Gospel Story Finder

The elders traveled to all eight branches where they needed to conduct interviews on Tanna. Since the truck’s engine was damaged, they often walked. One of them later said to his fellow missionaries, “When your legs get tired of walking, you walk with your heart.”
“When your legs get tired of walking, you walk with your heart.”
In one branch alone, 48 people had faithfully waited to be baptized. Elder Nalin interviewed those who spoke the native languages of Tanna, and Elder Toa interviewed the Bislama speakers. When they finished, they were surprised to see the sun setting. The interviews had taken the entire day.
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin went all across Tanna to baptize the people who had accepted the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
They baptized people across the island, many of them families, in rivers and the sea. There wasn’t enough baptismal clothing, so some new members handed their wet clothes to another person until all were baptized.
The elders baptized people, many of them families, wherever they were, no matter how remote. Both the people and the elders showed great faith.

Fernando gently closed the book and looked up into our faces. A tear trickled slowly down his cheek. Seated next to him but seeming far away, his wife, María, looked on with a mixture of horror and disgust. Finally, without wiping away the tear, Fernando spoke.
“Yes, Elder, I will accept baptism,” he spoke softly but with quiet confidence.
His wife stood abruptly, her chair teetering, then falling backward. Her face twisted with rage, she pointed at her husband.
“How can you be such a fool? How can you abandon Jesus for the teachings of these gringos and their North American prophet? How can you turn from the Bible for these false scriptures? You are a fool, a wicked fool, and may God have mercy on your damned soul.” She turned and strode from the room.
Fernando sighed. “She is a good woman,” he explained in apology. “She will come to understand—if not agree.”
Months later, his baptism behind him, Fernando walked into the chapel and took his usual seat on the back row. His expression was troubled. I watched him from the stand as I fulfilled my duties as branch president. More than once I caught him gazing intently at me.
After the meeting, as the congregation moved through the door to mingle in the humid sunshine of the Venezuelan Andes, Fernando asked if he could speak with me. He and his wife had fought again. He had tried to explain the joy he had found in the growing sureness of his faith, but she had refused to listen. She had threatened to leave him and to take their daughter away. At the threat, he too had become angry. Bitter words led to tears, and the two of them had retreated to separate parts of their small apartment.
“What do I do?” he asked me.
I sat in my chair, trembling under the responsibility placed on my shoulders. I was 20 years old. I had never been married. Even my teenage attempts to form relationships had not lasted, leaving both lessons and a few scars. My own parents’ marriage had ended after 18 years. I had no training in counseling. What could I give this man who was trying to save his marriage and his family without sacrificing his faith?
I opened my mouth to spout some platitudes of comfort and hope, but instead an idea crowded them out and expressed itself. For once my broken Spanish was clear and unencumbered.
“My friend,” I began, “next time you and your wife begin to discuss your baptism and you start to feel anger and frustration, stop. Say no more for a moment. Then take your wife into your arms, and hold her tight. Tell her that you love her, you appreciate her, and nothing will take her place in your life.”
He looked at me blankly. Perhaps he had expected a lecture or some grand principle that would save his marriage. He waited, maybe expecting me to continue, but I had nothing else to say.
“Yes, Presidente,” he said. He left my office solemnly without saying anything more.
A week passed, and once again Fernando walked into the chapel. But there was a lightness in his step. His head was up, his eyes were clear, and he smiled. Throughout the meeting he fidgeted like a small child. Afterward he came to my office.
“Presidente, Presidente!” he exclaimed in a quiet but excited voice. “You will not believe what happened. I did as you said. We talked again of my faith and my baptism. Again she criticized me and told me I was deceived. I wanted to yell and tell her she was wrong, but I remembered your words. I stopped, took a breath, and looked at her, trying to remember all the years of love we have shared and the love that I still feel. She must have felt something in my gaze, for she softened. I took her into my arms and held her. I whispered that I love her, that I appreciate her, and that nothing could take her place as my wife. We cried. Then, sitting close, we talked for many hours about all we have experienced—the good, the bad—and then I held her again. For the first time in many weeks we felt love. Thank you, Presidente.”
The next month I finished my mission and left to make the long trip back to the United States. I was happy to be going home, sad at leaving. Fernando and I wrote, and he shared his hopes and disappointments. His wife had not come to believe as he did, but she had become more tolerant, less antagonistic. He said it was a start, and he spoke of her with great love. In time we lost contact. Now many years have passed. But the lesson of Fernando still inspires me. Love—not concepts, teachings, or rituals—has the power to soften hearts.

