disease is incurable. Several years ago, Travis was given fewer than 10 years to live.

Kacie has retinitis pigmentosa, a rare genetic disease that causes irreversible narrowing of the field of vision until complete blindness sets in.

Kacie spoke to me of her future. She anticipated the time, not far distant, when she would be widowed, blind, without financial support, and left alone to raise four growing children. I asked Kacie how she could handle such a bleak future. She smiled peacefully and said, “I have never been happier or more hopeful in my life. We hold to the promises we received in the temple.”

Travis is now the bishop. Two months ago he had another major surgery. But he is optimistic and peaceful. Kacie’s vision has worsened. She now has a guide dog and is unable to drive. But she is content, raising her children and serving as a counselor in the Young Women presidency.

Travis and Kacie are building their house on the rock. Travis and Kacie trust the doctrine of Christ and the promise that God “shall consecrate [their] afflictions for [their] gain.” In God’s perfect plan, suffering with faith in Christ is linked to our becoming perfected in Christ. Like the wise man in the parable who built his house upon a rock, when the rain descends and the floods come and the winds blow and beat upon the house Travis and Kacie are building, it will fall not, for it will be founded upon a rock.

I would like to share a conversion story from my family history about another of my heroes. Her name is Agnes Hoggan, and she and her husband joined the Church in Scotland in 1861. Suffering great persecution in their homeland, they immigrated to America with their children. Several years later, Agnes became a widow with eight children to support and worked hard to keep them fed and clothed. Her 12-year-old daughter, Isabelle, was lucky enough to find employment as a servant to a wealthy, non-LDS family.

Isabelle lived in their large home and helped look after their younger children. In exchange for her services, a small wage was paid each week to her mother. Isabelle was soon accepted as a member of the family and began to enjoy many of the same privileges, such as taking dance lessons, wearing beautiful clothing, and attending the theater. This arrangement continued for four years, until the family for whom Isabelle worked was transferred to another state. They had grown so fond of Isabelle that they approached her mother, Agnes, and asked for permission to legally adopt her. They promised they would provide her with a good education, see that she married well, and make her an heir to their estate with their own children. They would also continue to make payments to Agnes.

This struggling widow and mother had a hard decision to make, but she did not hesitate for a moment. Listen to the words of her granddaughter, written many years later: “If her love had not compelled [her] to say no, she had an even better reason—she had come all the way from Scotland and had gone through tribulations and trials for the Gospel, and she did not intend, if humanly possible, to let a child of hers lose what she had come so far to gain.”2 The wealthy family used every possible argument, and Isabelle herself cried and begged to be allowed to go, but Agnes remained firm. As you can imagine, 16-year-old Isabelle felt as if her life was ruined.

Isabelle Hoggan is my great-grandmother, and I am most grateful for the testimony and conviction that burned so brightly in her mother’s heart, which did not allow her to trade her daughter’s membership in the Church for worldly promises. Today, hundreds of her descendants who enjoy the blessings of membership in the Church are the beneficiaries of Agnes’s deep-seated faith and conversion to the gospel.

A dollar bought much more in 1947 than it does now. I was seven years old then and in the second grade at Woodland Elementary School. Emily was in my class, and I truly detested her because she was forever bragging about everything. One day she bragged that she could bring a whole dollar to school the next day—just to spend on candy! She was sure that I couldn’t. She really made me mad, and so what else could I do but retort that I, too, could bring a dollar the next day to spend on candy. Of course, I didn’t have a dollar, but somehow I had to get one.
My grandmother lived with us, and I planned to “borrow” a dollar from her purse, then put it back after I had shown it to Emily at school. I waited until I was alone in the same room with Grandma’s purse. I knew I was doing wrong, but I disregarded the Holy Ghost’s warning, telling myself, I’m only borrowing the money. What harm can there be in that?
The next morning I put Grandma’s dollar into my pocket and waited for the school bus. When I bragged about having a whole dollar to spend on candy, even though I didn’t plan to actually spend it, I found out that I was the most popular child in the neighborhood. Everyone wanted to be my best friend! The glory of that moment was simply wonderful. It was so wonderful, in fact, that I decided to spend the whole dollar on candy, after all.
Carol, my best friend, begged and begged me to let her take the dollar to her class that morning. She would give it back to me at lunchtime. She begged so hard that I finally let her take it.
I expected Emily to be waiting for me at the classroom door to see my dollar, but she wasn’t. In fact, when she did come to class, she didn’t mention her dollar or my dollar. This was a surprise, but I was greatly relieved. Now I was free to change my mind again and put the money back into Grandma’s purse.
I was busy doing my schoolwork when Mr. Apple, the school principal, came into the classroom and said, “Ann Jensen, come with me, please.”
Trembling, I followed the principal to an empty classroom, where he pulled something out of his pocket and said, “Carol was playing with this money in her class this morning. Mrs. Brown felt that it was a lot of money for a child to be playing with, so she asked her about it. Carol said that it’s your money. Is that right?”
I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally I looked at the floor and said, “Yes, I saved it.”
“All this money?” Mr. Apple asked in an even voice.
For the first time I took a good look at the “dollar.” It wasn’t one dollar, but ten dollars! I had been in such a rush to get the money from Grandma’s purse that I hadn’t noticed that I’d taken a ten-dollar bill!
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I sobbed, “I took it out of my grandma’s purse.”
The awful truth had been told, and at first I felt relieved for having confessed my sin. Then Mr. Apple told me that he was going to call my grandmother and tell her about the money. That was what I dreaded most—Grandma’s disappointment in me!
I was engulfed with remorse. I just leaned against the school building during recess because I felt so ashamed and sorrowful.
Mr. Apple drove me home from school that day. We rode in silence. I wondered what I could say to my family and what they would do to me for stealing Grandma’s money. When he stopped in front of my house, Mr. Apple gave me the ten-dollar bill to return to my grandmother.
Grandma was at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes for dinner.
“I don’t feel very well,” I said as I handed her the ten dollars.
“I don’t suppose you would,” she replied. And that was that!
I went into my bedroom to get over my “illness.” Nothing else was ever said of the incident. Nothing else had to be.

