Gospel Story Finder

Nathan stretched, yawned, and opened his eyes. He hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. Why was he so happy? Then he remembered. Mom had told him that they were going to do something really special as soon as his older brother and sister had left for school. Nathan got dressed as fast as he could so that he wouldn’t miss a minute.
He ran out to the kitchen. Mom smiled at him. “You’re all ready to go! Great!”
“Where are we going?” Nathan was so excited that he could hardly stand it. “Ice skating? Shopping? To the zoo?”
“We’re going someplace much more important,” Mom said. “We’re going to the family history center.”
“Family history center?” Nathan flopped down into a chair. “You said you were going to take me someplace special today. You go to the family history center every week. What’s so special about it?”
“It’s time for you to find out!”
Thirty minutes later, Mom unlocked a door at the stake center, and they walked in. Nathan had never seen anything like this before. The room was just like many he’d seen in their ward building, but this one was filled with machines, cabinets, and bookcases.
“This is our stake family history center,” Mom said as she started turning on computers. “I do a little of our own family history on Wednesdays, but mostly I help other people do theirs. People depend on me to have the center open so that they can find their ancestors. Then they can get the temple work done for them.”
“You mean this is what happens before Tim and Sherry do baptisms for the dead at the temple?”
“That’s right, Nate. Before anyone can be baptized for a person, someone has to find out who that person is.”
“How do they do that?”
“If you have a little patience, it’s not hard,” Mom said. “Would you like to find someone who needs to be baptized?”
“I guess so.”
“I was hoping that you’d say that,” Mom said. “I’m on the trail of finding your great-great-grandpa Oskar Pederson. He came to America from Sweden.” Mom took out a microfilm and threaded it in the reader. After a few turns of the handle, a chart appeared with old-fashioned writing on it.
“Do I have to read this?” Nathan frowned.
“You don’t have to read all the words. See this number here? That’s the birth year. Grandpa Pederson was born in 1885. Now, just look down this column until you see 1885. Whenever you do, look over here and see if the name is Oskar.”
Nathan nodded. “I think I can do that. Can I try to find him all by myself?”
“OK, Nate. Good luck.”
Nathan started slowly turning the microfilm wheel, looking at one page after another. Some other people came and started working on the computers. Mom went from one to the other and helped them. Every so often she came back to Nathan. “How are you doing? Are you tired yet?”
“No, I’m still looking.”
About an hour later, Nathan shouted, “Mom, I found him!”
Mom hurried over and looked at the bright page on the reader. “You’re right,” she said softly. “There he is. And look, Nathan, you not only found him, you found his mom and dad. They’re your great-great-great-grandparents!”
“Wow!” Nathan touched the names on the reader with his finger. “Does this mean that you and Dad and Tim and Sherry can be baptized for these people?”
“That’s right, Nate,” Mom said. “You’ve just pushed our family tree back another generation. These people were lost until you found them! I’m sure that they’re really happy right now.”
“This is neat, Mom! Can I come with you the next time I don’t have school?”
“Nathan!” Mom pretended to be shocked. “You mean this is better than skating?”
“Much better than skating,” Nathan said. And he meant it.

