Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago, my family and I lived in Veracruz, Mexico, where my children attended elementary school. Each morning as I helped my three children get ready for school, we listened to the radio—the most popular station in the city—with a very pleasant program conducted by a young male radio announcer.
We began hearing a very catchy song. As I started paying closer attention to the lyrics, I realized that the things it said, though not vulgar, were suggestive and crude.
I said determinedly to my children, “We cannot listen to this type of language.” Perhaps they didn’t even pay attention to the lyrics of the song, but they did pay enough attention to be humming its tune.
They saw me turn off the volume on the stereo system and asked me what I was doing. “I am going to tell the radio announcer to take that song off the program.” Their astonishment encouraged me to take further action.
They couldn’t believe it and neither could I, but I picked up the telephone and called the radio station. I didn’t expect to get an answer, but to my surprise, the same radio announcer we had just heard on the show answered my call almost immediately.
I told him that I didn’t agree with listening to that song, since many families tuned in to the radio at that time in the morning. He asked me what I would suggest he replace it with, but his demeanor was so well-mannered that I asked only that he not play that song during the time when the children were at home.
I never found out if my call was on the air, but I was just grateful that the radio announcer had listened. And for the next few days, I could tell that my request had been granted.
That experience affirmed to me that we should be courageous when it is in our hands to make decisions and do what is necessary to protect our children from negative influences. As we do so, the Holy Ghost can continue being our constant companion.

Sister Elesha Angie Joseph McCaurley had reached the end of her pregnancy. Her daughter had already found a name for her little sister, and her husband was anxious to have a baby girl. Everyone took it very hard when the baby was stillborn.
“My husband is not a member and I have not been active for very long,” Sister Joseph said; so, trying to explain to her husband about attending the temple after such a recent loss was an interesting conversation in which her husband showed full support.
Hoping to baptize his baby, she had to explain that it was not necessary, because “all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven.”1
However, an opportunity had arisen. “I’d like to be sealed,” Sister Joseph said. “When you get back, we’ll talk about it,” the husband replied. Sister Joseph visited the Santo Domingo Temple for the first time and returned home visibly excited.
Under the influence of the Holy Ghost and with tears of joy, she performed temple ordinances for herself and her two grandmothers, whom she loved deeply. This was not only her experience, but of two other sisters from St. Lucia, whose testimony was influenced by a desire to be an example to their sisters and children.
The Relief Society has always shown great interest in the progress of its members and in allowing the women of the Church to reach their greatest potential. As the Prophet Joseph Smith declared: “I now turn the key to you in the name of God and this Society shall rejoice and knowledge and intelligence shall flow down from this time—this is the beginning of better days to this Society.”2
“Being a single mother is difficult,” shares Sister Caren Wendy Constance Kennedy, a mother of two children, one fifteen years old and one thirty years old. “You have to become a force of nature to them.”
“I love the Lord. He is paramount in my life, and I will take the necessary steps to do the right thing. We all struggle to follow the right path, but it is a choice,” says Sister Constance, convinced that we must be committed to walk the covenant path. After attending the temple, she shared that she is stronger than ever. “As I watched the baptism on behalf of my deceased brother being performed, I felt chills of joy, I was happy,” she said.
The temple was no less impactful in the life of Sister Juliana E. St. Louis, first counselor of the Relief Society in St. Lucia, and a single mother of a twenty-two-year-old son. She never thought that her life would be changed forever when she wondered who those young men carrying boxes of food to people were.
“I fell in love with the Book of Mormon. I’ve read it over and over and over again,” says Sister St. Louis. Worship meetings provided her with another great impression of the Church. “People don’t know you and they embrace you. Now, coming to the temple has changed my life, my attitude. It has given me peace and, I can’t explain the feeling, the calmness one feels,” she says.

One day I went with my family to watch a rugby game in a school field. I saw an elderly woman walking around, looking for a restroom. I went over, took her hand, and guided her to the restroom. I waited by the door until she came out. She was so pleased with my help, and thanked me. She asked me my name, and I told her, “Charity.” She smiled and said, “You sure act like your name.” I felt really good that day, and I continue to try to find ways I can help others.

Let me tell you one student’s story. In 1997 Alicia’s family moved to Jerusalem as a result of her father’s assignment to teach at the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. While there she had the opportunity to travel to Jordan and attend church meetings with the members of the Amman Branch. She was frustrated that she could not speak with them and vowed that she would learn Arabic. True to her word, she enrolled in Arabic 101 the first semester of her freshman year here.

Like many students Alicia found Arabic challenging, but she pushed on, looking forward to returning to Jerusalem in January of 2001 to participate in our winter/spring intensive Arabic program. Less than three months before our scheduled departure, violence broke out in Jerusalem and quickly spun out of control. No students have been sent to Jerusalem since. As a result of remarkable prior events, however, our students ended up spending winter semester in Syria, a land where few Americans go.

Once in Damascus, the students applied themselves to learning Arabic. With the help of excellent teachers and good friends they gradually acquired facility in the language. Syrians are particularly proud of their language and were deeply impressed to see Americans striving to learn it. Thousands, if not millions, came to know about our students, who were regularly featured on radio and TV and in newspapers. Everywhere the students went, people recognized them.