Last Sunday, Ruby and I attended a sacrament meeting of a ward here in central Salt Lake. The meeting was most interesting because in that ward there is some affluence as well as people who are living in halfway houses. Just before the testimony meeting, a young lady walked up to the bishop on the stand holding a little baby in her arms, wanting the baby to receive a blessing. The bishop stepped down and took the little baby, and the baby was blessed.

Later on, during the testimony meeting, a little seven-year-old boy, with his five-year-old sister by the hand, walked up to the pulpit. He helped fix a little stool there for her to stand on, his five-year-old sister, and he helped her as she bore her testimony. And as she would falter just a little, he would lean over and whisper in her ear, this little loving seven-year-old brother.

After she finished, he stood on the stool, and she stood watching him, and he bore his testimony. She had that sweet expression on her face as she watched him. He was her older brother, but you could see that family love and relationship with those two little children. He stepped down from the stool, took her by the hand, and they walked back down to take their seat.

Near the end of the testimony meeting, when there were a few moments for me at the end, I asked the young lady who had brought her child up to be blessed if she would come up and stand by me, which she did. In the meantime, while the testimony meeting was going on, I asked the bishop, whispering into his ear, “Where is her husband?”

The bishop said, “He’s in jail.”

I asked, “What is her name?” and he told me her name.

She came up and stood with me by my side, carrying the little baby. As we were standing at the pulpit, I looked down at this little precious baby, only a few days old, and this mother, the mother of that little daughter who had brought her to receive a blessing at the hands of the priesthood. As I looked at the mother and looked at that precious little child, I wondered of what she might become or what she could be. I spoke to the audience and to this young mother about the proclamation that was issued five years ago by the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve, a proclamation on the family, and of our responsibility to our children, and the children’s responsibility to their parents, and the parents’ responsibility to each other. That marvelous document brings together the scriptural direction that we have received that has guided the lives of God’s children from the time of Adam and Eve and will continue to guide us until the final winding-up scene.

We’re Sam and Anastasia, and we try to SHINE OUR LIGHT by sharing with others!
Where we live, in Florida, USA, we see lots of people who are homeless. We wondered how we could help them. Jesus fed people who were hungry, and everyone needs to eat! So we decided to make emergency snack kits.
Our friend Joa helped us shop for supplies at the dollar store.
We put granola bars, bread sticks with cheese, and other yummy snacks in our kits. Sam even tried one!
Sharing our kits made us smile. Some people said, “Thank you!” and “Awesome!”
Our mom put our project on a website from the Church called JustServe.org so other people could make snack kits too. The young adult branch made 100 more snack kits for our local homeless shelter. The shelter used them to invite people to sign up for a program to help them get homes. That made us really happy!

I cannot begin to tell you how much the New Era has meant in my life. I received a copy of the New Era at the Young Women fireside in November of 1985, and it has strengthened my life. At first it just sat on my desk collecting dust. Then one day I came home from junior high feeling depressed, so I thought I would take a little peek. It just so happened that I spent the rest of the afternoon reading it—all!
Today I had a quarrel with my friend. When I got home from school I just fell on my bed and started to read the New Era. Then I prayed. Then I apologized to my friend, and the rest of the day has been wonderful!
I love the New Era so much, and I always know it is there when I need it, because we’re now subscribing to it.
Wendy FindgrenSandy, Utah

