Gospel Story Finder

Soweto seminary students know the Lord helps them through the scriptures. Lucky Ndhiela knows his faith spared him a severe beating.
“One day our school teacher was very angry with our class,” says Lucky. “He said he had explained a science principle to us, and the other students said he had not. A still, small voice whispered in my ear, ‘You know it, Lucky—the teacher did teach us that.’
“So I raised my hand and said in front of the whole class, ‘You did teach us that.’ I felt so happy to say it.
“But the whole class shouted, ‘He did NOT!’ The teacher became very angry and started to give them all hidings, one by one. I sat near the back of the class, and while he was busy punishing the students in front, I bowed my head and began to pray.
“I remembered my scripture mastery, Proverbs 3:5–6, and said to myself, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ [Prov. 3:5–6]
“When the teacher came to my desk, his voice changed. His face changed. He said, ‘Lucky is praying to his God. I forgive him.’ He did not punish me, nor any others that day. That is how I know it is important to apply the scriptures in my life. My prayer was answered!”

Carlos was excited for Christmas. This year there was something different in his home. A large tree made of shiny green paper was attached to the door.
Mom, why is there a tree on the door?
We’re going to do something a little different for Christmas this year.
Carlos wondered what would be different. His sister, Araceli, and his little brother, Diego, wondered too.
I made these paper ornaments for the tree. Each day we will write something about Jesus Christ on an ornament and then put it on the tree. By Christmas Eve, the whole tree will be covered!
Carlos liked that idea. Araceli ran to the ornaments and grabbed a red pencil.
Jesus was baptized.
That’s a good one. Can I write that Jesus did many miracles?
That would be perfect. You both have great ideas!
Every night after dinner, Araceli and Carlos made another ornament and put it on the tree. Diego helped by saying, “I love Jesus!”
When it was hard to think of more ideas, they looked in the scriptures. Carlos didn’t know there were so many verses about Jesus!
On Christmas Eve the whole family sang songs and read the ornaments they had put on the tree. Carlos was happy he knew so much about Jesus. He was all ready for Christmas.

It was a typical Olsen family home evening. Mother played the piano while little Christopher waved his arm and led everyone in “The Golden Plates.” After Amanda gave the opening prayer, Dad stood to give the lesson. “Who remembers what we did at the Olsen family reunion last summer?” he asked.
“Watched home movies!” Julie cried out. Then she giggled, thinking about Uncle Jack dancing the hula in Hawaii.
“Ran races!” Amanda chimed in, remembering her Best Effort award.
“Corn on the cob!” Christopher yelled, and everyone laughed.
“That’s true,” Dad said. “Now who remembers what Uncle Bob asked us to do?”
Scott frowned. “Not family history,” he groaned.
“Very good,” Dad said. “Uncle Bob challenged each family to do something new with our family history.”
“But, Dad,” Julie countered, “Uncle Bob said that the only research left had to be done overseas.”
“Do we get to go to Europe?” Amanda asked excitedly.
“Sorry, Pumpkin,” Dad answered. “I think that research is out. We’ll have to be more creative than that.”
“There’s nothing creative about family history,” Scott complained. “It’s just a bunch of old names and dates.”
“Well, when Joseph Smith first saw the golden plates,” Mom noted, “it was just a bunch of old markings until he translated them.”
“That was different,” Scott said. “The Book of Mormon was important, so Heavenly Father helped him translate it.”
“Family history is important, too,” Dad persisted, holding up his book of remembrance. “Maybe we just need help to translate ours.”
Julie looked puzzled. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“Translate means to make something understandable,” Dad explained. “Maybe we need to translate our records into something more than just names and dates.”
“Aw, Dad,” Scott said, picking up a family group sheet. “There’s nothing here except—Hey, I never noticed that!” He pointed, staring at an entry.
“What?” Amanda said, looking over her brother’s shoulder.
“This guy, Jacob Olsen, was born on October fourth, just like me.”
“That ‘guy,’” Mom said, “was your great-grandpa. He was really happy that you were born on his birthday.”
“I don’t remember him,” Scott said.
“He died when you were just a baby,” Dad explained. “He really liked it when we took you to visit him.”
“His family had two boys and two girls in it, just like ours,” Julie noticed. “But look—the last one died the day that she was born.”
“November fifteenth,” Dad said without having to look. “Grandpa told me that his sister was born prematurely and was just too tiny to live. But they always remembered Baby Annie and put a rosebud on her grave every November fifteenth.”
“That must have been a sad day,” Julie said quietly.
“It was,” Dad agreed. “But it was happy too. It reminded them that they had a sister they could see again someday.”
“I wonder,” Amanda said, “if anyone remembers Baby Annie now?”
“We can!” Scott put in. “Can’t we, Mom?”
“I think that that would be nice,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll just mark November fifteenth on our calendar.”
“And write down Grandpa Olsen’s birthday, too,” Scott suggested.
“But at the end of the year,” Julie realized aloud, “we’ll just throw the calendar away and forget them.”
“Then I guess that we need another way to remember,” Mom said, going into the next room. “How about this?” she asked when she returned. “We never used this old 1988 calendar. I didn’t know why I was saving it, but it must have been for this project. And since it was a leap year, it even has February twenty-ninth on it, in case we need it.”
“But it’s two years old,” Julie said, giggling.
“That doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “We need a calendar for yesterdays, not tomorrows.”
“I get it!” Scott said. “We can remember our ancestors’ important days on that calendar, just like we remember our own important days on our current one. What other dates can we write on it?”
“Well, between Mom’s records and mine, there surely are enough of them here!” Dad laughed, thumbing through the pages. “How about if we study one family every week, then put all their birthdays and weddings and deaths on the calendar?”
“Starting with Jacob Olsen,” Scott proclaimed, eagerly turning to the October page. “Dad, do you think he enjoyed his birthday as much as I do mine?”
“I’m sure that he did,” Dad said. “Do you still think that family history is just a bunch of old names and dates?”
“I guess not,” Scott readily admitted. “At least, not after we translate them into people.”