All of the students spent time serving in the community. Of one such experience Alicia wrote in her journal:

This morning before classes we did service at the handicapped school again. As we entered the gates, as with all other mornings, about 20 or so little Down syndrome kids raced toward us with huge smiles and outstretched arms. We began the routine of the morning with exercises and the national anthem of Syria and then went off to class. As we filed away to classes I was pulled away by a messenger who had been sent to tell me that the director of the school wanted to see me. I followed her to a room where the director and other administrators were anxiously waiting. . . . The principal informed me that their school was to participate in a Mother’s Day program where numerous government officials would be in attendance. He asked if I knew any children’s songs about mothers that the children could perform. . . . All that I had to draw from were the Primary songs of the Church that I had learned and sung to my mother as a child.

“Yes, I know some Mother’s Day songs,” I replied.

“Good. Will you sing one for us?” he asked.

I was startled. They all sat quietly and waited for the impromptu performance. I motioned to my colleague across the hall to come join me. Then she and I stood and sang. With no practice or prior notice we sang our hearts out. And as we did so, I felt certain that our voices were amplified by the power of heaven. We sang with the voices of angels resonating through the stone-arched walkways of this little school. A spirit of peace descended upon all present. At the close of our performance the director complimented us and asked if we would teach our songs to the children to perform on Mother’s Day. We accepted and went to work. For months we practiced, and finally the day of performance arrived.

As we waited for our turn to perform, we watched the performance of other schools. Instead of the sweet love-filled holiday I had expected, this had played out instead to be a political rally. Mothers and children, infuriated by their separation from one another by the Israeli occupation of the Golan, chanted out calls of war and pledges to reclaim what had been taken from them.

The children walked on stage with guns, flags, and signs of protest. The listening crowd cheered. I began to panic, realizing that it was almost our turn to perform. What we had to offer was such a contrast to what had been presented thus far. Yet there was nothing to do but to simply go on and pray that all would go well. . . . We stood on stage and . . . thanked God in heaven for sending us to our dear mothers. We sang of goodness, light, and peace. . . . A silence fell on the crowd, and for a brief moment the anguish and hate were lifted.

All in attendance felt of the peace that emanated from our simple Primary songs. Though it was just a Mother’s Day program, for me it was a grand experience. During this performance I came to understand a portion of the pain that these Syrians had experienced, and through our songs we offered to them the healing balm of the Spirit and peace. A bridge of understanding had been built between us, and our message to each other was burned into each others’ hearts.

In April our group spent a few days visiting Lebanon. We met with the Beirut Branch for church meetings. The room that serves as the chapel was filled to overflowing. The students were thrilled to hear (and understand!) talks given in Arabic and to participate in Sunday School. In a combined priesthood/Relief Society meeting, Nabil Assouad, the branch president, spoke for a few minutes and then turned the time over to the students to share their testimonies. One after another they rose and bore testimony. The Spirit was powerfully present. Alicia spoke of how she had prayed in her first visit to the Amman branch that she would be able to learn Arabic and participate in the meetings. She wept as she thanked God.

After the meetings and after some delicious food provided by the members, students and members got to know each other better. Both the Lebanese Saints and the students were hungry for each other’s company, the Beirut Branch being small and the students having had little or no contact with other members of the Church. The students had also missed having access to a piano, so one student soon began playing hymns and Primary songs. A number of students began to sing along. Other students and local members pulled up chairs to listen. Later that day I wrote in my journal, “I was very touched at the sight. Here we were, in Beirut, symbol [for the West] of all that’s gone wrong in the region, but we were united in love and peace, praising God.”

We returned to Damascus to participate in a symposium on Islamic philosophy jointly sponsored by Damascus University and BYU. Syrian professors, students, dignitaries, and media representatives packed the large room and stood in the hall as President Bateman emphasized the common values and the deep faith in God that the Syrian people and the Latter-day Saints share. Dr. Mouaffak Daaboul, academic vice president of the University of Damascus, opened the conference by expressing his admiration for BYU and for the Church and its members, recounting personal details of his visit to Utah to attend the Conference on the Family. He reflected on memories of a family home evening here that, left him deeply touched. He concluded his talk by expressing his love for the BYU students and then reading from letters that they had written in Arabic to the president of Syria about their experiences.

One student had written, “What surprised me was the friendliness of the Syrians—in my view the Syrians are the gentlest nation I have ever met. Syrians always have the time to sit and talk with us. People are the most important thing in their lives.” Dr. Daaboul concluded his remarks by holding the students up as an ideal for all to emulate in order to build bridges of understanding between the peoples of the world.

A few days later the students bid farewell to Syria, some to return to the U.S. and others to continue on for additional study in Jordan, Egypt, Morocco, and Spain. In each of the three branches of the Church in Jordan the students presented special programs. Returning to Amman meant that Alicia had come full circle and was finally able to communicate with the Saints there. Members and their friends thrilled to mingle with young American members who spoke their language and valued their culture. One of the senior missionaries serving there told me that the students accomplished more in a few days than he would in 18 months. We went on to similar experiences with the Saints in Cairo. Many of the students commented that these opportunities to strengthen Arab members of the Church were the high point of their Study Abroad experience.