“Come on, Rory!” Greg muttered impatiently. “I want the milk too!”
I poured some over my cereal, then passed the carton to him.
“Greg, Rory,” Mom said as she packed our school lunches. “Listen up, you two. I’ll be leaving to get your father at the airport before you get home from school. They are predicting more snow, so I don’t know if his flight will arrive on time, or how the roads will be. Don’t worry if we’re late. I made a potpie for dinner. The first one home is to pop it into the oven at 350° for about forty minutes. There are homemade doughnuts for dessert. Then,” she continued as she shoved our sandwiches into brown bags, “get the Christmas tree down and set it up. If there’s time, check the light strings and put them on too. That would be a tremendous help! I know it was a big disappointment to not have our traditional tree-trimming family home evening this week, but it couldn’t be helped, and with Christmas only two days away, we just can’t wait any longer to get it up.”
“Mom,” Greg complained, “it’s Friday—the Mutual activity starts at 6:00 so that we can get to the senior citizens’ center early.”
Mom put the lunchmeat and cheese back into the refrigerator. “That gives you more than two hours between the time you get home from school and when you are expected at the meetinghouse, Greg! I don’t want to overwhelm your dad as soon as he gets home—there’s no need to with you two strong boys in the family. Remember, 350° for forty minutes—got that?”
Greg sighed loudly. “Got it.”
Mom kissed us both, then hurried into the hall. As she slipped into her coat, she called, “I’m off to help Grandma. Have a good day, you two, and if you need anything, call!”
“Yeah, yeah! Be careful driving!” Greg called.
“Yeah, Mom—be careful!” I echoed.
She waved and was gone, leaving us staring across the kitchen table at each other. Greg ate glumly, like he was mad. I ate my cereal quickly and quietly—I didn’t want him snapping at me.
After school, my friend Eric and I trudged home through the snow. “Can you come over?” he asked with frosted breath.
I shook my head. “Nope—I have to put our Christmas tree up.”
“Oh.” He kicked at a clump of snow. “Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, sure.” I waved and turned in at our snow-covered driveway. I cleared the walk and went inside.
I slid the potpie into the oven, then went upstairs and changed my clothes before climbing to the attic. The Christmas tree box lay on the floor in a corner under the eaves. As I dragged it out to the middle of the floor, I heard a car. I looked out the window, hoping it was Greg, but the car continued slowly down the street.
As I tugged at the sturdy cardboard box, it opened and artificial pine boughs spilled onto the floor. I dug around the box and found the aluminum stem, the spreader ring, and the stand. I had to be real careful not to scratch the walls as I took them down to the living room, but I made it.
Then I went to check the potpie—it was starting to smell good. Greg still wasn’t home, so I pulled the sofa away from the picture window and set up the tree stand and the stem. By the time he finally got home, I had the tree set up, branches and all, and was in the attic, getting the decorations.
“Ho!” he shouted.
“What took you so long?” I bristled. “I made a thousand trips up and down!”
He rubbed his hands briskly, then grabbed a box of Christmas lights and decorations and lugged them down the steps. “Some kid’s car got stuck in the snow at school, and I helped get him out—that’s what took me so long! Come on, Rory, shake a leg. The potpie smells like it’s done!”
We sat down and said a blessing on the food, then ate so fast that Mom would have yelled. I got stuck putting the dishes into the dishwasher while Greg tested the lights. “Well, all the lights are good, and I’m gone!” he announced.
“Mom said we’re both supposed to do this, and it’s only 5:20—you can get to the ward in ten minutes!”
He was already putting on his jacket. “Not when the roads are bad! Besides, I helped, so quit complaining!” Ten seconds later, he was gone.
I sat on the floor to untangle the strings of lights. I was glad that Mom and Dad didn’t walk in right then and see the mess. Everyone’s in a rush, I thought as I threaded a string of lights through the branches, and I’m stuck with the work. This is fun when everyone helps. It’s notmy fault that Dad was sent out of town for a few weeks and things got behind. With drooping shoulders I reached for one string after another. Greg gladly helps everyone except his little brother. When Mom and Dad get home, I’ll tell them how little he helped. He’ll get hollered at but good, and he deserves it!
The clock was striking eight when I knelt and pushed in the plug. The room suddenly glowed—it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. It didn’t take as long to hang the colored balls and other ornaments. By the time Mom and Dad got home, the tree was trimmed, except for the icicles. When I heard our car in the driveway, I shoved all the empty storage boxes into one corner, then collapsed onto a chair and tried to look relaxed.
“It’s wonderful to be home,” Dad said, as they came inside and gazed around, smiling. “Everything looks great!”
“You boys did a super job,” Mom added with a grateful smile.
“You certainly did,” Dad agreed, giving me a bear hug.
That was my chance—except I didn’t feel angry at Greg any more. He was right to help someone in trouble, and putting up the Christmas tree alone hadn’t been really awful—just lonesome. Besides, I decided, it is the season of peace on earth. So I just said, “Thanks, Mom, Dad. But the icicles aren’t on yet, and I can’t find the tree skirt.”
Mom smiled. “I know where it is, honey. I’ll take care of that.”
Dad sat in his recliner. “And after I get a couple of your mom’s doughnuts in me, I’ll help you put the icicles on. It surely feels good to know that your family comes through when your plans are upset. With this much done, there won’t be any obstacles for our traditional Christmas Eve gathering with your grandparents and cousins. And Mom and I will make sure that our first-family-council-of-the-new-year will include some extra family events especially of interest to you boys. We’re really proud of you.”
Later, as I was reading in my room, Greg appeared at the door. “Mom and Dad thanked me for helping with the tree,” he said meekly. “I guess you didn’t tell them how little I helped.”
I shrugged. “The tree’s up, so it doesn’t matter much who put it up—no big deal.”
He tapped the doorframe with the palm of his hand. “It is to me,” he said. “Thanks, little brother. I’ll make it up to you—and I won’t treat you like that again, honest.”
As he turned away, I smiled and closed my book. I turned off my light, said my prayers, then crawled under the covers and grinned at the ceiling. It’s funny how good keeping the peace can make you feel.