Ninety-six years later a tall, well-built, rather handsome, youngish but balding man walked into a cafeteria on the BYU campus and sat down at a table where two freshmen boys were discussing the vicissitudes of college life over their roast beef dinner and green punch. He began asking them questions about their feelings, their likes, their dislikes, and their hang-ups regarding their university experience.
Finally one of the young men asked him, “Do you teach around here or something?”
“Yes, I work here,” the man replied.
“What do you do?”
“I’m president.”
“President of what?”
And so Dallin H. Oaks, president of Brigham Young University, introduced himself to these students. “I’m glad to meet you,” the young man with the questions responded. “I come to assemblies, but you’re so far away I can’t see your face.”

“Hi, Stori.”
“I love you, Stori.”
“Stori, you’re so pretty.”
Everyone wants to talk with Stori B. And Stori talks with everyone. In many ways she is a typical three-year-old. But there is one big difference—Stori is totally deaf. She uses her hands to speak in sign language. She is the only deaf person in her ward, so almost everyone is learning sign language.
Stori has taught the Primary children that talking with their hands is fun. She’s always willing to talk with anyone, even if they know only a few words of sign language. Kaylie learned the letters of the deaf alphabet and can say “I love you.” Joseph learned some sign language words in school, and he enjoys practicing with Stori. The entire Primary is learning to sign the song “I Will Follow God’s Plan.” Stori likes watching them sing to her.

From the time of his youth, Joseph understood that a great key to cultivating humility is to seek our Heavenly Father through sincere, heartfelt prayer. Daniel Tyler, an early Church member, recalled a time in Kirtland when many had turned against the Prophet. Brother Tyler, present in a meeting where the Prophet prayed with the congregation for the Lord’s help, described the experience in these words:
“I had heard men and women pray … , but never until then had I heard a man address his Maker as though He was present listening as a kind father would listen to the sorrows of a dutiful child. Joseph was at that time unlearned, but that prayer, which was to a considerable extent in behalf of those who accused him of having gone astray … , partook of the learning and eloquence of heaven. … It appeared to me as though, in case the vail were taken away, I could see the Lord standing facing His humblest of all servants I had ever seen.”9