Our students returned home just two months before the tragic events of September 11. I am convinced that they were sent to Damascus and other places by a loving Father in Heaven who knows all things. They softened many hearts, and their hearts were filled with love and understanding. Individuals can make a critical difference in the course of history. I believe that the world is a better place and that it will be a better place because of what these students and others have done, what they are doing, and what they will yet do. Many of them are or will be in positions of responsibility that will allow them to be a force for good, for peace, for understanding. They will likely make an even greater contribution through their children.

Weeks after her return to the U.S., Alicia left to serve in the Singapore Mission, from which she returned in January. She recently wrote me:

For the first year of my mission I served among the Muslim people in countries ruled by Islamic governments. Although we were not generally permitted to teach Muslims, there were numerous occasions where I had opportunities to build bridges. . . . I attended several Islamic conferences and was able to speak with the conference participants (often in Arabic) and tell them of my experiences in Jerusalem, Syria, and other places. . . . They were interested in our Study Abroad program. They were interested in my love for the Muslim people and expressed a desire for future programs to their countries so that students will likewise come to understand and love them as I do the people of Syria. I was daunted by the fact that I would be the sole representative there. However, I was comforted by remembering that the Lord had prepared me through experiences such as the Islamic Translation Series Conference in Damascus, where I, with the other students, was able to represent our student program and answer questions that I would later be asked again as I stood on my own in Malaysia. I have no doubt that those experiences were in the plan of the Lord and that He prepared me for them.

While on assignment for the Church magazines in Taiwan, I was traveling with an interpreter and a driver. Though I still had hours of work to do, my interpreter needed to leave me alone with the driver, who didn’t speak any English. There was no way I could finish my work without being able to communicate with the driver. As they discussed options, my interpreter began to laugh. He explained that the driver spoke Spanish, which he knew I had learned on my mission. The driver and I had a great time together, and I finished my work without any problem.
This was no dramatic healing or moving of a mountain. But it was divine intervention that my driver was one of the relatively few people in Taiwan who spoke Spanish.

Due to misunderstandings by persons who did not want The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints established in Ghana, the Church was banned. On June 14, 1989, the government of Ghana suspended all activities of the Church. The members of the Church faithfully ministered to one another. They did not assemble at meetinghouses, neither did they raise their voices to their Lord, but just like the people of Alma who were persecuted by Amulon they, “did pour out their hearts to him”3. The Savior, through the still small voice, asked these faithful, committed, covenant keeping members to wait and watch, and continue on the covenant path. The voice of the Lord came to them through their afflictions; “lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage”.4
On November 29, 1990, after a period of 18 months, the freeze was lifted and the Church could continue as it did before. The members who were “anxiously engaged in a good cause, and [doing] many things of their own free will, and [bringing] to pass much righteousness”5, found joy in the 18-month journey rather than anticipating the arrival.