A couple of months into my third season of collegiate football, during a routine five-man sled drill, my life’s plan started to unravel. As I hit the blocking dummy, I felt something snap in my neck, and a sharp pain shot down my right shoulder. I stood up and tried to move my arm but realized I had no strength.
I did not know it at the time, but in that instant all my plans and dreams would be altered, and my future would change dramatically. I had dedicated years of my life to football, but as I walked off the practice field that day, that would be the end of it. I would never put on my pads, cleats, and helmet and go out onto the football field again.
After visits with local doctors, I was referred to a neurosurgeon, who explained that I had injured the main nerves coming out of my spinal column going to my right arm. He also said there would be no football for at least a year, and that if I injured the nerves again I may lose the use of my right arm.
With this crushing news, it seemed like my world began to crumble in other areas. My grades rapidly began to go south, and I neither had interest nor ambition to turn them around. I found myself, day after day, lugging my arm in a sling on the sidelines as I watched the guys practice. I finally decided to spend time in the library instead of the football field but found it difficult to concentrate.
The academic quarter seemed to drag on forever, and one frigid, dark November afternoon, I found myself sitting in despair in the old amphitheater on campus. As I sat all alone, I felt terribly abandoned and depressed. I gazed out into the valley as the cold wind whipped wisps of leaves around my feet. Nothing was going right, and my life seemed to have little meaning or happiness. My athletic dreams and goals had crumbled, my grades were poor, I felt I had few friends at school, and I was far away from my family.
Why me? I thought. Why did this have to happen when things seemed to be going so well? What did I have to look forward to now? As I pondered these questions, I found little solace. The clouds, the cold, and my state of mind seemed to be wrapping over me in darkness as I descended into self-pity.
As I sat, reaching for anything to lighten my mind, a thought came that prayer could bring a little relief. I halfheartedly offered up a few words in a weak plea but was hesitant, as I mistakenly felt the Lord would not want to listen to me. During the past year I had become increasingly distracted by the excitement and prestige of athletics, and my church activity had become sporadic at best. My face cradled in my hands, I tried to hold some composure from my grief. I felt so alone.
After some time, I felt, ever so softly, a warm pressure on the back of my head and neck. I felt immediate relief from my despair and dared not lift my head lest the feeling would leave me. I only knew that whatever this feeling was, I wanted it to continue. After weeks of misery, I felt complete and total relief. What was this? Tears began to fall freely down my cheeks, and soon an undeniable impression came into my mind that I knew the Lord was there for me and it was time for me to go on a mission.
I had turned down my home bishop’s invitation to go on a mission 10 months earlier, explaining that my plan was to pursue my football scholarship for another two years. I told him I might think about a mission afterward. I was confident, if not proud, of my plan and was taken aback when he did not share in my enthusiasm and confidence.
I sat there on the cold bench for a while, contemplating what had just happened to me. Going on a mission had been the furthest thing from my mind that afternoon. Serving a mission right now had definitely not been in my plan. But a mission was the only thing on my mind now. I had been given a personal revelation. I could not deny it, and my heart was filled with light and happiness. Serving the Lord was now what mattered most in my life. My mission and future could again be bright and happy. I could not restrain myself as I stood up, crying out as I flung up my good arm in exuberance.
The next few weeks went by quickly, and I gained new enthusiasm for life. I made efforts in correcting my grades in order to finish out the quarter. When it was over, I closed this chapter of my life, leaving my athletic plans and dreams behind. I had no regrets or remorse over my decision. Instead, I felt excited about preparing for a mission and setting my course for a bright future. Cheers from the crowd in a football game were pale compared to the cheers I felt in my heart by going on a mission.
As I look back on this memory, I can see the importance of making the right choices at the right times. Sometimes we feel we have a solid and logical plan for ourselves. But if it’s not in accordance with gospel principles and the whisperings of the Holy Ghost, our plan seldom evolves into true happiness and joy. Nor can our own plan replicate the blessings we receive by living the gospel in faith, with a determination to live the commandments. For young men in particular, the opportunity to serve as a missionary is the right plan. I believe there is nothing that provides more growth than unselfishly serving the Lord and His children. Other self-generated plans, though appealing, will ever fall short in comparison.
This experience was sacred to me, and the chance to redesign my own plan with the Lord’s help has significantly changed what I am today. I will ever be grateful to the Lord for the experience on that cold November day that changed my life and helped me understand the Lord’s plan for my life.

Meet Brother Astus (right) who followed a friend to the gathering place activities in the Calabar Nigeria Stake and enrolled in a video editing and photography class. Shortly thereafter, he began attending the Calabar institute as well. Astus’s talent for photography was recognized, and he began to cover all the single adult activities, institute activities, weddings and more. He not only fell in love with photography, but he fell in love with the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized.

“Jane, run and get your coat. We’re going shopping.”
I ran to do as my father said. A shopping trip with Dad was a rare treat. He traveled a great deal of the time, and I cherished any opportunity to be with him.
Once we were in the car, I asked, “Where are we going?”
Dad only smiled. To my surprise, we didn’t go straight to the store. Instead, we turned down a narrow road where small row houses lined the street.
Dad parked the car, got out, and walked to the first house. Within a few minutes he returned with Alex, a boy from our ward.
I tried to hide my disappointment. I had wanted my father to myself. Now it looked like I would have to share him with someone else.
“Hi, Alex,” I mumbled.
“Hi,” he mumbled back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
Dad drove to the store. Not only did I have to share my dad, but I also had to endure looking at boring clothes for boys.
“Alex is going to be ordained a deacon tomorrow,” Dad said. “He’ll need a suit to wear when he passes the sacrament.”
Alex looked with wonder at the rows of clothes.
Dad must have noticed my stiff posture because he drew me aside. “We have an opportunity to help someone in need,” he said in a quiet voice.
Finally, I understood and was ashamed by my impatience. Alex’s family had modest means. I guessed that Sunday clothes had no place in the budget.
With Dad’s help, Alex chose a dark suit. I watched as Dad gently encouraged Alex to add a white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and socks. Alex’s eyes grew wide as the purchases mounted.
“Th … th … thank you, Brother McBride,” he stuttered when Dad returned him home.
“You’re welcome. And remember, this is our secret. Only your mother knows.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I watched, I realized I had a lot to think about. I recalled holiday dinners where the table was filled with widows and others who were likely to be alone.
“Why,” I had asked Dad at one time, “do we always have to invite Sister Potter and Sister Robie to dinner? They never invite us to their homes.”
“It’s easy to invite those who can return the favor, but taking care of those who can’t do something in return is the hallmark of caring.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but in those few words my father had given me a wonderful definition of charity I would never forget.

