Gospel Story Finder

When we went to the Conference Center and found our seats, I was very nervous. I was seated on the back row, right in front of the tallest, widest, loudest, hugest organ pipes. Everyone around me kept saying things like, “Oh no, it’s going to blow out our eardrums.” I have very sensitive ears, and I was really scared. I felt like I was going to cry, so I pleaded with Heavenly Father that I wouldn’t be afraid. Before we started singing, a woman said a prayer. She asked that if anyone was nervous, they would be comforted. Then the organ played. Now I felt like crying happy tears! The organ was not too loud at all. I thanked Heavenly Father and sang my testimony.
Emma C., age 11

Upon Bob’s completing his four-year military commitment, his commanding officer recommended him to Harvard Business School. That is where he reconnected with my father, a fellow student. The rigor of the first-year MBA curriculum was known to be very high. A crusty professor started the semester by saying, “Look at the two people sitting next to you. One of you three won’t be here next semester.”

Bob was already concerned about his relative lack of emphasis on academics in college, and his time in the Air Force left him feeling rusty as a student. He wasn’t bookish, to say the least.

Then, early in the first semester of the Harvard MBA program, Bob was called as an Elder’s Quorum President. That responsibility came on top of being the father of two young sons. Without Mary’s generalship at home, there would have been an emotional and academic train wreck. After much prayer and discussion, Mary said, “I’d rather have an active priesthood holder than a man who holds a master’s degree from Harvard, but we’ll do them both.”

Bob distinguished himself as a Harvard graduate. Thanks to baseball and the Air Force, he had “street smarts.” At graduation, he had his pick of business opportunities. In the succeeding decades he held senior-leadership positions in four large companies.

The first is a delightful experience related by his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Mother Smith, as she was affectionately known to early Church members, compensated with spunk for that which she lacked in height. Standing only about four foot, ten inches in height, she possessed levels of courage and energy that were almost without equal.

This experience occurred in her home in Far West Missouri in 1838 on a day when Joseph just happened to be visiting her. As we pick up her story, we have Joseph, seated at a table writing a letter; Mother Smith is looking out the window and sees a group of men on horses approaching the home. You’ll get a delightful feel for both the Prophet’s mother and for Joseph as I now read directly from Mother Smith’s own account:

Presently the main body came to a halt. The officers dismounting, eight of them came into the house. Thinking they had come for some refreshment, I offered them chairs, but they refused to be seated, and, placing themselves in a line across the floor, continued standing. I again requested them to sit, but they replied, “We do not choose to sit down; we have come here to kill Joe Smith and all the ‘Mormons.’”

“Ah,” said I, “what has Joseph Smith done, that you should want to kill him?”

“He has killed seven men in Daviess county,” replied the foremost, “and we have come to kill him, and all his Church.”

“He has not been in Daviess county,” I answered, “consequently the report must be false. Furthermore, if you should see him, you would not want to kill him.”

“There is no doubt that the report is perfectly correct,” rejoined the officer; “it came straight to us, and I believe it; and we were sent to kill the Prophet and all who believe in him, and I'll ... execute my orders.”

“I suppose,” said I, “you intend to kill me, with the rest?”

“Yes, we do,” returned the officer.

“Very well,” I continued. “I want you to act the gentleman about it, and do the job quick. Just shoot me down at once, then I shall be at rest; but I should not like to be murdered by inches.”

“There it is again,” said he. “You tell a ‘Mormon’ that you will kill him, and they will always tell you, ‘that is nothing—if you kill us, we shall be happy.’”

Joseph, just at this moment finished his letter, and, seeing that he was at liberty, I said, “Gentlemen, suffer me to make you acquainted with Joseph Smith, the Prophet.” They stared at him as if he were a spectre. He smiled, and stepping towards them, gave each of them his hand, in a manner which convinced them that he was neither a guilty criminal nor yet a hypocrite.

Joseph then sat down and explained to them the views, feelings, etc., of the Church, and what their course had been; besides the treatment which they had received from their enemies since the first. He also argued, that if any of the brethren had broken the law, they ought to be tried by the law, before anyone else was molested. After talking with them some time in this way, he said, “Mother, I believe I will go home now—Emma will be expecting me.” At this two of the men sprang to their feet, and declared that he should not go alone, as it would be unsafe—that they would go with him, in order to protect him. Accordingly the three left together, and, during their absence, I overheard the following conversation among the officers, who remained at the door:

1st Officer. “Did you not feel strangely when Smith took you by the hand? I never felt so in my life.”
2nd Officer. “I could not move. I would not harm a hair of that man's head for the whole world.”
3rd Officer. “This is the last time you will catch me coming to kill Joe Smith, or the ‘Mormons’ either.”
1st Officer. “I guess this is about my last expedition against this place. I never saw a more harmless, innocent appearing man than the ‘Mormon’ Prophet.”
2nd Officer. “That story about his killing them men is all a ... lie—there is no doubt of it; and we have had all this trouble for nothing; but they will never fool me in this way again.”

One day I was playing with my friend who is a member of a different church. We began talking about the ways my church and her church are the same. I remembered hearing a talk in general conference by Elder Gary J. Coleman about how we are Christians. Because I had listened well to his talk, I was able to explain to my friend what it means to be Christians, and that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are Christians.
You can find Elder Coleman’s talk on page 92 of the May 2007 Ensign, and at www.lds.org.

One of the great experiences of my life came as I was beginning my independent career as a faculty member at the University of Texas at Arlington. Paul had a great experience on the road to Damascus, and I had my own on the road to Dallas. No, I did not see the Savior as Paul did, but I did experience His love, and I got to see how many little, seemingly less-important choices added up to bless me.