Joseph turned the page in his book. He frowned. He had two more pages to go.
“Are you OK?” Mama asked.
“I like to read,” Joseph said. “But I am so slow. How can I learn to read better?”
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Read a chapter of the Book of Mormon every day. It will help you learn to read better.”
Joseph tried. At first it took him a long time. He had to sound out the long words. But he kept reading every day. Soon he could read more than one chapter.
Two weeks went by. Joseph’s bookmark moved from 1 Nephi to 2 Nephi. Then it was in the book of Jacob!
One night it was Joseph’s turn to give the lesson in family home evening.
“I know what to do!” Joseph thought. He found the Book of Mormon Stories book. It had words and pictures. He turned the pages until he found the perfect story.
Joseph read the story to his family. He read short words, like ship. He read long words, like commanded. Prophets wrote these words long ago. The words were easy to read.
When the story was over, Mama had tears in her eyes.
“Are you OK, Mama?” Joseph asked.
“Yes,” Mama said. “I’m happy. You have worked hard.”
Joseph smiled a big smile.
“I am reading every day, just like you said.” He showed Mama his Book of Mormon. His bookmark was in the book of Alma!
Someday Joseph’s bookmark would be at the end of the book. And then he could start over!

I joined the Church when I was 16. Soon after, I became seriously ill and missed a month of school.
While I was sick, I decided to catch up on school assignments and read my history textbook. I was so excited when I saw there was a whole chapter on the Latter-day Saint contribution to the westward expansion of the United States!
But as I read, my heart sank. The history of my new church was twisted and ugly according to the textbook. How was I ever going to be tested on these falsehoods?
I finally went back to school, even though I still felt weak. Towards the end of my history class, my teacher suddenly stopped and asked, “Is anyone in this class a Mormon?”
The world seemed to stop. My heart pounded. I raised my hand and proclaimed to the entire class that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“So, Wendy, have you read the chapter about the Mormons?” the teacher asked. I told him I had. “Is it accurate?” I said it was not. “We’re not going to discuss this chapter in class,” he said. “Every Mormon student I’ve ever had has said the textbook is incorrect.” He then suggested that if anyone wanted to know the true history of the Church, they could ask me!
Although I may have been weak physically, with the support and guidance of the Holy Ghost, I was stronger than I ever imagined I could be.
Wendy Z., California, USA

I had seen a picture of President Kimball hanging on the wall of the barbershop, and so I said: “I assume that you cut his hair.” The barber, Ross Pyper, replied: “Yes, I do.” I said: “Does he have to make an appointment also?” He replied: “No, not any more, but he used to. Often when Brother Arthur Haycock, his personal secretary, calls, the person who had an appointment has either called and cancelled the appointment or is late. So I tell Brother Haycock to tell President Kimball to come right over and I will arrange to cut his hair immediately upon his arrival.”
In a few minutes, the telephone rang, and I heard the barber say: “Yes, Brother Haycock, I can take him right now. Send him right over.”
The barber completed my haircut and I stepped out of the barber chair and sat down. I was determined that Melissa and I would not leave until President Kimball came and we could meet him. Melissa, my little daughter, who was spending the day with me, was so excited at the thought of meeting the prophet that she could hardly contain herself.
Soon President Kimball walked in, accompanied by a security man. The president shook hands with the barber, and then walked over and shook hands with us and was very congenial. He then got in the barber chair and the barber proceeded to cut his hair. During this time he conversed very warmly with those in the room. Melissa was so excited and spiritually touched that tears came to her eyes on several occasions. As I looked into his countenance, I knew that he truly is a prophet of God.
“Daddy, do you think we could get a picture of President Kimball?” Melissa whispered to me. I said, “I think it would be all right. Why don’t you rush out to our car and get your camera before he leaves.” I could see that the president was almost ready. In what seemed like five seconds, Melissa rushed in the front door with her camera at the same time President Kimball stepped down from the barber chair.
“President Kimball, I hope you don’t mind, but would you allow me to take a picture of you and my little daughter, Melissa?” I asked. “Not at all,” he said. I then adjusted the camera as President Kimball, with his arm around Melissa, and Melissa, with her arm around President Kimball, posed for the picture. He was then very gracious in allowing her to take a picture of him and me together, with my arm around him and his arm around me.
After this President Kimball bid all of us good-bye and shook our hands again. When he shook Melissa’s hand, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek and he responded by kissing her on the cheek. He then left, and Melissa and I were left marveling at the experience we had been so fortunate to have.