Along with his integrity and ability comes a special loyalty and sensitivity. Margaret Bury, President Faust’s secretary of many years, observes, “He treats everyone well, whether they be judge or janitor.”
“I learned from him the meaning of loyalty,” observes his son Marcus. “My father would make two haircut appointments, one soon after the other. The first appointment was with my grandfather’s barber, a buddy from World War I who was so old he was losing his eyesight and the steadiness in his hands. The second appointment was with another barber who would even out the work.” Little wonder that Marcus comments further: “Father has a soft touch and can deal with sensitive situations without leaving hurt feelings. He can ‘walk on wet concrete without leaving any footprints.’”

Now I think it is folly for one to compare one President of the Church with another. No one takes the place of another President of the Church. Each President has his own place. I had a lesson taught me some years ago when, in company with one of the brethren, I had reorganized the presidency of the Ensign Stake. We had named the bishop of one of the wards as stake president. It was near the end of the year, and he elected to remain as bishop, along with his first counselor, who was a bishop, until they had closed the books at the end of the year.
Six weeks after they were sustained, the stake president suddenly passed away.
Then I began to receive a barrage of letters. Where in the world was the inspiration for you to call a man whom the Lord was going to let die in six weeks? They invited me to talk at his services, and some seemed to be expecting me to try to explain why I had appointed a man that the Lord was going to take home in six weeks.
President Joseph Fielding Smith sat on the stand and heard my attempt to satisfy these people, and he said to me, “Don’t you let that bother you. If you have called a man to a position in this church and he dies the next day, that position would have a bearing on what he will be called to do when he leaves this earth.”
I believe that. I believe that every President of this church, every apostle of this church, every bishop, every stake president, every presiding position will have a bearing on what one is called to do when he leaves this earth.

Kai Fitzhugh’s motivation comes from his family. He says that having a brother with special needs has motivated him to want to serve others with disabilities. The night of the prom was no exception. Like most high school dances, there’s a photographer who takes photos of couples in front of a pretty backdrop. Prom night at special-needs Mutual was no different. Kai was more than happy to stand in line with a girl who had a disability and have his picture taken with her. “It’s hard to explain,” he says, “but whenever I’m here serving, I just feel good inside.”

“Teacher! teacher! Please run now they are coming after you,” the student in a black hijab shouted at me. I couldn’t figure out why she said that. I was serving as a teacher in a village in the northern part of the country as a corper in the compulsory national youth service scheme.
Again, the warning sounded and this time, all the students in the class ran away leaving me behind. As I came out of the classroom, I saw large group of people gruesomely hacking some of my colleagues down. “What in the world is this?” I asked only to discover that I was asking the empty walls and I immediately took to my heels as the irate mobs saw me and started running towards my direction. As I ran and jumped trenches in the bush, I saw charred and dismembered bodies of old and young people.
The mobs chased me for what seemed like ages determined to do their worst. I fell into a hole and passed out. I must have stayed in the hole for many hours as it was now dark when I regained consciousness. Minutes later I heard voices of people searching for me saying, “We must find him and kill him! He is somewhere around here! He is an infidel, a Christian!” I was so afraid and started praying. As I prayed, I felt an overwhelming assuring power come over as if to say, “Be still, I am with you always.” I got up and climbed out of the hole and started saying these words as I walked aimlessly “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4) then the sound of a gunshot and flickers of torch lights interrupted me.
Thank God! The soldiers came to my rescue. Days later as we went to corper’s lodge to pick our belongings, all had been burnt except my Book of Mormon.