My dear wife, Irene, and I joined the Church 31 years ago when we were newly married. We had both grown up in Colombia, but a few months after our marriage, my career took us to live in Germany. We were very young and had great hopes and expectations; it was an especially exciting and happy time for us.
While I was concentrated on my career, Irene was feeling that we would receive some kind of message from heaven, without knowing how or when. So she started letting into our home all kinds of door-to-door salespeople with encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, cookbooks, kitchen appliances, and so on, always waiting for that unique message.
One evening she told me that two young men in dark suits had knocked on our door and that she had felt a very clear and distinct impression to let them in. They had said that they wanted to talk to her about God but would come back again when I was also at home. Could this be the expected message?
They began to visit us, and with their guidance, we read in the scriptures and came to understand the crucial importance of Jesus Christ as our Savior and Redeemer. We soon regretted that we had been baptized as little babies, which had not been a conscious covenant. However, being baptized again would also mean becoming members of this new Church, so first we really needed to understand everything about it.
But how could we know if what the missionaries were telling us about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith, and about the plan of salvation was actually all true? Well, we had understood from the words of the Lord that we could “know them by their fruits.”2 So, in a very systematic manner, we started examining the Church by looking for those fruits with the eyes of our very rational minds. What did we see? Well, we saw:
Friendly and happy people and wonderful families who understood that we are meant to feel joy in this life and not just suffering and misery.
A church that does not have a paid clergy but one in which members themselves accept assignments and responsibilities.
A church where Jesus Christ and families are at the center of everything, where members fast once a month and donate to help the poor and needy, where healthy habits are promoted, teaching us to abstain from harmful substances.
In addition:
We liked the emphasis on personal growth, on education, on hard work and self-reliance.
We learned about the remarkable humanitarian program.
And we were impressed by the general conferences, with the wonderful music and the profound spiritual principles shared there.
Seeing all this, we could find no fault in the Church. On the contrary, we liked everything we saw very much. However, we still could not decide to be baptized because we wanted to know everything before doing so.
But, even in our indecision, the Lord was patiently preparing us, He was molding us, and He was helping us to discover that we should learn to discern the truth not only through our rational minds but also through the very still and small voice of the Spirit, which speaks especially to our hearts.
That voice and the resulting feeling came one evening after 10 months of learning the gospel, when we read in Mosiah 18, “As ye are desirous to … bear one another’s burdens, … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, … if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord?”3
That passage from the Book of Mormon entered our hearts and souls, and we suddenly felt and knew that there was really no reason not to be baptized. We realized that the desires mentioned in these verses were also the wishes of our hearts and that those things were what really mattered. They were more important than understanding everything because we already knew enough. We had always relied on the guiding hand of a loving Heavenly Father and were confident that He would continue to guide us.
So, that same day, we set up a date for our baptism, and soon we were baptized, finally!

Because World War II was just over, I was very happy. We had recently married and our first-born child had arrived. I love my husband very much and felt myself growing in the warmth of his love for me. Then, in the fall of 1946, a drastic change occurred. My husband came home, beaming, and told me that he had found a treasure more precious than all others—the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I was miserable. I would not listen to his explanations. When he was baptized on 7 January 1947, I felt that an impassable gulf had opened between us. The next nine months were almost unendurable.
Then, one morning, I woke up particularly unhappy. Somehow I knew that I had been wrong, that my husband had been telling me the truth, and that I must join his church. Despite my confusion, I knew I must be baptized, and on 8 November 1947, my husband brought me into a new life. It was the happiest day of my life, filled with a joy I cannot describe.

When Heber J. Grant was a young man, he took a grammar class.
Teacher: Your assignment is to listen to people speak. When they use incorrect grammar, write down what was said and correct it. Hand in four corrected sentences each week.
On Sunday, Heber attended church. The bishop stood to speak, and Heber took out a piece of paper to take notes. He quickly realized that he could do his homework.
Heber: His grammar is terrible! By the end of the meeting, I’ll have so many incorrect sentences I’ll never need another one.
Heber wrote down the first sentence, but that was all. The Spirit came upon him as the bishop bore testimony of Joseph Smith.
By the end of the meeting, Heber still had only one sentence written down. Tears of gratitude ran down his cheeks for the testimony that had been shared. He loved feeling the Spirit. It was the first time he had felt the Spirit this way.
Heber: I truly know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God.
The bishop’s talk made such an impression on Heber’s testimony that he didn’t use the one sentence he had written for homework. It was too sacred to mock.
Heber: I have never been annoyed by grammatical errors of those who preach the gospel. To judge a man’s spirit by the way he speaks is like judging a man by the clothes he wears. Some have never had the chance for education, and some have never had money for nice clothes. I have tried to judge men and women only by the spirit that they have.
As President of the Church, Heber used this experience to warn members to not harshly judge others.