The sun was just appearing above the edge of the mesa as Grandmother arose and began stirring up the banked coals in her cookstove. Hannah reluctantly rolled out of her warm quilts and hurriedly dressed. She knew that Grandmother expected her help. Grandmother was anxious to finish breakfast early this morning so the old fire could be put out before the day’s activities began, for today was the final day of the Wuwuchim ceremony—the Hopi New Year. Grandmother put a shawl over her shoulders, picked up her coal bucket, and stepped out into the cold winter morning. When Hannah ran out to help, the only signs of life she could see in the entire village were an old woman carrying two pails of water up the steep trail from the spring below the mesa and a young boy listlessly chopping wood. In the background she could hear the chanting from the kiva (round ceremonial structure).
For the past several days the mornings had been alive with the sounds of corn being ground, wood being chopped, and women busy with their children. Hannah had spent a full day with Grandmother preparing the blue cornmeal on the grinding stones, gradually making it finer and finer. Another full day had been spent on their knees in the peekee house bending over the hot peekee stone to make the blue cornmeal paper-bread. Then just yesterday Grandfather had brought fresh mutton. Hannah and Grandmother had prepared a stew with it. Water had been carried and wood had been chopped so that everything would be in readiness. Soon now everyone would put out their old fires.
When Hannah and her grandmother stepped back inside the house with the coal, Grandfather was sitting by the dwindling fire weaving a ceremonial sash. Although he had once been a kiva priest, he had not been inside a kiva for two years. Hannah knew he was not making the sash for himself. He would sell it to the trading post at Oraibi. Grandfather never seemed to miss the old ways. He kept asking Grandmother why she bothered to make all the preparations for Wuwuchim. Her reply was always, “Perhaps this year it will be different.”
As soon as breakfast was cleared up and the old fire put out, the family settled back to wait, listening to the chanting from the kivas. The priests had been inside them for days, chanting prayers that the Six-point-cloud People would look with favor on the village during the coming year.
About noontime two lady missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints walked over from their house in the center of the mesa. Hannah knew they had been unable to hold meetings with anyone for two or three days, for everyone had been too busy with their celebration preparations. The sisters had visited them the day they made peekee, and Grandmother had tried to teach them how, but their hands were not toughened and they soon had blisters from the hot stone.
Suddenly the chanting stopped! Runners began emerging from the kiva of the Masuaa (Fire) Clan, bearing torches lighted from the New Fire in the kiva. The new year began with the lighting of the New Fire in all the homes.
Hannah stood expectantly in the doorway with Grandmother, watching the progression of the runners from house to house. The two lady missionaries stood curiously beside them, but Grandfather did not lift his head from his weaving. The runners passed in front of their door. One hesitated a moment as though he wanted to go in, but went on instead to the next house. Tears welled up in Hannah’s eyes. “It isn’t different,” she said bitterly.
It had been this way ever since they had become Momonas (Mormons). When the missionaries first came to the mesas, nobody listened to them except Grandfather, Grandmother, and Hannah. They looked forward to the visits of the missionaries and their stories from the Book of Mormon. From the beginning the family had believed that the Book of Mormon was their book, but the decision to be baptized was not an easy one.
All of the neighbors had criticized them for entertaining the bahawnas (white people). But when they began seriously to think of baptism, the villagers accused them of deserting the Hopi way—a way of life that had served the Peaceful People well for centuries. Men from Grandfather’s kiva came to warn against displeasing the Six-point-cloud People and disrupting the harmony of nature, but he would not give in. He was truly converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Without his strength Hannah knew that she and Grandmother might have weakened, but after Grandfather made his decision he never looked back.
Hannah couldn’t help feeling that it had been easier for him than for her and Grandmother. Every morning from planting time on, he rode his burro down off the mesa to his dry farm. He also took his turn herding the village sheep. Always the men of the village treated him with respect. She and Grandmother usually received no such treatment. Each day when they went to the waffle gardens perched on the side of the mesa to water their little plot of chili peppers and beans, they met the women and girls of the village carrying water to their vegetables. The girls giggled and called out, “Momona!” and the women made derisive remarks.
That summer Hannah had not been asked to participate in the butterfly dance with the other girls of her clan. And at the first Wuwuchim after their baptism, the fire runners ignored them and passed by their home.
However, there had been a few changes for the better during the two years since their baptism. Now many people listened to the missionaries and came to Sunday School. The lady missionaries held Primary for the children and many of Hannah’s friends attended. They also had been teaching the women how to make quilts. Although no one else had been baptized, Hannah, like Grandmother, believed that this Wuwuchim would be different. But it isn’t going to be, she decided, and that still hurts.
Dancers were coming now from each of the kivas to dance on the plaza. Hannah and the missionaries walked down to watch. Visitors from other mesas were there, and people who had left the mesas to work had returned to celebrate with their own people. It was a joyous time of reunion, a time to laugh and mingle with friends and relatives.
Gifts of food were exchanged between clans. Women carried baskets heaped with rolls of peekee and white biscuits. Grandmother had left her gifts of food at home on the kitchen table. Everyone in the village would know that their home had been passed by again and that their gifts would not be acceptable. Hannah was sure Grandmother would send the food home with the lady missionaries.
When the dancing was over, everyone went to his own home or the home of a fellow clan member to enjoy the mutton stew, warmed over the New Fire and served with peekee and biscuits. Hannah and her grandparents walked home with their guests to partake of the feast that had been in the making during the past few days.
Going to the stove, Grandmother struck an ordinary kitchen match to light the New Fire. She laughed as she looked at the small flame. “Hannah,” she said, “the kiva fire means no more than this kitchen match I hold in my hand!”
Then Hannah watched as Grandmother put the match to the tinder, the small flame taking hold and growing into a roaring fire. She looked across the table at Grandfather. The two old people had given up many of the habits and practices of a lifetime and willingly chosen a better way. Deep inside, Grandmother’s words glowed again and grew stronger. The kiva fire means no more than the kitchen match!
A new understanding like a spark took hold, and her whole being seemed to burn. I was wrong, she thought. This year is different.
No runner came from the kiva bearing a lighted torch, but a new fire seemed to flame within Hannah, a fire that would light her whole life. The Lord has promised that someday everyone will understand, she thought. What a bright and happy time that will be!

When I was in junior high, I had a couple of good friends who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: Suzy and Dene. Travel back in your mind to your junior high experiences. I don’t know about you, but my wonderful group of friends sometimes had ill feelings toward each other for seemingly minor slights that seemed huge at the time. During one of these times, I observed Suzy and Dene acting as the peacemakers in our group. They worked together in healing a rift between two good friends, even quoting Christ’s words in Matthew 18:22 to forgive “seventy times seven.” I remembered that experience. Fast forward to ten years later, when I was receiving the missionary discussions. This memory of Suzy and Dene flooded into my mind. Their actions as thirteen-year-old girls influenced my decision to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And they had no idea of their powerful influence in my life until many years later when I could thank them.