Or take Manny. To those around him, Manny looks like a guy with a really easy life. He’s on the football team, he gets good grades, and he has many friends.
But Manny never invites his friends over to his house. He doesn’t want them to know that his father is an alcoholic. At age 15, Manny has to be both “big brother” and “dad” to his brothers and sisters. He has to be both oldest son and home repairman for his mother. Manny’s the one who puts the tricycles and toys together on Christmas Eve.

What a great day! Jody Ann thought. She loved spending Saturdays with her grandparents. Today they’d gone to the zoo, eaten a picnic lunch, and watched a movie. Now they were home. Grandpa was in the living room, reading the newspaper, Grandma was taking a bath, and Jody Ann was busily writing at the kitchen table.
“How’s it going in there, Jody Ann?” called Grandpa.
“I’m almost finished.” She got up and went into the living room and sat down close to Grandpa.
Grandpa lowered his newspaper. “What are you working on?”
“We had Career Week at school last week, and some parents came in to talk about their jobs. On Friday Mr. Clark told us to write a paper about what we want to be when we grow up.
Grandpa put the newspaper down. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“I’m going to be a doctor.”
Grandpa’s eyes sparkled. “That’s my girl!” he said. “Help the sick. Keep people healthy. I think that’s great!”
“I have a doctor’s kit, and I practice on my dolls.”
“I’m sure they’re the healthiest dolls in town,” Grandpa said quite seriously. Then he added, “Doctor Jody.”
Jody Ann giggled. “Yep, when I grow up I’m going to be a doctor—and a teacher.”
“A teacher too?” There was surprise in Grandpa’s voice.
“Sure, I can teach children how to count and help them learn the alphabet. I can tell them why things grow and why leaves turn yellow in the fall and … and … all sorts of things!”
“Well, it sounds like you’ll be a good doctor and a good teacher.”
“Uh-huh. And a good chef.”
Grandpa blinked. “Pardon me?”
“I’m going to be a chef, too,” she explained. “Just like Brian’s dad. He works in a fancy restaurant and wears a tall white hat.”
Grandpa licked his lips. “I’ll be your best customer,” he joked. “A doctor, a teacher, and a chef. It sounds as if you’ll be busy.”
“I sure will be,” Jody Ann replied. “I also want to sew clothing. Mom said she’d teach me how.”
Grandpa whistled. “So you’re going to be a seamstress too.”
“Yes, and an interior decorator, like Emily’s mom. She helps people pick out paints and wallpaper and furniture for their houses. She brought some pictures of rooms she’s decorated to class. They were beautiful! I want to do that too.”
Grandpa tried to look at Jody Ann with a stern expression, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll have to study hard in school to do all those things, young lady.”
Jody Ann nodded.
“So far you’ve told me that you want to be a doctor, a teacher, a chef, a seamstress, and an interior decorator,” Grandpa said. “If you’re going to be all those things, why not be an accountant, too—like your old Gramps?”
Jody Ann stood up and gave Grandpa a kiss on the cheek. “You’re not old,” she told him, sitting down again. “What’s an accountant?”
“Simply stated, I keep track of all the money that comes in and all the money that goes out,” Grandpa explained.
“Oh, that’s like the budget Mom and Dad have for our family. It tells them how much money has to go for food and clothes and”—she laughed—“well, how much is left over for allowances and fun things.”
“Does it sound interesting?” Grandpa asked.
“Yes, I’d better be an accountant too.”
A smile spread over Grandpa’s face. “Is there anything else you’d like to be?” Jody Ann’s eyes lit up. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “What would you call someone who sings and dances and makes children laugh?”
“I’d call her an entertainer. I guess you want to be one of those too?”
Once more Jody Ann nodded. She noticed Grandma standing in the doorway, listening to their conversation and trying not to laugh at the expression on Grandpa’s face.
“Let me get this straight,” Grandpa said. “When you grow up, you’re going to be a doctor, a teacher, a chef, a seamstress, an interior decorator, an accountant like me, and an entertainer. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
Grandpa motioned Jody Ann onto his lap. “I’m really proud of you. You certainly are an ambitious young lady.” He cleared his throat, and a little frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t want to spoil your dreams, Jody Ann, but there is no way in the world that you or anyone else could be all those things at once.”
Jody Ann glanced at Grandma. Grandma winked. “Yes there is,” Jody Ann insisted.
Grandpa shook his head. “I don’t see how.”
Jody Ann looked into Grandpa’s puzzled face. She put her arms around his neck and told him, with a laugh in her voice, “When I grow up I’m going to be a wife and mother, just like mom and grandma. They do all of those things at home!”
Grandpa’s puzzled look was replaced with an understanding smile. “An excellent career choice!”