Life was far from easy. My family struggled financially, and even the simple privilege of having books to study was beyond our reach. I often borrowed them from friends so I could study. My mother worked tirelessly to raise me and my brother, and by the ages of 15 and 16, we both began working part-time to help and support our family.
There were countless moments when I wondered why life felt so heavy. “Why is my life like this? Why can’t I be happy and carefree like other children? Why did my path feel so difficult?” But my mother anchored our lives in the gospel. She taught us to pray, to trust the Lord, and have a firm faith, no matter how overwhelming the trials may be. Because of her teachings, even in the darkest moments, I never lost faith in My Heavenly Father.
In 2021, my trials reached a peak. Emotionally and physically, I was exhausted. Covid attacked both my mother and brother, and I was the only one who could take care of them, it was hard to accept the reality I was deeply depressed at this point. There were moments when the weight of my challenges felt unbearable, moments when I questioned whether I could continue. But through many fasting prayers, a scripture repeatedly came to my heart:
“Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
Those words felt personal, as if Saviour Himself were assuring me. I felt Him whisper, “You are not alone.” That assurance became my strength. Remembering that the Savior had already endured every pain and sorrow, gave me courage to keep moving forward.
When my family finally recovered, I realized something powerful: God never gives us trials beyond our capability. If a challenge feels big, it means we are bigger than the challenge. I began to understand that greater the trial, greater the blessing that follows. As we read in D&C 58:4, “For after much tribulation come the blessings.”
Though I did not experience much love from my earthly father, I consistently felt the deep and abiding love of my Heavenly Father. Trial after trial, I could see how He was strengthening and refining me and shaped me into someone more resilient than before. I came to understand that hardships are but “a small moment,” as written in D&C 121:7–8, and that they shape us into who we are meant to become.
Whenever I feel low or alone, one image comes to my mind. A couple missionary shared it I met in the Taiwan Temple in 2019, who became wonderful exemplars and supporters in my life. That picture reminds me that I am never alone. The Lord sends His guardian angels seen and unseen to protect, guide, and comfort us.
The example of Job has always inspired me. He said, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away… Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.” His humility reminds me that everything we face belongs to God. In my most private moments of sorrow, it was the Lord who comforted me, wiped my tears, and calmed my troubled heart.
Today, after bearing all my burdens, I feel blessed by Him. The hardships that once seemed unbearable have become the foundation of my spiritual strength. And because of what I have experienced, I now desire to help bear the burdens of others. I understand that every trial was preparing me for a greater purpose to serve and uplift God’s children on this earth.
My trials may have weakened me emotionally, mentally, and physically, but spiritually I have become stronger than ever. That spiritual strength now supports every part of my life. Looking back, I can honestly say that enduring trials have refined me, strengthened me, and taught me who I am and more importantly, who I become, every tear taught me something eternal. ?

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to be amazed at his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program, a program that places Indian children and teenagers in foster homes during the school year so that they may get a better education. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He eagerly read the words of this book for three days and two nights, resentful of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with his new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to get enough courage to ask the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the wind of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

For some reason, I vividly remember Christmas that year. Maybe it was because we had just moved to sunny St. George, Utah, or because Grandma, Grandpa, and Granny had come down to visit. Perhaps it was memorable because Jenny was visiting from BYU, or because Emily was still living at home. But I think the main reason I remember that Christmas was the unexpected gift I gave Granny—a gift I had originally intended for my family.
All year I had cross-stitched the red letters “Families Are Forever,” and just days before had finished the stick people lined in a row at the bottom of the pattern. It was a simple sampler—the kind with lines to sew over and big X’s. But I had worked on it diligently and finally had it ready for my family to open on Christmas morning. However, I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened.
Noah played Santa Claus and handed out brightly wrapped boxes with somewhat smashed bows on top. Granny didn’t have as many packages as the rest of us, so Noah handed her the family gift I had made to open. Before any of us realized what was happening, Granny began praising my work and thanking me for this keepsake. Seeing the love and excitement in her eyes, I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t hers.
I didn’t know then the happy feelings I’d later feel as I walked by its prominent place on her wall. Nor did I know that when Granny went to live in a rest home, my sampler would be one of the few possessions to go with her. I couldn’t foresee the numerous times she’d glance at it, reminded of its eternal perspective.
Time has wound down and it’s only a matter of days until Granny doesn’t wake up to the life we know. I was with her recently, and found it hard to hold back the tears as I glanced around the room to behold her keepsakes: family photos, birthday cards, and a sampler in a faded frame hanging by the door. Granny was curled in a ball softly breathing as she slept, perhaps dreaming of the heaven she’d soon know. As I rose to leave, I gently placed my hand on her shoulder, communicating the love I felt inside. I walked away, glancing over my shoulder to say good-bye.
Families are forever. I didn’t plan to give Granny my gift that year, but I wouldn’t for the world change the fact that she got it. Someday that simple, homemade sampler will have a special place on my wall, reminding me of Granny’s love, of the life she lived, and of the day we’ll meet again.