Most young people wonder what it would be like to actually sit at the controls of a rocket hurtling toward outer space. At the National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama, some young folks actually get to have an experience very close to that.
Justin Rich, 14, of the Layton 34th Ward, Layton Utah North Stake, and Joana Canals, 14, of the Hunter 5th Ward, Salt Lake Hunter East Stake, had that opportunity when they were accepted to the 1986 Space Camp, a five-day course that simulates the training received by astronauts. While in Huntsville, they learned about computers, gravity chambers, working with mechanical arms, and, under simulated conditions, about how to float and walk in space.
After three days of preparation and training, Justin and Joana donned space suits and participated in two simulated launchings and flights of the Spacelab module.
“I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut,” said Justin, who operated a robotic arm and conducted experiments similar to those performed by astronauts and scientists in space.
Joana, in one of her assignments as weather and tracking specialist for the ground control team, monitored weather conditions and kept track of the orbiter’s position during one of its flights.
Not only did Justin and Joana gain new insights and knowledge during their stay at Space Camp, they found themselves with many new friends. “Knowing other people had the same interests and making lots of new friends” was one of the best parts of camp, said Joana.

The second counselor spoke first. He talked about his childhood in a small town and how he made the extra efforts to befriend a boy who had been rejected by all the other children at school. He told us how, twenty years later, that friendless boy, now a successful man, came to him and thanked him for his kindness. He concluded his talk by quoting a scripture about the worth of souls and bearing his testimony of the gospel.

April 29, 1957
Today I knelt across from James in the Lord’s holy temple. I have prayed for this moment for many years. I am thankful to know that we can be eternal companions. Words cannot express even the smallest portion of the joy and love I felt from Heavenly Father.
When they brought in our daughters all dressed in white, tears fell freely from my eyes. Kneeling together and being sealed as a family was the most important moment of my life. I am grateful for the knowledge that if I live the teachings of the gospel, I can have these precious daughters throughout eternity.

During my freshman year of college, my eyes were opened to the fact that my life as a student would not be as sheltered as before. Nor would what I held dear be accepted.
I found that I stuck out like a sore thumb when I refused to engage in activities that I knew would harm me physically or harm my relationship with Heavenly Father. However, I feared criticism for being a member of the Church and therefore avoided the topic.
One day in an afternoon class, the professor was leading a discussion on how youth develop amid constant discrimination. A girl behind me replied that the discussion made her think of Mormons. I cringed because when the Church was brought up in a class, inappropriate comments usually followed.
As I braced myself for derogatory statements, the teacher asked if any Latter-day Saints were in the class. Stunned at the inquiry, I scanned the room only to find everyone else doing the same. Before I could think twice, my hand was rising from its comfortable position on the desk. I heard an eruption of whispers from across the room.
“One,” the teacher said. The word rang in my ears. After a long silence, I was asked to respond to the debate regarding whether Latter-day Saints are Christians. I was no stranger to the question and was prepared to answer.
“‘We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, [and] we preach of Christ’” (2 Nephi 25:26), I confidently replied. “We are indeed Christian.”
The whispering ceased, but I felt everyone staring at me. I thought I would feel alone. Instead, I felt as if the Savior had sat down next to me and put His hand in mine. Nothing else mattered, for I was filled with joy that strengthened my testimony of Him. I had defended my faith.
I shared more with the class about why Latter-day Saints are Christians. Then I thought of the time President Thomas S. Monson shared the gospel on a bus ride. From this experience he encouraged members to “be courageous and prepared to stand for what we believe.”1 As I thought of his words, I realized I had done the thing I was most afraid to do.
I do not know whether the things I said changed anybody’s opinion of the Church, but we need not fear to stand up and share the gospel—wherever we are. Even if we do not bless anybody else, we will always strengthen our testimony and our relationship with Heavenly Father.