Some time ago I spoke with a priesthood leader who was prompted to memorize the names of all of the youth ages 13 to 21 in his stake. Using snapshots of the young men and women, he created flash cards that he reviewed while traveling on business and at other times. This priesthood leader quickly learned all of the names of the youth.
One night the priesthood leader had a dream about one of the young men whom he knew only from a picture. In the dream he saw the young man dressed in a white shirt and wearing a missionary name tag. With a companion seated at his side, the young man was teaching a family. The young man held the Book of Mormon in his hand, and he looked as if he were testifying of the truthfulness of the book. The priesthood leader then awoke from his dream.
At an ensuing priesthood gathering, the leader approached the young man he had seen in his dream and asked to talk with him for a few minutes. After a brief introduction, the leader called the young man by name and said: “I am not a dreamer. I have never had a dream about a single member of this stake, except for you. I am going to tell you about my dream, and then I would like you to help me understand what it means.”
The priesthood leader recounted the dream and asked the young man about its meaning. Choking with emotion, the young man simply replied, “It means God knows who I am.” The remainder of the conversation between this young man and his priesthood leader was most meaningful, and they agreed to meet and counsel together from time to time during the following months.
That young man received the Lord’s tender mercies through an inspired priesthood leader. I repeat again, the Lord’s tender mercies do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Faithfulness and obedience enable us to receive these important gifts and, frequently, the Lord’s timing helps us to recognize them.

In a devotional address at BYU, Elder David A. Bednar offered this tribute to his dear wife:
"Before attending her sacrament meetings, Sister Bednar frequently prays for the spiritual eyes to see those who have a need. Often as she observes the brothers and sisters and children in the congregation, she will feel a spiritual nudge to visit with or make a phone call to a particular person. And when Sister Bednar receives such an impression, she promptly responds and obeys. It often is the case that as soon as the 'amen' is spoken in the benediction, she will talk with a teenager or hug a sister or, upon returning home, immediately pick up the phone and make a call. As long as I have known Sister Bednar, people have marveled at her capacity to discern and respond to their needs. Often they will ask her, 'How did you know?' The spiritual gift of being quick to observe has enabled her to see and to act promptly and has been a great blessing in the lives of many people."7

I grew up in Krasnodar, Russia. As a young girl, I was baptized in a Christian church that was part of my culture. I knew that Jesus Christ was real, but I wasn’t very active in my religion.
A few years later, I met missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I gained a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and entered into a covenant with God through baptism—a covenant to serve God, keep His commandments, and be willing to take the name of Jesus Christ upon me and always remember Him.
When I was first baptized, my life was going well! I loved God, Jesus Christ, and the Church. I loved the gospel so much that I wanted to share my feelings with my classmates. But when I did, I was met with opposition. Because of how others treated me for my faith, I had to switch schools. And I had to travel the path as a disciple of Christ mostly alone.
I was able to manage this for a while. I spent time with my few friends and the missionaries. My testimony was strong, but after I graduated and moved to a new city, I was a bit more cautious about sharing my faith because of my past negative experiences.
I started to focus less and less on the gospel. During this time, even though I didn’t prioritize the gospel much, I still expected God to give me a helping hand with my struggles. But when those blessings I expected didn’t come, I decided I didn’t want to wait for His direction anymore.
One missed church meeting turned into three, which turned into months of not going. This led to me making small decisions that went against gospel standards, which eventually turned into a series of bigger choices. Before I knew it, I had been living outside the Church for five years and had never felt so distant from God.
In the back of my mind, I knew I had made covenants, and I still had a fragment of a testimony. But I pushed those thoughts away because it was uncomfortable to acknowledge that I was not living in line with the gospel.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point, where I was experiencing a spiritual famine. I knew I had to return to God—nothing was bringing me true happiness or fulfillment. However, the journey back to Him seemed too overwhelming to start. I wanted to be the person I was five years ago, the one who had such strong faith, but I felt lost.
I wondered if there was even a way back.
Finally, I worked up the courage to act. The path back seemed so difficult to take alone, but I remembered that I wasn’t alone. As Deuteronomy 31:6 says, “Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid … : for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.”
As soon as I decided to turn toward Jesus Christ again, miracles continued to guide me back to the covenant path. Because of the covenants we make with God, if we choose to return to Him and repent with an honest heart, He will honor and renew those covenants with us.
My small but intentional acts of repentance helped me find renewal through Jesus Christ. And by studying the words of my patriarchal blessing, praying to my Father in Heaven, and doing those simple things that bring us closer to Christ, I gained confidence that the Savior was changing me for the better.
As Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently shared, “As you walk the covenant path, from baptism to the temple and throughout life, I promise you power to go against the natural worldly flow—power to learn, power to repent and be sanctified, and power to find hope, comfort, and even joy as you face life’s challenges.”
As someone who fell away from the covenant path and later returned, I can testify that this is true.
If you feel like you are too far away from the gospel to return, you are not! I felt lost too, but as you remain focused on Jesus Christ, He will guide you.
All you need to do is trust Him.