Robert Wood. Robby frowned as he read his name. All his friends called him Robby. His whole name looked strange and uncomfortable on the bright yellow Primary birthday calendar. It didn’t seem to belong with the names of the other kids. He wasn’t like them. He had been to church only about three times in his whole life. He wouldn’t have come today except his new teacher, Sister Jensen, had sent him a special invitation and offered him a ride.
Robby liked singing the songs. Sharing time was interesting, too. When his class was excused, he followed the other children to their classroom. They were ahead of Sister Jensen. She seems old to be a Primary teacher, Robby thought as she stopped to talk briefly to someone in the hallway.
Robby chose a seat at the very back of the room, but when he started to sit down, a boy kicked his chair out from under him. An ugly word popped out of Robby’s mouth. He was immediately sorry, and he blushed a deep red when he saw Sister Jensen standing in the doorway. She must have seen the whole thing.
The girls raised their hands and pointed at Robby. The boys snickered. Robby wanted to run home. But Sister Jensen closed the door and smiled at him. Then, turning to the girls, she said, “I just love to see so many volunteers for the prayer.” The girls put their hands down quickly, but Sister Jensen still assigned two of them to give prayers.
During class, Robby watched Sister Jensen. She smiled a lot. She made Robby feel he was just as important as the other children.
After class, Sister Jensen hugged the children as they left. When it was Robby’s turn, she quietly shut the door. Robby was alone with Sister Jensen, and he knew why. She was going to scold him for saying that angry word. Well, at least she hadn’t embarrassed him by doing it in front of everybody.
“I’m so glad you came today, Robert,” Sister Jensen said with a smile.
Robby looked down and traced on the floor with his shoe.
When he didn’t answer, Sister Jensen continued, “I know you’re embarrassed about what you said. If someone kicked a chair and made me fall, I would be pretty upset, too.”
“They wouldn’t do it to you,” Robby said. “They just do it to me because I’m not a church kid.”
Sister Jensen looked thoughtful as she bent to gather some of her things. When she straightened up, she was wearing her big smile again. “Sit down a minute, Robert,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Robby sat quietly while Sister Jensen pulled up a chair beside him.
“Do you like our bishop?” she asked.
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some ladies came by to help take care of his mother and his family. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s nice,” Robby said.
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher,” Sister Jensen explained.
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that when he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that was a good start but he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others you care enough about them not to offend them. Choosing good words helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her teaching materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting, and he seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
Later, in the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.
It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”
Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

Our children need to understand the principle of agency and the significance of the choices they make. I remember a time when I was in high school and wanted to drop out of a type class because it was too hard for me. I hated that class. I begged my parents to sign the form giving their permission for me to drop the class from my schedule. My father explained over and over all the reasons why he thought I should stay in the class. He said, “It’s important to stay with something once you begin it, especially when it’s hard. You need to work and try to do your best.” Finally in desperation he said, “I’ve told you how I feel, and now, Ruth, the decision is up to you. I’ll sign the paper if you want me to.” After spending a sleepless night fighting off my desire to do what I wanted, I finally chose to stay in the class. Although I struggled with typing for the rest of the year, I’m glad I stayed, and I’m especially glad for the counsel of my father. He helped me to understand my options. He was clear on how he felt about the matter, but he didn’t force me.