“Late again,” Mother sighed as she loaded Kelly, Maggie, and baby Grant into the car. As they drove to church, six-year-old Kelly glanced at Mom. She could always tell how well her new baby brother had slept the night before by how tired Mom looked in the morning. Kelly could see that Grant had not slept well last night. And Kelly could see from Mother’s wrinkled brow that she didn’t feel very happy.
Several Sundays in a row, Kelly and her family had been late for church. Dad always had an early meeting there on Sunday mornings, so Mom was alone to feed the children breakfast, clean up the dishes, pack a snack for Maggie, dress the children and herself, fix their hair, and drive to church. Sometimes things went smoothly and they arrived before sacrament meeting began. But lately Sunday mornings seemed to be a problem. …
One morning Grant had spit up just as they were about to leave, and Mom had had to change all his clothes. Another morning two-year-old Maggie couldn’t find her lacy slip and had refused to wear the plain one. It took Kelly and Mom a long time to find the lacy slip on a teddy bear in Maggie’s toy box. Last week they’d driven down the street on the way to church and had had to turn back because Mom remembered that she hadn’t packed Maggie’s snack for nursery.
Today Kelly herself had been so excited about her new tights that she had carried the package around with her all morning. But when it was time to get dressed, she couldn’t find the tights. She and her mother searched all over the house before finally finding the package under Kelly’s bedspread.
During the ride this morning, Mom was quiet. Usually she hummed a few notes of a Primary song and asked the girls if they knew which one it was. Then they’d sing the whole song. Maggie’s favorite was “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” because she was almost a Sunbeam. Kelly’s favorite was “On a Golden Springtime,” and Mom’s was “When I Go to Church.” Kelly quietly began to sing, “I always have a happy feeling when I go to church. The organ plays so soft and sweet. …” She stopped when Mom just smiled but didn’t join in. Kelly looked out the car window and noticed all the beautiful spring colors. “Wow, Mom! Look at that bright yellow bush!” Her mother softly said, “Oh!”
In Sharing Time that day, Sister McPhee, the Primary president, talked about being peacemakers. She said that children help bring peaceful, happy feelings to their homes and classes when they help to solve problems. She challenged the children to be peacemakers by becoming problem solvers. Kelly thought about Sunday mornings. Can I help solve our Sunday morning problem? she wondered.
That night after Mom and Dad tucked her into bed, Kelly lay quietly thinking about the day. It had turned out great. In her Primary class, she was chosen to help Brother Bookstaber by holding up pictures as he told a story. After church, her whole family went on a long walk; they all oohed and aahed over the crocuses and the forsythia bushes in people’s yards. Then she and Maggie helped Dad gather a few pussy willows in their own backyard to mail in a tall, narrow box to Grandma. After dinner, their friends the Naganos came over, and Kelly helped her mother serve dessert. It was Kelly’s favorite—warm apple crisp and vanilla ice cream. It had been a great day—except for the morning. As she remembered how sad Mom had looked on the drive to church, Kelly had an idea. She could hardly wait for the next Sunday.
When Kelly woke up Sunday morning, she didn’t go downstairs and play with her kitty as she usually did. She quickly made her bed, went to her closet, and took out her Sunday dress. She hopped to the dresser and took out her slip, her tights, and her Sunday shoes and placed them all on her bed.
Next she went to Maggie’s room. She found her sister’s dress, tights, and shoes quickly, but Maggie’s lacy slip was not in her dresser drawers or in her closet. Kelly looked under Maggie’s bed and in the laundry hamper. The slip was nowhere to be found. Uh-oh, she thought. Maybe my plan won’t work, after all. Then she remembered that Maggie had been playing dress-up a few days before. Kelly ran to the dress-up basket, and there was her sister’s slip! Kelly quickly made Maggie’s bed and carefully laid out her Sunday clothes.
As Kelly went downstairs, she heard Mom in the shower. Kelly quickly found Maggie’s lunch box and placed an apple, a few crackers, and a juice box inside, then placed the lunch box on the counter.
When she finished her breakfast, she stayed in the kitchen and carried the dishes to the sink while Mom finished feeding Grant. Then Mom noticed the lunch box. She was surprised to open it and see a snack already inside. “I guess Dad made Maggie’s snack before he left,” she said. Kelly just smiled.
After Mom cleaned up Grant, she said, “Girls, it’s time to get dressed. Please run upstairs now.”
Kelly grabbed her sister’s hand and said, “I’ll race you upstairs!”
The girls dashed upstairs, and Mom followed. She looked in amazement at Maggie’s bed. “Why, who in the world made your bed? And who set out your clothes?” When she walked into Kelly’s room and saw her buckling her shoes, dressed and ready, she put the baby down and threw her arms around Kelly. “Oh, Kelly! Dad didn’t make a snack for Maggie—you did! And you cleaned the dirty dishes from the table and made the beds and set out the clothes. Thank you, sweetheart! Today will be the first Sunday in a long while that we’ll get to church on time. Thank you.” She squeezed Kelly again.
On the drive to church, Mom exclaimed, “Look, girls! Have you ever seen such beautiful spring flowers!” Kelly felt warm all over as Mom began to hum, “When I Go to Church.”

This summer my family went on vacation to California. On the way we stayed overnight at a motel with a swimming pool. We went swimming for a while, then got out. Later my two sisters and I decided we wanted to swim some more. We dressed in our swimming suits and went back to the pool. Near the pool we saw a sign that said the pool was closed. We talked about what we should do. I remembered what I had learned in Primary and told my two sisters, “We should choose the right.” We decided to obey the sign and not go swimming. The next morning after breakfast we went swimming again.

Let me return to that day I learned of my step-sister’s death. Upon returning to my cabin, a friend from church, who I would later learn was my visiting teacher, came over. She had been contacted by a mutual friend.

In my grief, I was dismissive. I wanted to be alone. She sat down on my couch. Her facial expression communicated a resolute: “I’m not leaving.” I busied myself with cleaning, dinner, anything to avoid conversation or eye contact. My friend respected my silence. She waited. I worked. After two hours, I sat down on the couch, and my tears flowed. She listened.

She gave the gift of connection. She had worked to be intentional in her choice to involve herself in wholesome recreation, bringing value to another person—ministering to one in need. In a cabin in the solitude of the woods, she helped me re-create. I would go back to work the next day. It would be several days before the funeral. It was bearable. I had been able to renew and to connect.