While Brother Pinegar served as president of the Provo Missionary Training Center, as you can imagine, we often talked to the missionaries about the feelings of happiness and peace that accompany courageous obedience to true principles. We talked of the influence of the Holy Ghost that comes to those who are obedient. We encouraged the missionaries to make obedience their quest. I enjoyed telling them the story of the little boy who went to the park with his father to fly a kite.
The boy was very young. It was his first experience with kite flying. His father helped him, and after several attempts the kite was in the air. The boy ran and let out more string, and soon the kite was flying high. The little boy was so excited; the kite was beautiful. Eventually there was no more string left to allow the kite to go higher. The boy said to his father, “Daddy, let’s cut the string and let the kite go; I want to see it go higher and higher.”
His father said, “Son, the kite won’t go higher if we cut the string.”
“Yes, it will,” responded the little boy. “The string is holding the kite down; I can feel it.” The father handed a pocketknife to his son. The boy cut the string. In a matter of seconds the kite was out of control. It darted here and there and finally landed in a broken heap. That was difficult for the boy to understand. He felt certain the string was holding the kite down.
The commandments and laws of God are like the kite string. They lead us and guide us upward. Obedience to these laws gives us peace, hope, and direction.

During my military service, my crew was sent to Seattle, Washington, where we boarded a ship headed into the Pacific by night. I remember lying on my bunk among the many men and reading my Book of Mormon. Many passages held special meaning for me.
In 1 Nephi 15:11, I read the promise: “If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.”
When I reached the final promise in Moroni 10:4–5, I blocked it in solid red:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
On a crowded ship taking a horde of men into battle, I explained to the Lord that I wanted to know whether the Book of Mormon was or was not true. “I must know for sure that it is,” I fervently prayed, “for if it is not true, then I’m not sure that it is important whether or not I come back, because things in the world seem to be all undone anyway.” And so I continued to plead for an answer—an answer which, in time and in the Lord’s way, came to me.

Álvaro Emiro and Maritza Ariza recently took their five children, ages one through ten, to the temple. They first walked 40 minutes to catch a bus. Then after a two-hour bus ride, they arrived in Barbosa, where they joined a busload of members led by Ismael Carreño, president of the Barbosa Branch, Duitama Colombia District. After another bus ride of nearly five hours, they reached the temple and were sealed as a family.