I saw this miracle of comfort as I arrived outside the chapel where the funeral of the little boy was to be held. I was stopped by a lovely young woman I did not recognize. She said that she was coming to the funeral to mourn and to give comfort if she could.
She said that she had come to the funeral in part for comfort for herself. She told me that her first child had died recently. She was carrying in her arms a beautiful little girl. I leaned toward her to look into the little girl’s smiling face. I asked the baby’s mother, “What is her name?” Her quick and cheerful answer was “Her name is Joy. Joy always comes after sorrow.”
She was bearing her witness to me. I could see that the peace and comfort had come to her from the only sure source. Only God knows hearts, and so only He can say, in truth, “I know how you feel.” So I can only imagine both her joy and the sorrow that preceded it, but the Lord, who loves her, knows.

At school she would often sing “I Am a Child of God” out loud. Soon all of the teachers in her school learned the words. Sometimes they would even sing along.
When schools closed because of COVID-19, her teachers remembered Victoria’s song. They asked if she would send a video of herself singing “I Am a Child of God” to help cheer them up. Victoria and her little sister decided to sing the song together for the video. They wanted to surprise their teachers and help them smile, so they learned to sing it in Arabic too!
Victoria followed Jesus by cheering up her teachers. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus helped others.

Being an introvert and having to talk to people wasn’t the easiest thing for me. Most of the time I let people approach me, but in high school there weren’t a lot of people who wanted to talk to me. So I was happy that I remembered this old trick I had learned—I smiled. The more someone smiles, the more approachable that person will become. I realized the more I smiled at people, the more they would start talking to me and the easier it became for me to become friends with them.

As a new missionary in Japan, I had a hard time understanding anyone, let alone getting to know them. It was difficult to learn to love people I didn’t even know, especially when I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I made an effort to show my love for them, and I appreciated their efforts to reach out to me.
Each week, my companion and I received a loaf of homemade bread from a sister in the ward named Sister Senba. She showed her love for the missionaries by baking homemade bread and writing small but heartfelt notes.
I was touched that someone cared about me. I felt impressed to show my gratitude to her in some small way. I wrote her a note expressing how grateful I was for her and the sacrifices she and her family made to help the missionaries. We became friends, and I began to think of her as my “mother away from home.”
Months passed. Early one Wednesday morning I received a call from my mission president, who asked me to transfer down to Okinawa. When I hung up the phone, I was filled with the most bittersweet feeling. I dreaded having to say my good-byes. Each phone call to tell members of the ward I would be leaving on the following day made my heart hurt. Saying good-bye to the people I had come to love so much was more difficult than I had imagined it would be.
As I finished these calls, I noticed that the only one who had not answered the phone was Sister Senba. I was sad I would not be able to say good-bye to a member who had become so close to my heart.
The next morning two other missionaries and I left for the airport. When we arrived at the ticket counter and tried to buy tickets, the workers told us that our cards had been declined. We did not have any money to pay for the tickets, and the flight was leaving in 10 minutes! The three of us were in a panic. We were about to miss the flight and be stranded at the airport for the day.
But all of my panic turned to comfort when I turned around and saw Sister Senba walk into the airport. I was shocked that she was there because she hadn’t known what time our flight was. As she scrambled over to us, she smiled and gave us all bread to bring onto the plane.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work.
As we explained to her that we were going to miss our flight, she became saddened. None of us knew what to do. Then Sister Senba began rummaging through her purse, looking for something that could help us. She jumped happily into the air when she found a small envelope in her purse in which, weeks ago, she had placed ¥50,000—the exact amount of money we needed. She gave us the money, and we were able to get our tickets in time. We thanked her with every ounce of gratitude our souls could muster, said good-bye, and rushed onto the plane.
After the plane took off, my fellow missionary turned to me and said, “Isn’t she amazing?! That was a miracle!”
I then realized how truly miraculous it really was. He then said, “What does your note say?” I saw he was reading a note that was with the bread Sister Senba had given him. As I realized I had one too, I pulled out the note and read a small piece of paper personally addressed to me, which immediately made my eyes swell with tears. It said, “I love you! Please don’t forget me! I will never forget you!”
At that moment I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have before. Sister Senba’s example taught me how important it is to follow the promptings of the Spirit—no matter how small or strange the prompting might seem. Through these promptings we have the power to change lives for the better. I know it was not a coincidence that she came to the airport. It was a miracle.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work. How blessed we are as members of this Church to have His influence in our lives. Let us all remain worthy to receive these promptings and bless the lives of the children of God.
Editors’ note: Sister Senba was promptly reimbursed by the mission.