I learned about the power of such a vision when I joined my 12- and 13-year-old sons for a 50/20 competition. A 50/20 consists of walking 50 miles (80 km) in less than 20 hours. We started at 9:00 p.m. and walked all that night and most of the next day. It was an excruciating 19 hours, but we succeeded.
Upon returning home, we literally crawled into the house, where a wonderful wife and mother had prepared a lovely dinner, which we didn’t touch. My younger son collapsed, totally exhausted, on the couch, while my older son crawled downstairs to his bedroom.
After some painful rest of my own, I went to my younger son to make sure he was still alive.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Dad, that was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I never want to do it again.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I would never do it again either. Instead, I told him how proud I was that he had accomplished such a hard thing. I knew it would prepare him for other hard things he would face in his future. With that thought, I said, “Son, let me make you this promise. When you go on your mission, you will never have to walk 50 miles in one day.”
“Good, Dad! Then I’m going.”
Those simple words filled my soul with gratitude and joy.
I then went downstairs to my oldest son. I lay by him—then touched him. “Son, are you all right?”
“Dad, that was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, and I will never, ever do it again.” His eyes closed—then opened—and he said, “Unless my son wants me to.”
Tears came as I expressed how grateful I was for him. I told him I knew he was going to be a much better father than I was. My heart was full because at his young and tender age he already recognized that one of his most sacred priesthood duties was to be a father. He had no fear of that role and title—the very title that God Himself wants us to use when we speak to Him. I knew I had the responsibility to nurture the embers of fatherhood that were burning within my son.

No one was at the church when, as Young Women president, I arrived to set up chairs in the cultural hall the night before a Young Women activity. I was seven months pregnant, and I had to set up the chairs almost all by myself. But soon my secretary and a counselor arrived and helped me finish. Then we started hanging decorations.
That’s when a lady poked her head in. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but the Relief Society has this room reserved for our yoga class tonight.”
We asked if there was another room they could use, but the other rooms were occupied. So we did the only thing we could: we took down the chairs. I went home that night feeling tired, knowing that in the morning I would need to set up chairs again.
But is it about the chairs? As I took down the chairs after the Young Women activity, I couldn’t help but smile as I thought about those fun and wonderful girls I have come to love dearly. I was grateful for the time I had spent with them.