My little brother, David, is a real scaredy-cat. Mom said he was named after the David in the Bible. She told us that that David was brave and had a lot of faith in God. But I can’t imagine my brother slaying a giant warrior like Goliath.
Every Tuesday when we walk to Sister Johnson’s house for piano lessons, David insists that we go all the way around the block to avoid a big, barking dog, even though she is behind a strong fence. He’s such a chicken sometimes.
Maybe Mom and Dad thought that being named after the Bible’s David would help their son become a great hero. Maybe they were right. My brother sure isn’t brave near barking dogs or giant Goliaths, but one day I learned that he is a different kind of brave. …
All the kids in our neighborhood went sledding during Christmas vacation. The school had the greatest sledding hill around, and zillions of kids were there that day. It had snowed the night before, so the hill was perfect for trying out our new sleds.
We trudged up the hill, and I was the first one to jump on my sled and slide down. I found a great path that had a bump halfway down the hill and sent you flying through the air. What a ride! Everyone else followed me on that path—everyone else, that is, except David. He went over to the kiddie hill, where all the moms and dads were clapping and saying “Wheeee!” every time a little one slid to the bottom.
Some of our friends laughed at David and called him “chicken” and “baby.” But mostly they left him alone because they were used to him being afraid. I felt kind of bad for David, but he didn’t seem to care what other kids were saying about him.
Sledding was great fun, but after a couple of hours, we were cold and hungry. One of our friends suggested that we go into the drug store to look around and warm up. So we went inside and checked out the comic books and clearance toys. After five or ten minutes, we decided to head home. That’s when something really horrible happened.
On the way out of the store, someone—I think it was the new boy—dared everyone to take a candy bar from a big bin near the door. I couldn’t believe what was happening! Before I knew it, the other kids were stuffing candy bars into their hats or pockets.
I just froze. I didn’t want to steal anything. Then someone said I was scared, “just like your baby brother.” Fortunately David saved me before I had to decide whether to grab a candy bar or not.
“He’s not scared,” David blurted out. “He’s just smarter and cooler than you are. He turned and locked his arm through mine and said, “Let’s go.”
My heart was still pounding hard as David and I walked home. We didn’t say much to each other, and I thought a lot about what had just happened back at the store.
I think that what David did that day took a lot of courage and faith. It was just like in the Bible story when David slew Goliath because it was the right thing to do. I was pretty proud of my brother for choosing to do the right thing. And I’m especially glad he helped me do the same.
I don’t think of David as a scaredy-cat anymore. In fact, he’s pretty brave. I told him so, too.

Luke looked out his bedroom window and thought about Dad. Dad was in the army and had been gone for months. Luke missed him every day. He wondered when Dad would be able to come home.
Then he remembered the talk he was supposed to give in Primary on Sunday. His stomach did a gigantic flip-flop, and it felt like he had swallowed a bag of rocks. He didn’t want to be nervous, but he was. If Dad were here, he could help.
At bedtime, Mom came in his room to say good night. “Love you forever,” she said.
“Mom,” Luke said, “I wish Dad could help me with my talk, but he’s too far away. I wish I could be brave like him.”
Mom sat next to Luke and pulled the covers around him. “I know,” she said. “I wish he could be here with us too, but he has a really important job to do right now, and when he’s done, he’ll come home. He loves us very much. Do you remember what he always tells us?”
“‘With a prayer, Heavenly Father is always there,’” Luke said.
“That’s right,” Mom said.
“Can we say a prayer?” Luke asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Would you like to say it?”
Luke got out of bed and knelt down. He thanked Heavenly Father for prayer and asked Him to protect Dad. Then he asked Heavenly Father to help him with his Primary talk and to help him be brave enough to give it.
When he got back in bed, Luke felt better. He knew he didn’t have to be nervous anymore. He was glad he knew how to pray to Heavenly Father. He gave Mom a big hug.
“I know Heavenly Father will help me be brave when I give my talk on Sunday,” Luke said.
“Brave like Dad?” Mom asked.
“Brave enough.” Luke smiled, and Mom smiled back.