Subject: Lisa
Age: 17 years
Event: Second conversation with Kara
“You’ve finished your painting,” Lisa said, admiring the portrait of the girl. “It’s beautiful.”
“You were right about one thing,” Kara agonized. “She is sad and lonely.”
“Why?”
“She’s found out that she’s been used,” Kara said.
“What’s wrong, Kara?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Larry?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to marry you?”
“Oh no, not him. He doesn’t want to be tied down,” she said bitterly. “He told me he feels responsible, and so he’ll pay for an abortion.”
“Kara, you won’t do that, will you?” Elizabeth pleaded.
“I don’t know what to do,” Kara said slowly. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”
They walked to a park near the high school and sat in the swings and talked.
“Lisa, do you remember when we were in grade school? We were such good friends, weren’t we? We were just like sisters. How have we gotten so far apart?”
“I still love you as if you were my sister,” Lisa said.
“I know, but now I’m so different from you. How have I come to the place I am now? I’ve thought about it lately.”
“What did you decide?” Lisa asked.
“The only thing that has separated us is that I’ve always done what others told me everyone else was doing, but you never did any of those things. Why didn’t you?”
“I’m a Mormon,” Lisa said simply, “and we have a prophet of God who gives us warning. I guess I’ve just listened to him.”
“I wish I could be like you, but now I feel so old. I’ll never be young again, and I’ve got a decision to make. What should I do?”
“Don’t let them kill your baby.”
“It’s not a baby yet, is it? It’s just a growth. How can you be so sure that it wouldn’t be better to just do it the way Larry wants? He calls it getting it fixed.”
“Our prophet’s warned us against abortion,” Lisa said. “Will you talk to my bishop? Maybe he can help you decide what to do.”
“Okay, I’ll talk with him.”
They talked about high school over dessert.
“I never did feel very comfortable around girls,” Dan confided.
“And I was busy with my classes and other activities,” Elizabeth recalled, “but socially it was like I was watching my friends make bad choices. Eventually their choices caught up with them.”
“Did your friends in high school learn from their bad choices?” Dan asked Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid not.”
Subject: Elizabeth
Age: 20 years
Event: Meeting Kara at the airport
Elizabeth had taken the flight from Minneapolis to Salt Lake City on her return to college. She had walked slowly past the car rental agency three times, carefully studying the features of the attractive girl at the counter. Finally she approached the girl.
“Excuse me, are you Kara?”
“Lisa?” the girl cried. “Is that you?”
They threw their arms around each other, both chattering excitedly.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was transferred from our L.A. office six months ago. Look, I’ve got a break coming. Let’s go get something to eat so we can talk.”
They sat at a small table and talked, filling each other in on their lives since they had last been together.
“I lost track of you after you left town,” Elizabeth said. “My bishop said you never talked with him.”
“Oh, I changed my mind and just had the problem fixed,” Kara said lightly.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, trying not to betray her disappointment.
“I guess you’re shocked, but it’s quite common these days.”
“But why did you suddenly leave town after that?” Elizabeth asked.
“I had to get away,” Kara said, pursing her lips nervously, “and so I ran away.”
“But where did you live? What did you do?”
Kara shook her head slowly. “You don’t want to hear about that.” She took a final drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “But look, I’m all squared away now. I’m into group therapy, and it’s really helped me get rid of all my guilt feelings about everything. What a relief not to feel guilty about anything! But I guess you know about that, because you’ve never done anything to feel guilty about.”
A few minutes later, Elizabeth asked, “What happened to Larry Hill?”
“Last I heard he was working as a DJ in a disco in California.”
“I guess that makes him one of the real men, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “He always needed that assurance.”
“I’ve heard he’s still running around just like he did in high school,” Kara added. “I guess I am, too, for that matter. I’m just not ready to settle down.”

My sister danced around the kitchen in her lion costume, with black whiskers stuck on her face.
“Come on!” I hollered at her. “You’re supposed to help me set the table.”
“I’m practicing,” she said, spinning around perfectly on the linoleum floor. “My stomach is too wiggly to eat, anyhow.”
“It’s only a skating show,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s the ‘Wizard of Oz,’” Laura declared, “and I’m going to be the lion. Come and see me.”
“I have plans,” I told her. I knew that the guys were going bowling, and there was no way that I was going to sit and freeze just to watch a bunch of seven-year-old kids skate. I finished setting the table by myself, and everybody sat down to eat.
“What’s for supper,” I asked Mom as she set a pot on the table.
“Mystery casserole,” she replied with a wink.
“Oh, great,” I mumbled. Mystery casserole was what Mom made when she was in a hurry and threw leftovers into a dish and baked it.
“We have to hurry tonight,” Dad said. “Laura has to be at the ice show in an hour. Are you coming with us, Son?”
“No,” I answered. “I already have other plans.”
“Fine,” Mom said. “You do what you think is important.”
I hate it when my mom says stuff like that. She makes me feel like I’m doing the wrong thing at the same time that she says to go ahead and do what I want. Besides, I’ve already spent the best years of my life watching Laura.
It all started when Mom began working part-time and I had to begin baby-sitting full-time. I gave Laura her snacks when I got home from school and her breakfast early Saturday morning, a real sacrifice on my part. I helped her put on her clothes and carted her around on my bicycle to baseball games. I even took her to one of my Boy Scout meetings. Then there had been that summer when Roger had invited me to go camping at the lake with his family for two whole weeks! Did I get to go? No! I had to watch Laura because Mom couldn’t find anyone else to do it. I had to stay home and build baby puzzles with Laura and help her tie her shoes. I had definitely gone above and beyond the call of duty as far as Laura was concerned.
Of course, I had been reimbursed for baby-sitting, and I liked Laura—most of the time. She was OK for a sister, but enough was enough.
The first game I bowled was lousy; I didn’t even break one hundred. The guys razzed me and asked me if I needed a handicap. I blamed it on the bowling ball and went to pick out a different one. I didn’t do much better the next game. I couldn’t seem to concentrate. Instead, I kept watching the clock. I knew that the skating show would be starting in thirty minutes, and I wondered if Laura would be skating first.
“Come on, Michael,” Roger said. “You’re up.”
I picked up my ball and carefully stood in our lane, mentally counting my steps: One, two, three. I stepped forward and rolled the ball—right into the gutter.
The guys laughed. They thought that it was hilarious, and I knew that I’d be hearing about this game for the next week, at least. I looked up at the clock again. The ice show started in fifteen minutes. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care and that I was just having an off night bowling. Then I told the guys that I had to leave and go to my sister’s ice show.
They said that I was lucky that I didn’t have to finish my game, because I’d set a new world record for the worst game ever bowled.
The ice arena was cold. I pulled my hat over my ears and stuffed my hands into my pockets. The place was packed, and I gave up looking for Mom and Dad. I found an empty seat by the door where all the skaters stepped out onto the ice.
Laura was easy to pick out in her tawny lion costume. I cheered extra loudly for her and held my breath while she did her loops and one last spin. She had almost finished when her skate tip caught the ice and she went down in a heap. She leaped up quickly and kept going like a real trooper, but I could see that her shoulders were sagging.
I waited by the dressing room door after the show, and she came out with her skates draped over her shoulder and her lion whiskers dangling crookedly.
“Did you see me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You did a great job.”
“I fell.”
“You got back up,” I told her, “and that’s what counts. Just wait till next year—you’ll be leaping through the air! I can tell.”
“I’m glad that you came,” Laura said, and she grabbed my hand.
“Of course I came,” I told her. “I couldn’t let you skate without your own private cheering section.”