“It has been my observation,” President Tanner continues,

in interviewing many people throughout the years that far too many people do not have a workable budget and have not disciplined themselves to abide by its provisions. Many people think a budget robs them of their freedom. On the contrary, successful people have learned that a budget makes real economic freedom possible.

Budgeting and financial management need not be overly complicated or time consuming. The story is told of an immigrant father who kept his accounts payable in a shoe box, his accounts receivable on a spindle, and his cash in the cash register.

“I don’t see how you can run your business this way,” said his son. “How do you know what your profit is?”

“Son,” replied the immigrant father, “When I got off the boat, I had only the pants I was wearing. Today your sister is an art teacher, your brother is a doctor, and you’re an accountant. I have a car, a home, and a good business. Everything is paid for. So you add it all up, subtract the pants, and there’s my profit.”

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my brother who saved my life. I can remember that terrible day as if it were yesterday. I love my brother and would do anything to pay him back. I was quite young at the time, but the impact that this experience had on my life will be eternal.
It was a bright, sunny Saturday early in June. We lived in the city in a neighborhood that was very typical—a lot of kids and a lot of cars. That morning while my brother was mowing the lawn, I was playing in the driveway with my friend Jeff, who lived two houses down. Jeff was my best friend, and we were having a great time seeing who could hit the baseball past the other person. Jay, my older brother, was like no other brother in the whole world. He watched after me and was always willing to help me, even with little problems that seemed important to me. He was my example of true brotherly love. He took me everywhere; we were inseparable. Even though he was many years older than I was, I could tell he was as proud of me as I was of him. I loved my big brother, and I know he loved me.
Jeff and I were still playing hard as Jay finished mowing the lawn directly in front of the house and began to mow the small patch of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street. I admired the way Jay worked, especially when he worked hard. He was my example of what I wanted to be. Suddenly the lawn mower stopped. I guessed he hit a rock with the blade and it caused the motor to stall. I turned to see if he needed help to restart it. As I turned to Jay, Jeff let go with a throw that made me look silly. The ball zoomed out into the street, and I sped after it, not noticing the speeding truck that was coming right for me. Evidently Jay saw the truck and came running into the street after me. I never did see the truck but felt a powerful push causing me to be hurled to the other side of the street. As I fell to the ground, I could hear the sound of screeching brakes and a thud accompanied by a painful groan. My heart sank into my stomach as I picked myself up off the ground and ran over to Jay who was laying halfway under the truck that had hit him. With tears in my eyes I sat down next to him and put my arms tightly around him in a way that only a little brother can.
“Jay, please wake up! Jay, please wake up!” I pleaded with all my heart through the tears. “Jay, please wake up!” I loved my big brother.
Soon mom came running out of the house to see what had happened. Seeing her son on the ground, she burst into tears. She slowly bent down and put her arms around Jay, and together in the middle of the street we shared tears over the one we loved. I could hear sirens in the distance; they were going to take my big brother away. That only made me tighten my arms and cry harder. Jay was limp and becoming cold. I was scared and didn’t want to leave my brother. Dad got home from work just as the ambulance arrived, and mom got up and ran to him. Dad came running over to Jay with tears in his eyes. He motioned me to let go so that they could lift Jay into the ambulance. As I got up, I leaned over and whispered in Jay’s ear, “I love you, Jay. Please come home.”
The drivers closed the back doors of the ambulance after dad got in with Jay, and they began to drive off down the street. The siren was so loud and seemed to hurt as mom picked me up in her arms. Crying together we went into the house. Mom set me down and went up to her room to be alone. She was crying harder than I’d ever seen her cry before. I, too, cried and cried hard. Even as I went to my room and kneeled down to pray, the tears still streamed down my face. I took a deep breath and began to pray through the gasps of tears, “Father in heaven, please help Jay be well. Don’t let him die. I love Jay. Please don’t let him die!”
My tears still flowed as mom came downstairs and slowly opened my door. She was trying hard not to cry. There was a moment of silence while she looked at me with greater love and greater sorrow than ever before. A moment passed, and then she ran over to me, picked me up in her arms, and through newly formed tears she whispered in my ear, “Kirk, I love you.” We cried together for hours.
Dad didn’t come home that night; neither did Jay. I never saw my big brother again after I held him in my arms as he lay cold and limp in the street. I was alive and Jay was dead. What had I done to deserve to live? His life was so much better than mine. My brother died for me! He died so that I could live. He saved my life.
Many years have passed since Jay pushed me out of the way of that truck. My life was changed in a matter of minutes, and I have taken it upon myself to tell the world what my brother did to save my life. I have tried to live my life in a way that will in part pay my older brother back for his sacrifice. My life was saved because someone loved me enough to suffer his life to be taken.
Shouldn’t we all try to live our lives in a manner pleasing to our Savior who died for us? He is our big brother and died that we might be saved and live eternally. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my brother who saved my life.