Elizabeth kicked an empty coconut shell down the dirt road. She frowned as it rolled away. Today had not been a good day.
Not at all!
Lagi said something mean to her at school. No one had played with her at recess. And then her art project got ruined. She’d worked on it for weeks!
“It’s not fair!” Elizabeth said. Who invented bad days anyway?
Elizabeth plucked a hibiscus flower. At least that was one good thing. In Samoa she could always find beautiful flowers. Even on a bad day.
She twisted the pink flower into her hair and walked home.
“Talofa!” Dad said. “How was your day?”
Elizabeth looked down. “Not very good.” She walked past the noisy pigs in their yard and sat next to Dad on the porch.
Dad listened as she told him all about her hard day.
“I’m so sorry,” Dad said, hugging her. “Days like that are really hard. Want to know something that might help?”
She nodded. “Yes, please!”
He started singing a song that Elizabeth knew well. It was a beautiful song that Dad sang to Mom all the time.
She laughed and pushed on his shoulder. “Daa–aad! That doesn’t fix anything.”
He grinned. “I’m serious! Good music can always help your day go better. And, speaking of music …”
Elizabeth knew what he was going to say. It was time to practice piano.
More than anything, Elizabeth wanted to learn piano so she could play songs in church. She already loved singing with her family. Especially with Dad. But playing piano was harder. Her fingers had to work to find the notes.
“I don’t know if I feel like practicing today,” she said.
Dad stood up. “Maybe it would help to think about what you’re playing.”
Then he took off his sandals and went inside to help with dinner. Elizabeth took off her sandals and followed him.
The sheet music for “Fa‘afetai i Le Atua” sat on the keyboard. Elizabeth loved this Samoan hymn. It was all about giving thanks to God.
Elizabeth turned on the electric keyboard and started playing. “Think about what you’re playing,” Dad had said.
Elizabeth decided to try it. She thought about all the things she was thankful for. Her family. Her house. Music. Beautiful Samoa.
Her fingers started to find the notes more easily. After a while, her feelings began to change. She felt peaceful. Elizabeth smiled. She was feeling the Holy Ghost!
Dad started humming. He stood next to her and began to sing.
She kept playing, and Mom joined in too. Elizabeth kept thinking about all the ways God blessed her and her family.
At the end, Dad leaned down. “Feeling any better?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said. “You were right. Good music did make my day better!”
What helps you feel better on hard days?
Turn the page to learn more about Samoa!