Nearly all of those 87 widows are gone now, but their “bishop” kept visiting them to the end. One night during the Christmas holidays some years ago, President Monson was making his customary rounds to “his” widows, leaving gifts purchased from his own pocket, including plump dressed chickens that were, in the early years, raised in his own coops. In one of the many Salt Lake City rest homes he has come to know so intimately, he found one of his ward members, alone and silent in the darkened room of a world made even darker by the onset of blindness. As President Monson made his way to this sweet sister’s side, she reached out awkwardly, groping for the hand of the only visitor she had received in the whole of the Christmas season. “Bishop, is that you?” she inquired.
“Yes, dear Hattie, it is I.”
“Oh, Bishop,” she wept through sightless eyes, “I knew you would come.”
They all knew he would come, and he always did.

A few months later, my teammates on the Dixie State College debate team and I boarded a 15-passenger van, heading to the regional tournament in Casper, Wyoming, hundreds of miles away. After a stop for dinner, I had the backseat of the van all to myself. It was the perfect place to get extra sleep to be ready for the next day’s competition. Of course, by lying down I wouldn’t be able to wear a seat belt.
I was nearly asleep, when suddenly the Spirit reminded me of a conversation I had had with Johnny earlier in the week. As I drove Johnny and his father home from our house, he told me, “Remember to buckle your seat belt. I wish I had.”
At first, I thought I was just being paranoid. But the words kept coming into my mind, over and over, urging me to buckle up.
Finally, I listened. I buckled myself in and unsuccessfully tried to sleep. Meanwhile, we had entered a late-winter blizzard. As we made our descent into Casper, our van hit a patch of black ice, spun, went off the road, and rolled.
The next thing I remembered was waking up spitting mud and glass and wondering why I was suspended in midair. My seat belt had held me in place and saved me from being thrown from the vehicle. Fortunately, everyone in the van had been buckled in, and only two were slightly injured.
I am grateful on a night when I needed some sleep to get ready for a busy day that I was able to listen to the voice of the Spirit. I’m grateful I heeded that warning.

I joined the Church in May 2009. Since then I have quickly come to value the blessings that come from consistently attending family home evening. One memorable experience occurred when our young single adult ward played “chair soccer,” a variation of indoor soccer, in the cultural hall of a local meetinghouse. The point was to defend your chair while attacking other people’s with a rubber ball. I formed an alliance with two other players; by the end we were the only three still in the game, and we promptly turned on each other. Instead of getting upset about it, we couldn’t stop laughing! It was the most fun I have had in ages, and I know that I would be hard pressed to find an experience like that anywhere outside of the Church. Everyone was having a great time, even if he or she didn’t win, but that’s not what made the experience special to me. What really made it memorable was the spirit of friendship I felt at the activity.
Moments like this help me lighten the overwhelming stress of graduate school. No matter how the week has gone, I know that I will always feel better if I go to family home evening. I may not always be thrilled about the activity and I may not always want to take the time, but I never regret going.
Matt Adams, Nebraska, USA

They’ll tell you about the area’s religious climate and how it once turned chilly. Ideologically speaking, Welch and Pineville are located somewhere near the buckle of the Bible Belt. There’s a church on almost every block. Families can trace their membership in one congregation or another back for generations. These devout neighbors have sometimes had a little trouble accepting the Christian credentials of the Latter-day Saints.
A couple of years ago an anti-Mormon group sprang up in the area, preaching against the Church over the radio and in local congregations. The members responded with an unusual tactic—love. Instead of arguing, they showed increased friendship for their detractors. Instead of boycotting the businesses of these people, they went out of their way to patronize them. They prayed sincerely for the members of the group, both in meetings and privately. They came to dearly love their critics, because the branch had never been more united. As for the opposition group, it melted away without a trace, and some of the Church’s bitterest enemies became its friends.