Robin stared into the swimming pool. He tried not to think about how far he had to swim. All that mattered was earning the badge. The seepferdchen (seahorse) badge would show everybody in Germany that he knew how to swim all by himself.
I can do this! Robin thought. He took a deep breath and jumped.
SPLASH!
The cool water felt great on such a hot day.
Take it one meter at a time, Dad had told him. Don’t think about all 25 meters at once.
Robin kept his head down. He moved his arms and legs the way he’d been practicing for months. Every few seconds he pulled up for air.
Kick. Stroke. Kick. Stroke.
Suddenly, the swimming teacher blew her whistle. Robin looked up in surprise.
“Way to go,” his teacher said.
He’d done it!
Robin laughed and did a few underwater somersaults to celebrate. He was a seahorse!
When Robin got home, he hurried to find Dad.
“Dad, look!”
Robin’s dad set down his hammer. As soon as Dad saw the seepferdchen badge, he smiled wide.
“On your first try?” Dad gave Robin a big hug. “What do you want to do to celebrate?”
Robin thought for a second. “What I would really like is to go to the pool with you. I want to show you what I can do.”
Dad smiled even bigger. “Now that would be a celebration for both of us. As soon as I have some time, we’ll go.”
Robin pumped his fist in the air. He couldn’t wait to have the badge sewn on his swimsuit and go swimming with Dad.
Several days passed. Robin kept asking about the pool, but something was always in the way. Dad always seemed to be busy.
One morning Robin knelt by his bed to pray. At the end of the prayer, he added one more thing.
“Please give my dad some extra time so we can go to the pool. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As Robin opened his eyes, he heard Dad knock on the door.
“Let’s head to the pool. I want to see you in action!”
Robin’s jaw dropped. “Dad! You won’t believe this. I just prayed that you would get some extra time so we could go.”
Dad folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. “Now, isn’t that interesting? You see, I just heard a quiet, clear message from the Holy Ghost that I need to take you to the pool. Sounds like we’d better go!”
They had a fantastic trip. Robin showed Dad how he could swim for 25 meters without stopping. Dad was impressed. And Robin was impressed with Dad’s underwater somersaults. Dad could do five in a row!
“I’m glad Heavenly Father gave you some extra time today,” Robin said.
“Actually,” Dad said, “I think I was just letting myself get too busy. I think the Holy Ghost was reminding me that we have to make time for each other, don’t you think? I promise to do my part.”
Robin smiled. “Me too!”
Dad’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “One more thing. Have I ever told you that I’ve never lost a splash fight?”
Robin grinned back. “The day’s not over yet!”
This story takes place in Germany. Read more about Germany on pages F6–F7.

This tendency to wrongfully identify ourselves was again brought to my attention the other day during an interview with a troubled wife. Her marriage is in great difficulty. She has tried earnestly to correct the communication blocks with her husband but with little success. She is grateful for the time her bishop has spent in counseling. Her stake president has also been most patient and understanding in his willingness to try and help.
All of her problems are not resolved, but she is making progress. Her many contacts with properly channeled priesthood direction have left her not only grateful, but somewhat amazed. Her concluding observation the other day was, “I just don’t understand all of you people giving so much time and showing so much concern. After all, I’m really ‘nobody.’”

Last year the children in Clara’s grade-four class were assigned to give four-to-five-minute speeches. Clara chose to give a speech on the Holocaust, which she presented as if she were a girl in a concentration camp. When she first rehearsed her speech, it took eight minutes and 40 seconds to give because many of the words were hard to say. She practiced it over and over. The speech slowly grew shorter as she learned to say the words fluently. She finally presented the speech in four minutes and 40 seconds, and her classmates chose her to represent them in front of the whole school. When she did, the entire student body broke into wild applause. Many of them had known Clara since grade one, and her progress seemed miraculous. “The principal was crying,” Clara’s mom recalls. “Clara’s grade-two teacher was crying. Her grade-four teacher was cheering. It was such a victory—one of the greatest moments of my life!”
What did Clara learn from the experience? “Keep trying,” she counsels children everywhere. “Never give up.”
Of course, prayer was also a vital part of Clara’s triumph. She has great faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Primary, home evenings, scripture study, and her parents’ teachings have helped. Her older sisters have made a difference too, both through their good examples and their reading materials. As soon as Carly, 18, and Josie, 15, turned 12 in their turn, they began putting New Era Posters on their mirrors. Clara has also memorized seminary scripture mastery scriptures and learned President Hinckley’s six B’s with her sisters.

Sisters, we must prepare if we wish to serve, and we must serve if we wish to prepare. When I was 16 I was called to teach the three-year-olds in what was then called Junior Sunday School. (You know there was such a thing in the olden days.) I taught some busy children. They climbed on and under the chairs and table and never seemed to stop moving. I was dreadfully inexperienced, and during the first few weeks I wondered if I had done the right thing in accepting the call.

But I persisted, and what I learned—quickly—was that I couldn’t just pray for help. I had to be prepared. That meant planning activities, stories, and lessons, and it meant having plan B ready, along with C through Z. Many years later, when I was called to lead a Junior Sunday School, I knew how to assist new teachers. I knew how to enjoy the children, and I knew the importance of being faithful in my calling.