A pang of the same old fear shot through me as I realized the old woman trudging up 400 South about a half block ahead of me was Miss Bickersheim, my old typing teacher. The shopping cart she was dragging behind her was the giveaway. Miss Bickersheim had dragged that cart to school every day with her materials in it, year after year after year.
It was her all right. I tried to smile at the return of my old terror. How silly. She couldn’t hurt me now. But then I had to admit Miss Bickersheim had really never hurt me or anyone. She had taught me, my classmates, and hundreds of students before us to type and type well.
My mind raced back to my first day in her classroom. Miss Bickersheim and I had gotten off to a terrible start. “My dear young lady,” she had said, her eyes glaring, “I’m afraid you and I are not going to do business well together.” I could still remember her exact words and how precisely she had said each one. She was not amused that I had mustered the courage to defend my fingernails which tapered to beautiful ovals: I had stopped biting them just the summer before, and at last they looked exactly the way fingernails should look, gorgeously, perfectly, uniformly oval. Miss Bickersheim had held up my hands to show the class how fingernails should not be for typing.
“But, but … they don’t show over the tips of my fingers … much.” I had said the words with a trembling, hopeful voice, shocked at my courage. That’s when Miss Bickersheim had glared at me and uttered those frightful words.
That night I begged my mother to let me check out of Type I. “Oh mom, she’s just awful. Awful! She never smiles. I mean never. She just glares. And she hates me now. I can’t go back. I can’t.”
My mother smiled sympathetically at my plight. “I’m afraid you’d be sorry later if you checked out,” she said. “I know how badly you want to learn to type. Miss Bickersheim may be frightening, but she is also the best. Sometimes we have to do things in life that are hard, but we’re glad later. Of course, you’re the one who has to decide.” Slowly I walked to my room where I would ultimately look for an emery board.
During the next few months, typing became a 24-hour part of my existence. At movies my fingers typed the words the actors said on the screen. While I studied for other classes, my fingers typed the words I read. One night I woke up to find that my fingers were typing on my invisible typewriter. I was typing in my sleep. And each morning before Type I, I shuddered and got a stomachache, but each morning I went.
Because Miss Bickersheim took typing very seriously, her students did too. Miss Bickersheim stressed steady, rhythmic, accurate typing. Ten points were deducted for each error. She taught blind copy typing. No lower form of typing would do. A whack on the desk with her ruler revealed the guilty student who was sneaking a peek at the cylinder or keys. And Miss Bickersheim’s five-minute timed writings were precisely that: five minutes. When she shouted her terrible “STOP!”—a stop that made the stomach jump and the hair stand on end—we stopped typing and stopped immediately.
Although we hoped for a substitute, Miss Bickersheim never missed a day. Never once did she relax long enough to lose her sternness. Never once did she joke or laugh with the students like the other teachers. And never once, no not once, did she smile. Using her own unique methods, she taught us to type. I hadn’t liked those methods, but because she had taught me to type, I had been able to land the excellent summer job I had at the Wilcox Insurance Company. Even though I was one of the younger applicants, the company had been impressed by my performance on the timed typing test, a standard part of the application. I had made only one error. But then, timed writings were “a piece of cake” without the anticipation of Miss Bickersheim’s terrible “STOP” at the end.
The Wilcox company had said I would be able to continue working part-time during the school year, again, because of my accurate typing ability. My job would help me get through college and someday I hoped typing would help me achieve my dream of being a writer. No, Miss Bickersheim hadn’t hurt me—that was certain. In fact, I knew I really needed to thank her. But I didn’t want to.
Ahead of me, she had stopped to adjust the wheel of her shopping cart and had turned slightly. Her body was slumped awkwardly over her cart and her profile looked just as frightening as ever. I wondered if her eyes were glaring. I also wondered if I would speak to her when I caught up with her in just a few yards.
My throat felt dry, and my heart was beginning to pump more vigorously. But what was she doing now? Miss Bickersheim had reached the corner, and instead of stopping at the curb of the same street I planned to cross, she had turned to face the other crosswalk. If I didn’t speed up, she would be gone. I had an excuse now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to face her after all. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to face those glaring dark eyes again anyway.
The light changed, and I knew that in just a few seconds she would be out of my life again and perhaps I would never have another opportunity to thank her. Opportunities cannot be resurrected with each dawn. Maybe that was all right with me. She was so mean and, well, I was scared. But then I thought again of what that one typing course, the only one I’d ever taken, had done for me, and I knew I would thank her, not only because I had to, but because a warmth was encompassing me. The feeling of obligation had been replaced by an urgent, happy desire. I suddenly wanted, really wanted, to thank the old woman just a few feet ahead of me.
“Miss Bickersheim!” All those years of hearing close to 30 typewriters going at once had apparently made her a little deaf. “Miss Bickersheim!” I was almost out of breath from running the last few yards. “Stop, Miss Bickersheim!” She stopped just before she stepped off the curb. I was close enough to touch her arm, and she turned and looked at me with unglaring eyes, eyes that—was it possible that there was a flicker of good humor in them?
“You were one of my students,” she said.
“Yes, I was.” I smiled and wondered what I would say next. I took a deep breath and talked fast. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I enjoyed—appreciated—your class. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in your class about five years ago and I was the one with the too-long nails.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought, as I realized she had probably taught hundreds of girls with nails that had initially needed trimming. “Anyway,” I continued, “I have an excellent summer job now because you taught me to type so well, and it’s helping me through college. So thanks!”
Miss Bickersheim didn’t speak for a moment, and her thick wrinkled face contorted slightly. “I wish I could say I remember you, but I had so many students.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” I assured her that I understood. After all, I had changed, and it had been a long time.
“I wish I could remember you because you’re a lovely girl—I can tell that.” Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble slightly. Was this the same Miss Bickersheim I had known? Where was the sternness? Why, this old woman was nice. And my short speech seemed to have touched her. Again there was a silence for a few moments. “I taught for many, many years, you know, 32 to be exact.” Her eyes had a glazed look. “And I taught thousands of students. But when I retired, no one said anything, not one student, and I thought, well …”
“Oh, but we all appreciate you now. Now that we realize how well you taught us, we’re all so glad we took type from you. I’m sure all your former students feel the same way I feel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
She patted my arm with a wrinkled, slightly shaking hand, and it was then that I saw the miracle. Miss Bickersheim’s thick lips parted, revealing aged, slightly protruding teeth. She was smiling! It wasn’t a pretty smile. No, it wasn’t that. But it was nevertheless a genuine, from-the-heart smile. And although it only lasted a few seconds, I had seen it.
“I did my best. I did my very best,” she said with a raspy voice.
“You were the best,” I said.
The light had changed again, and after we said good-bye, I watched Miss Bickersheim until she stepped up to the opposite curb, her old shopping cart thumping up behind her. The sun’s reflection on the silver metal made the old cart appear to be an object of beauty. She raised her hand to me before she continued her trek. And it was gratifying to see that her step was much livelier than it had been before. As for me, I felt like skipping. I felt like skipping and laughing and hugging the world because Miss Bickersheim had smiled at me.