Just twenty-three years ago this fall, I entered Chapman College in Southern California as a student. I came under the wonderful influence of Dr. Guy M. Davis, philosopher, educator, and teacher. Twenty-three years later, just three weeks ago last Friday evening, I saw this magnificent man, with so brilliant a mind, become as a little child, as he entered the waters of baptism and became a member of the Church.
I thought of another scripture as I witnessed that baptism experience of my friend. The Lord, admonishing his chief apostle Peter, as Luke records it, gave this simple counsel and direction: “… when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” (Luke 22:32.) I pray the good bishop, the home teacher, the congregation of the ward to which Guy and his family have now been assigned will strengthen my brother.
Permit a personal experience for just a moment. Strengthening one’s brother, I think, comes closer to home when we think of fellowshiping and friendshiping our family. Some time ago when my youngest daughter was faced with the reality of attending a different school, she looked forward to the new experience with great anticipation and excitement but with the usual anxieties and concerns. Her mom and dad tried to make her experience meaningful, and one that would be positive, and we spent several hours attempting to prepare her mind for the new experience. We even planned a time when we could shop for new clothes and other special school supplies.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. A special evening was planned to help give spiritual comfort and guidance. Later she put her clothes out in anticipation of the next day. As she retired to her bed, seemingly all was well, but about an hour later she appeared at my study door where I was making some preparations.
“Dad,” she said, rubbing her tummy, “I don’t feel very well.”
You know the sign; and I thought I understood it, so I invited her in and sat her on my lap. We put on a little music that we liked to listen to together. I rubbed her tummy, and she soon fell asleep. I took her back upstairs, placed her in her bed, tiptoed toward the door; and she broke the silence with the announcement, “I am not asleep yet.”
I went back and lay down on the bed with her, stroked her head, gave what fatherly counsel one could under the circumstances, and reassured her. Finally she fell asleep. The next morning she appeared at breakfast in her petticoat. She said, “Dad, I don’t think I had better go to school today.”
I said, “Why not?”
She said, “I think I am going to get sick.”
You know what she was trying to tell us, don’t you? I don’t know how to handle a new situation, Dad. Will I make friends? Will my teacher like me? Will I fit into the social group? Will I be accepted? These are the concerns that all of us experience, as we find ourselves in new and different social situations.
She knew what my answer would be and agreed to have me drive her to school. As we got in front of the school building, the warning bell sounded. The tears started to come to her eyes. I got out of the car and assisted her. We walked about ten feet, and she grabbed hold of my leg. It was as though she were a tackle on some football team. And then, as only a child can do to a father, she looked up at me and said philosophically, “Dad, if you really love me—if you really love me—don’t send me in there.”
I said, “Honey, this may be beyond your comprehension, but it’s because I do love you that I am taking you in there.” And I did. When we got inside the door, she grabbed hold of the other leg and held on. Numerous students came and went, and finally the little miracle happened that changed everything.
From I don’t know where came a delightful, wonderful friendshiper, a fellowshiper who knew how to lose herself in serving others; one who would now take the admonishment of the Savior to strengthen her friends. With the exuberance of youth this little girl said, “Kellie, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“What is your home room?” And she told her. “Tremendous. I had that home room last year. Come on, and I will take you to it.”
And before Kellie knew it, she had let go of my leg and got about ten paces away, then realized what she had done. I will never forget her expression and the sermon she taught as she looked back. “Oh,” she said, “Dad, you can go now; I don’t need you anymore.”
Thank God for the little people as well as the big people who know how to friendship and fellowship.
Thousands of people are coming into this church every month. I pray that we have the genius to follow the counsel of the Lord to strengthen our brethren. I pray that a great bishop and a wonderful home teacher and other members are taking care of my friend, Guy Davis.

Eight young men, all from the Sunnyvale Fourth Ward, Santa Clara California Stake, took on the ambitious project of producing a video yearbook for their high school. The proceeds from the project would go to the ward missionary fund.

With the help of their adviser and a small video production company, they acquired the equipment they needed. They approached the principal of the high school with the idea, and he agreed to the project.

With some training from the personnel at the video production company, the young men learned how to shoot and edit the tape. They wrote a script and asked a friend to help them with a musical score.

After 50 hours of shooting and countless hours of editing and dubbing music, the finished hour-long video was offered for sale to students.

The money earned from the sale of the tapes was not the only reward of the project. In working with their nonmember student friends, the priests of the ward were able to talk about the Church.

Vocational opportunities opened up as the young men gained experience. One of the priests felt he may have found an area he would like to pursue in college after his mission. And they all learned how to work hard to make a project succeed.

In addition, the project increased the friendship among the young men. They grew closer because of their shared interest and felt they were making a real contribution.

One afternoon my younger sister Camilia and I were playing while my dad was mowing the lawn. We decided to help him. Even though it was very hot, we had fun working together. When we finished, we went with my dad to return the lawnmower to our elderly neighbor. When we got to her door, my dad offered to mow her lawn too. My sister and I decided to help too. While he mowed, we picked up the grass and put it in a bag. When we finished, the neighbor said, “Thank you so much, Sofia and Camilia, for cleaning my yard. You are very sweet and caring girls.” Then she gave us some candy. We went home very happy, not just because we had candy but because we had served our neighbor.
Sofia Carolina P., age 9, Argentina