I arrived home. I heard crying as I walked in. It was Steven, my brother. He’d been teased at school and didn’t want to go back. The words from my patriarchal blessing echoed in my mind: “You may help the needy with your time, effort, and means.” Here was my brother in need.
“Hey Steven, you wanna go get some ice cream? Tell me what happened.”
Steven and I talked about his peers. Maybe I didn’t say anything helpful, but I could tell that my companionship meant a lot to him.
That experience with Steven taught me a lesson: the poor are just as likely to be in your home as on the streets. There are all sorts of needy people in the world—those who need food and shelter, of course—but also those who need love, counsel, and encouragement.
I haven’t given up my dream of ending the world’s social troubles, but for now, whenever I get the itch to seek out the needy, I’m inclined to go knocking at my brother’s bedroom door first.

My missionary companion and I were having difficulty getting along well together. I still do not know all that lay at the root of our difficulties, but after we had been together only a few weeks, walking the streets of a small Brazilian town, resentment, pride, and petty differences began to darken our relationship. Our prayers together became more and more perfunctory, and resentment more and more frequently broke out in sharp words. Almost unnoticed, the Spirit began to slip away from us.
One afternoon, after one of many unfruitful days of tracting and visiting members, and with what promised to be a barren afternoon stretching before us, we decided that we could fill some of the empty spaces on our daily activity records by visiting Antonio. Antonio was a nonmember whose wife had joined the Church several years before but had been only marginally active. He respected the missionaries and several times had shown sufficient faith to ask them to administer to him when he was ill. My present companion and I had administered to him twice, and I knew that earlier elders had done so. All of that took place before we learned that Antonio was dying of an abdominal cancer and had only a few months, perhaps weeks, to live.
When his wife answered the door that day, she looked drawn and worried. She took us into her kitchen, from which an open door led to Antonio’s room. Through the door we saw Antonio threshing in agony on a narrow bed, unconscious that we were even there.
We were suddenly at a complete loss for what to do or say. Antonio’s wife looked at us silently. We looked at each other, at Antonio, at the floor. We had no idea what to do, and worse, without a word being spoken between us, we knew that we were both thinking that we were in no spiritual condition to do anything. Finally, one of us asked if there was a room where we could be alone for a while. Antonio’s wife showed us to a bedroom, and we closed the door behind us.
We knelt and took turns praying, at first asking the Lord to make known to us his will concerning Antonio. In the silence that answered our first prayers, the knowledge of our unworthiness to receive an answer fairly shouted at us. Then, at first awkwardly and cautiously, and finally pleadingly, we began to confess to the Lord and to each other our sin in allowing vanity and pride to rob us of the power to act in our priesthood. We pleaded that Antonio not be denied release from his suffering because of our unworthiness, that the Lord would forgive our sin and bless us with faith and power to bless Antonio, or that he would bless Antonio without us.
We must have prayed for half an hour, taking turns, before a peace came to us. We agreed that we should go out, lay our hands on Antonio, and let the Spirit guide us.
When we went out, his wife asked, “Did you pray?” We said yes, and she said, “He has gone to sleep.”
We left the house subdued and chastened. Permanently and profoundly recorded in our hearts was a hard-learned lesson in the foolishness of allowing personal differences to cut us off from the source of the power to bless.