Four-year-old Micalah had just finished scripture study with her family. They had been reading from Alma in the Book of Mormon about the Zoramites. Micalah had asked a lot of questions about how the wicked Zoramites each said the very same prayer, never really thinking about Heavenly Father or what they might want to say to Him.
After scriptures and family prayer, Micalah knelt by her mom at the side of her bed to say her own prayer to Heavenly Father. “Heavenly Father, please bless our family to be well, and please bless us to do good things. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” It was the exact same prayer she said every night.
Mom didn’t get up right away. “Micalah,” she asked, “do you think that Heavenly Father listens to you when you pray?”
Micalah nodded her head earnestly.
“Do you think Heavenly Father wants to hear what you have in your heart? Or do you think He wants to hear you say the same prayer to Him every night without thinking about what you really want to tell Him?”
A small smile came over Micalah’s face, and her eyebrows went up. “You mean, like the Zoramites?”
Mom smiled back. “Only a little bit like them.”
Micalah thought hard, wrinkling her forehead. “I don’t want to pray like the Zoramites,” she said. “But how can I know what to say every time I pray?”
Mom put her arm around Micalah. “Well, before I start my prayer to Heavenly Father, I kneel down and I just think for a few minutes. I think about the things I did that day. I think about the things I’m thankful for. And I think about the problems I have that I need help with. Then I start my prayer.”
Micalah liked that idea. “I want to try again!” she announced.
Micalah and her mom knelt quietly beside each other for a few moments. Micalah thought about their trip to the park earlier that day to play and to feed the ducks. She thought of her grandma and her cousins who were visiting from out of town. She thought of celebrating Jesus’s Resurrection during Easter. She thought of many things, and then she began to pray. “Heavenly Father, thank Thee that we had fun at the park, and thank Thee for making such a beautiful earth. Thank Thee that Grandma Jolene and Julian and Lonnie are visiting. Thank Thee that Jesus died for us. Thank Thee that we were safe today, and please bless us always to be safe. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When she finished her prayer, Micalah felt warm and peaceful inside. Micalah knew what that feeling was—the Holy Ghost!
She kissed her mom good-night and snuggled down under her cozy blankets. She was smiling as she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. She knew that Heavenly Father had heard her prayer and that He was happy she had spoken to Him from her heart.

When I was very young I read Black Beauty and Beautiful Joe and other animal stories, and these inspired me with a desire to be kind to animals. I read books that stimulated my imagination, adventure stories. I was still very young when the “Last Days of Pompeii” come into my possession and it so stimulated my interest that I was never satisfied until I visited the buried city of Pompeii in 1937 and with my own eyes saw the devastation wrought by old Vesuvius volcano.

A few weeks after Kayson left on his mission, my stake president visited me. I caught him up on what had happened during those weeks after my brothers had talked with me. I said I would like to get a new temple recommend. He asked if I could answer the recommend questions properly. I confessed, “President, I don’t think I can say I know that the Church is true yet, but I sure hope with all my heart that it is. And I am going to live my life in accordance with that hope. Is that enough?”
He paused for a moment then said, “Travis, that will always be enough.”

After I finished high school, I worked at a meat market to support myself and help support my family. The Korean War was going on, and each ward could send only a certain number of young men on missions. One day while I was working at the market, I sat down to rest for a few minutes. I was alone, and the Spirit came over me and told me that it was time for me to commit to serve a mission. The next Sunday I told my bishop that I wanted to do so. He said that the quota for missionaries from our ward had just been increased by one. I was that one. Because I listened to the Holy Ghost, I was able to serve a mission, and my mission was the turning point that has led to everything else good in my life.

When I was a recent convert and living in Colombia, a very special family from my ward invited me to family home evening. It was the first time I had attended home evening, and the spirit of love and faith I found there surprised me.
Once everyone had gathered together, we had a prayer and then shared what we had done during the past week. After we talked, we had an activity.
With the lights turned off, we wrote certain phrases onto colored paper hearts. When we had all finished, we turned on the lights and displayed what we’d written. Some had done not so well, some terribly, and others like me wrote with much difficulty; I think my writing was the worst of all. Of course, the lesson was very clear: when we don’t have the light of the gospel in our lives, everything looks dark, is distorted, and difficult.
This lesson reached me deeply. And in the years since that day, I have tried to ensure my life has taken a course filled with gospel light especially so that I can be an example to my children.
Dina del Pilar Maestre, California, USA

During school recess I saw something shiny lying in the gravel and stopped to see what it was. It was a Kennedy half-dollar! I was so excited! I thought of keeping it, but instead I took it to the teacher on duty. She told me to take it to the office, so I gave the coin to our school secretary. She said, “Wow, Matthew! Thanks for being so honest!” That made me feel really good! She also said that if no one claimed the coin, I could have it back.
I didn’t hear anything else about it until the end of the year. During the last week of school I found out that I had earned a good citizenship award and a prize for turning in the coin. I felt good inside because I had been honest. I also enjoyed the prize, which was a candy bar!