Zavannah Vaaulu and Keri Robinson are walking from class. They’re also in the familiar yellow and blue colors of the Church College’s uniforms. When you begin talking to Zavannah and Keri, you notice right away that their friendship resembles Justina and Melinda’s. The fact all four are friends isn’t surprising.
Although Zavannah and Keri aren’t busy growing bacteria, Zavannah, at 14, and Keri, at 15, are also top netball players and members of the Church College’s intermediate school championship team. They take many of the same classes together, they both play the saxophone, and they, too, are in the Apia Fifth Ward. And if you see Keri, you can usually find Zavannah nearby. Keri is usually the one laughing, while Zavannah tends to be a little more serious. While Zavannah is a lifelong Church member, Keri was baptized less than a year ago.
“Keri’s also the better saxophone player,” Zavannah says.
“Yeah, but Zavannah is better at tennis,” says Keri.
The words volley back and forth until Keri talks about her baptism last August. Now it’s her turn to get serious as she talks about Zavannah’s friendship and influence.
“Zavannah kept bugging me to come to church,” Keri says, “She always helped me come to church. She always invited me to Church activities. She wanted me to see how fun it would be. It really has been.”
When asked about her role in helping Keri join the Church, Zavannah starts by saying, “I do feel a certain responsibility.” Then Keri finishes Zavannah’s sentence with “to set an example for Keri.”
They look at each other and start laughing. They spend so much time together that they seem to know what the other is thinking. As they both sit there, Zavannah makes sure Keri knows a little bit more of what she’s thinking.
“I just want [Keri] to be happy the way I am because of the Church. I want her to know the true meaning of happiness is in the gospel, something I’ve come to learn and appreciate.”
Zavannah’s voice trails off, and it suddenly gets very quiet.
It’s been five days since you first met Justina, Melinda, Zavannah, and Keri. Here’s what you know: They’re like girls anywhere in the world. They love to laugh, talk about boys, eat pizza, and play sports.
But when it comes to these four young women, this is what you really know. They’re devoted friends and very serious about the gospel. They help each other and want to see each other’s testimonies grow.
“Some days I have doubts about the Church, and then I look at Melinda and I see her and see how happy she is. It makes me want to be like her,” says Keri.
“And I guess I’ve been pretty lucky because Tina has been like an older sister to me. Melinda and Tina have been some of the best friends I’ve ever had. They give me advice, and just seeing what they do is very helpful,” explains Zavannah.
It’s quiet again, and this time you’re touched by the things they say. You’ve learned a lot about friendships and about them.
Later that day you’re standing on the grounds of the Church College of Western Samoa. It’s bright and sunny in Apia. A warm breeze is blowing off the ocean, and another day of school is over. Students are all going in different directions. But four girls are walking together, and you know why.

I watched Cynthia prance across the playground, followed by three girls who wanted to be popular, like her. Cynthia’s earrings were long and silvery. She wore pink lipstick and bracelets that sounded like chimes.
I had to admit, I was jealous. Cynthia was pretty—and pretty snobby. My friends and I sat on the grass at recess, pointing out every snobby thing she did.
One day, Cynthia wasn’t at school. When I got home, Mom asked, “Do you know Cynthia Harper?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“She had an accident yesterday.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Both of Cynthia’s parents were at work. She forgot her house key, so she tried to open a basement window. She slipped and pushed her arm through the glass.”
I gasped. “Will she be OK?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “She had to have surgery. Mrs. Keller was the one who found her.”
I shuddered thinking about the accident. Then I realized something. “Did you say Mrs. Keller found her?” The Kellers lived on our street.
Mom nodded. “Cynthia’s family lives in the green house.”
I knew Cynthia lived nearby, but I didn’t know she was my neighbor!
The next day, I told my friends about what happened to Cynthia.
“Serves her right,” Caroline said.
I thought about how unhappy Cynthia must be. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “My mom said she’ll have to wear a cast all summer. She’s lucky she can even move her fingers.”
“Sorry,” Caroline mumbled.
After school that day, I went to my room. My eyes fell on a pair of tiny earrings I had gotten for my birthday that I hadn’t worn yet. An idea came to me. Maybe I could give them to Cynthia.
“What are you thinking?” I asked myself. “She doesn’t know you, and she’d never wear earrings like that.”
But before I knew what I was doing, I was carrying a get-well card and the earrings up the street to the green house.
Cynthia’s mom answered the door. “Is Cynthia here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s right here.” Her mom smiled, and I looked inside to see Cynthia sitting on the couch.
“I’m Kim,” I said. “I live up the street.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hi.”
“I heard about what happened, and I hope you feel better soon.” I gave her the card and earrings and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! You are so nice!” she exclaimed.
“Um, are you … feeling better?” I stammered.
Cynthia nodded. “It hurts a little. But I’m OK.” She held out her arm so I could see her pink cast.
“Well, see you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.
I skipped all the way home. I knew I had been brave and that I had done the right thing. But most of all, I knew I had been wrong about Cynthia. She wasn’t snobby—my friends and I had been the snobs.
Cynthia and I didn’t become best friends, but every time we saw each other in the hall or at recess we smiled and said hi. A few weeks later, school ended and I moved away. Knowing I had been wrong about Cynthia helped me not to judge others at my new school. Making friends was easier when I remembered that being nice could start with me.