Taylor took a deep breath and raised her arms above her head. She took a step and lowered her hands to the ground. The flip she made wasn’t perfect, but she put her left leg forward and twisted her body for the next move in her gymnastics routine. That’s when the pounding began to fill the air.
The sound of Billy’s drumming threw her off balance. Taylor’s legs slipped out from under her, and she sprawled on the grass in the backyard. Frowning, she looked up at the window to her younger brother’s room. The drumming came through loud and clear.
“Billy, stop making all that noise!” Taylor yelled. “I can’t get the rhythm right for my routine.”
The drumming stopped. Billy stuck his head out the window. “You call that a routine?” He began to tap on the windowsill with his drumsticks.
Taylor sighed and got up off the grass. “You know I’m planning to try out for the gymnastics team next week!”
Billy finished tapping out his tune. “I have to practice too.”
“That noise isn’t as important as my routine,” Taylor told him. “They only have tryouts once a year.”
“Then you’d better get back to practicing,” Billy said. He disappeared back into his room, and the drumming began again.
Taylor sighed and raised her arms. She tried a few more moves, but then gave up when the drumming became louder.
Later that day, Taylor passed by Billy’s room. He wasn’t there, but his drums stood in the middle of the room. The drumsticks he used to make all that noise were on top of the biggest drum.
Taylor walked into the room and picked up Billy’s drumsticks. What if she hid them, just until after the gymnastics tryouts? Would that really be so bad? She had asked Billy to stop, but he hadn’t. It was his fault she had to hide the drumsticks.
When Billy noticed his drumsticks were missing, he asked everyone in the family if they had seen them. When he asked Taylor she shook her head and went back to her routine. She could concentrate now, and her practice went better than before. But she still didn’t think she was good enough to make the team.
When she saw Billy the next day he looked sadder than ever. He kept searching for his drumsticks. Taylor felt so sorry for him she almost told him where she had hidden the drumsticks. Then she thought of all the noise he would make to get back at her for taking the sticks. She went outside to practice her routine.
The day before tryouts came. Taylor’s routine still seemed wrong; she couldn’t get the rhythm right. Billy’s sadness was bothering her too. Taylor knew she had done something wrong. She went and got the drumsticks and gave them to Billy.
“Thanks, Taylor!” Billy said, giving her a big hug. “Where in the world did you find them?”
Taylor sighed. “I didn’t find them. I hid them from you. I wanted it quiet so I could practice my routine.”
“You hid them? I’m going to tell Mom!” Billy cried. But then he noticed how sad Taylor was. “Why did you give them back?” he asked.
“You looked so sad,” Taylor said. “And taking them was wrong. I should have tried to get used to your drumming. Anyway, I can’t get my routine right. I can’t get into the rhythm of the moves. I might as well forget about trying out for the team.”
Billy sat down on the grass. “Why don’t you show me what your routine is like?”
Taylor wondered why he wanted to see it, but she nodded and raised her arms. She did a handstand, but immediately felt off balance. As she turned her body for her next move, she heard Billy tapping on the edge of the driveway. He tapped out a rhythm that seemed to mirror the moves she made.
Taylor felt her movements grow smoother. The tapping sound helped her get the rhythm of her routine right. She went through all her moves, did a final flip, and stood up straight with a smile on her face.
“You did it!” Billy said, giving a final series of taps with the drumsticks. “You looked great, Taylor.”
She gave Billy a hug. “I think I’ll do OK at the tryouts, as long as you promise to be there.”
Billy grinned. “I promise!”

Last year I was sitting on the school bus when an older boy came over and started saying mean things to the boy next to me. I told him to stop. I said it was not nice. He didn’t like that, so he slapped my face. I sat there shocked that he had done this to me. My mom had told me that when kids say or do mean things, I should sing the Primary song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” So I started singing the song in my head, and the boy slapped me again. I did not hit the boy back. I didn’t want to hit him. I followed Jesus’s example and turned the other cheek. I know I did the right thing by not hitting back. I am happy that we have Primary songs that can help us during hard times.

I was at my friend’s house, and he wanted us to ride our bikes to the church. One of our family rules is that if we go somewhere other than where we told our parents we would be, we have to call and let them know.
I told my friend that I needed to call my mom, and he told me not to. He didn’t want to wait, and he said, “Let’s just go.”
I said I needed to call my mom first, and then he started calling me names and being mean to me. I didn’t go with him. I went home instead, even though I felt left out. I knew that I was supposed to obey my mom.

My friend Kaj and I have played soccer together for three years. Last season we decided to try out for the all-star team. We tried our hardest during tryouts. The coach contacted our parents to ask if we could play on Sundays. We told the coach that Sunday was our Sabbath and we needed to keep it holy. It was hard giving up our spots on the team, but we knew keeping the Sabbath day holy was the right thing to do.
Landon B., age 11, Virginia, USA