“I beat you,” Ed said triumphantly as he pulled the last head of broomcorn on his row with a quick snap of his wrist. Then he set it upright on the ground, leaning it against the stalk.
“Just barely,” I replied. “I only have three more to do.”
“I can see Frank and Georgie coming too. We’re getting pretty fast. That’s eight rows apiece this morning. Jake’s the fastest boy I know, and he can only do nine.”
“He hires out, too, doesn’t he?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Why don’t we? We do good work and could use some money.”
“You’re right about that, but who’d hire us?”
“Lots of people.”
“I’m not so sure. We don’t stack the same as everyone else, so some people might not hire us.”
“Our way is best, though. Papa says if the brooms are piled standing up like we do it, any rain will run off without hurting them. But if they’re lying flat on the ground, the moisture doesn’t dry between them and they get moldy and rot.”
“Papa is right about lots of things that other folks don’t like to believe. They’ve been stacking corn the wrong way for a hundred years and wouldn’t change for anything.”
“Do you remember the time we had the late frost and Papa knew it was coming, so he didn’t plant early like everyone else did?” I asked.
“Yeah, I remember. Their crops froze and ours didn’t.”
“He tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“How does he know when it’s going to freeze?”
“I wish I knew. Maybe Heavenly Father tells him,” I suggested.
“Maybe so,” Ed agreed thoughtfully. “I can’t figure it out any other way.”
Frank and Georgie finished their rows, and we all started back to the house for lunch.
“How’d you guys like to earn some money?” Ed asked the boys.
“How?” Frank wanted to know.
“Pulling corn. We’re all getting pretty fast now.”
“I would,” Georgie said. “Then we could go to the circus.”
The circus! I hadn’t thought about that. I couldn’t believe it might be possible to go to the circus. My heart began pounding.
“Who could we work for?” Frank asked.
“How about Mr. Clarke?” Georgie suggested. “He’s always been real nice to us.”
“You’re right!” Ed exclaimed. “He’s just the one.”
“Let’s ask Papa when we get home,” I suggested.
“No, let’s see if we can get the job first and surprise him. Tomorrow, while Papa’s in town getting his wagon fixed, we can go over and see Mr. Clarke.”
“I want to see the lion tamer most,” Frank said.
“Not me,” Georgie countered. “I’m going to watch the clowns.”
I wanted to see the beautiful lady in the fancy dress, standing pointy-toed on the back of a running horse with her long hair flying behind her. I’d seen a circus poster at the Piggly Wiggly Market.
“C’mon, let’s hurry,” Ed said, and we ran the last few steps to the house.
The next day after Papa had left for town, five of us started out in the direction of our field. Helen had coaxed to come along too.
“Break her in easy,” Mama said. “When she gets tired send her home.”
At the end of the lane we turned off toward Clarke’s and arrived just as he was coming out from breakfast. When he saw us he said, “Well, now, what can I do for you folks?”
“We wondered if you needed someone to pull your corn,” Ed said.
“Think you could do it? None of you is very big.”
“But we can work hard,” Frank insisted.
“And fast,” Georgie added.
“And we pile it the good way,” I said.
“How’s that?” Mr. Clarke wanted to know.
“Standing up,” Ed said and explained why that was best.
Mr. Clarke nodded. “Makes sense, all right.”
“Try us out,” Ed bargained. “We’ll work till noon, and if you’re not satisfied, you don’t have to pay us. We don’t charge for Helen. She’s just learning.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Clarke said and led us to the field he wanted us to start on.
When Papa came home that night, Ed pulled our wages from his pocket and put them on the table.
“Where’d you get that money?” Papa asked.
“Working for Mr. Clarke,” Ed replied.
“Pulling corn?” asked Papa.
“Yep. He wants us back tomorrow. He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him.