It started just a little over two years ago. Jason Hardman was ten then, and it was summer. The tulips along the main street of Elsinore, Utah, were only a bright blur of color to Jason as he streaked by them on his bike. He slowed and turned the corner at the post office and then, passing the Cash Store, he started pedaling even faster, moving up toward the town hall. He didn’t want to be late. The sidewalk ended, and he turned his bike onto the deserted street.
It was late in the day. The town was quiet. Nighthawks were sweeping the warm air above the streets for bugs. Jason rode his bike through the long-flung shadows into pools of light so bright and liquid he half expected to splash through them.
As in most small towns there is a kind of quiet eloquence to summer evenings in Elsinore. It’s a good place to be in summer. Just south of town in the thickets of mulberry bushes and Russian olives there are quail, pheasants, jackrabbits, and coyotes. In town there is a ball park, two rock shops, the Eat at Steve’s and Get Gas service station and cafe, and the Cash Store; but two years ago there was no library.
There was no place to check out books telling of pirate Long John Silver and his treasure or of the terrible Captain Ahab’s relentless pursuit of Moby Dick across wild seas. After you’d read all the good books you had at home, there was no place close by to get books to read late at night under warm and safe covers, solving the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie. Agatha Christie mysteries were Jason’s favorite.
The mayor leaned back in his chair. The other members of Elsinore’s town council were smiling as Jason stood in front of them.
“We need a library,” Jason said.
“Nope, not enough money.”
“No place to put it.”
“No one to run it.”
Jason told them they could put the library in one of the unused rooms in the town hall and that it wouldn’t cost much money. They could get people to donate the books. He also told them he would run it. They turned him down again, thinking he would just give up. They didn’t know Jason.
“I knew I could do it. I could get a library started,” Jason says. “I wasn’t about to give up.”
For months he kept asking and the mayor and council kept saying no, but finally either the mayor and the city council wore down or they became convinced Jason could get a library started. They gave him permission to use a room in the basement of the town hall. They offered him no money or assistance. If there was going to be a library, it would be up to Jason.
“Maybe he will look at the room we gave him and give up.”
The city hall was in a restored grade school and the basement was in bad shape. Jason, his family, and several friends had to scrub the floor with wire brushes. The walls and ceilings had to be thoroughly cleaned. Lights had to be found. Shelves had to be built.
“I couldn’t have done it without my family,” says Jason. “I couldn’t have built the bookshelves without my father’s help. I can’t run a power saw.”
After hundreds of hours of work, the room was ready. Now the library needed books.
“You can tackle almost any project you want to,” Jason says. “You just let your imagination go, and then you do it. No matter what happens, do not give up.”
Jason started looking for books. He went from door to door asking friends and neighbors if they had any old books they didn’t need. If it was too far for him to walk he called on the phone. Over 2,000 books were donated. The library opened.
That was when Jason almost gave up.
“I got very discouraged,” he recalls. “My hours were six to nine, and no one was coming in.”
It was winter then, and he didn’t need the library to get books for himself. He could check out books from his school library. He went to school in another town five miles from Elsinore.
“I wanted to quit, but my parents wouldn’t let me,” Jason says. “They said, ‘you started it; you stick with it.’ So I did. I spent a lot of time alone in there.”
Jason let his imagination go again. He knew if his library was to succeed he had to get more books, good books, books people would want to read. He called and wrote to anyone he could think of that might help. A few more books came in, but not enough. He wrote to politicians, to publishers, and even to other libraries.
Then a small newspaper in a neighboring town, the Richfield Reaper, ran an article about Jason and his library. The story was printed in the Salt Lake Tribune, and it was then picked up by the Associated Press. Jason became national news. Everyone wanted to know about the youngest librarian in the country. Articles about Jason and his library were published in dozens of national magazines. When he received a call from a man asking him if he wanted to appear on Johnny Carson’s “Tonight Show” he said, “Who is this really?”
Jason told his story on the “Tonight Show” and on several other television shows. He was also asked to testify before a congressional hearing on rural libraries. He told them of the need for libraries and of the problems he had getting his started. The committee members promised to help Jason in any way they could.
People from all over the country began donating books. Jason received up to a hundred books in one day for his library. With the publicity and the new books, more people are coming into Jason’s library. It has become quite a popular place.
What now?
Jason is sorting and indexing his books, writing thank-you notes to donors, and making plans to improve the library. He talks about getting a computer, better shelves, improving the genealogical section, building a ramp (it’s hard for older people to walk down the stairs), and even of a new building for the library.
A new building?
That’s a big project for a 12-year-old, but who knows, even the Elsinore town council takes Jason seriously now when he starts talking about wanting to do something.