I was trying hard to raise a family and to serve faithfully in the Church. It is challenging to do this as a young assistant professor. I had taken the job planning to pursue a certain course of research that appeared to have good opportunities for funding. I set up my lab and needed a test problem to check whether or not my instruments were working. I wasn’t quite ready to do what I had originally planned, and I remembered some work I had done years before as an undergraduate at BYU. This gave me an idea for a new experiment. It wasn’t a big deal, but I tried it, and it worked.

I wanted to attend a scientific meeting I thought would further my career. I needed something to present at the conference because the university required me to present in order to fund the trip, so I took the results of my test experiment and drove 700 miles from Dallas to Nashville to attend the meeting. It was just a poster presentation, one among hundreds, but I was shocked at the strong positive response I received.

I had to drive the 700 miles home by myself, and that was when the revelation began. All the way home it was as if I heard a voice saying over and over, “Drop your original plans and pursue this other course of research.” I did, and that choice laid the foundation for my entire subsequent career. In part, that is why I am here at BYU today. It may not have won a Nobel Prize, but the choice was a good one. It came after much thought and hard work and led to much more thought and hard work. I still don’t know if the Lord cares about the science I did. I doubt it matters at all to Him, but I do know for sure that He loves me and my family, and that matters a lot. It has blessed my life.

When the Manti Utah Temple was under construction some 120 years ago, George Paxman worked as a finish carpenter. He and his young wife, Martha, had one child and were expecting another.
While hanging one of the heavy east doors of the temple, George suffered a strangulated hernia. He was in terrible pain. Martha laid him in a wagon and took him to the town of Nephi, where she put him on the train and took him to Provo. There he died. Spurning marriage, she remained a widow for 62 years, supporting herself with needlework.
Now permit me to diverge from this narrative to say that when I was engaged to marry my wife, I gave her a ring. When we were married, I gave her a wedding band. She wore them for years. Then one day I noticed that she had taken them off and was wearing this little gold wedding band. It had belonged to her grandmother. The ring had been given her by her husband, George. The ring was the only thing he left in this life. One day in the spring, Martha was housecleaning. She brought all of the furnishings out to give the house a thorough cleaning. Upon shaking the straw from the mattress, she looked down, and the ring was gone. She looked everywhere most carefully. It was the only physical remembrance of her beloved husband. She raked through the straw with her fingers but could not find the ring. Tears fell from her eyes. She went to her knees and prayed that the Lord would help her to find the ring. When she opened her eyes, she looked down and there it was.
Now I hold it in my hand. It is too small for all of you to see. It is 18-karat gold, old and scarred and bent. But it represents faith, the faith of a widow who pleaded with the Lord in her extremity. Such faith is the wellspring of activity. It is the root of hope and trust. It is this simple faith that all of us so much need.

One evening while I was serving as a stake president, I received a telephone call from an angry member of the Church who had just finished talking with his bishop. This brother attended church sporadically and had not paid his tithing in many years. Earlier the same evening this man had walked into the bishop’s office, rather matter-of-factly written out a check for his tithing, and then indicated that he wanted to obtain a temple recommend. One of this man’s children was to be married in the temple soon, and he wanted to attend the wedding. As the bishop and the man had counseled together, it was clear the man believed that simply paying the money was all that was necessary to obtain a temple recommend. This wise bishop had commended this brother for starting to pay his tithing; the bishop also told the man that they would talk about worthiness to worship in the temple when the man understood and had repented for the sin of disobedience. The man was not pleased with this counsel from the bishop. The man had said to his bishop, “I wrote out the check. What more do you want?” The bishop responded, “My dear brother, writing a check is not repentance. You must recognize and repent of your sin and change your heart. The Lord requires your heart.” Following his conversation with the bishop, the man called me to complain about the treatment he had received from the bishop. The man was even less pleased with my response. I told him, “Your bishop has counseled you correctly. I advise you to heed his counsel and truly repent.”

I suspect you know people like this because for a long time, I was someone like this—I was spiritually face-blind.
I thought my life was about following rules and measuring up to abstract standards. I knew God loved you perfectly but didn’t feel it myself. I’m afraid I thought more about getting into heaven than being with my Heavenly Father.
When I realized that I was spiritually face-blind, that I saw rules but not the face of the Father’s mercy, I knew it wasn’t the Church’s fault. It wasn’t God’s, and it didn’t mean everything was lost; it’s something we all have to learn. Even the early witnesses to the Resurrection often came face-to-face with the resurrected Lord but did not recognize Him; from the Garden Tomb to the shores of Galilee, His first followers “saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus.” They had to learn to recognize Him, and so do we.
When I realized I was spiritually face-blind, I started to follow Mormon’s counsel to pray “with all the energy of heart” to be filled with the love promised His disciples—my love for Him and His love for me—and to “see him as he is … and have this hope.” I prayed for years to be able to follow the first great commandment to love God and to feel that “first great truth … that God loves us with all of His heart, might, mind, and strength.”
I also read and reread and reread the four Gospels—this time reading not to extract rules but to see who He is and what He loves. And, in time, I was swept away by the river of love that flowed from Him.
As I saw this, my heart leapt in loving recognition, and I began to feel that He might love me. As President Nelson taught, “The more you learn about the Savior, the easier it will be to trust in His mercy, His infinite love.” And the more you will trust and love your Heavenly Father.

When our children were small, my wife Mary and I decided to follow a tradition which my father taught when I was a child. He would meet with each child individually to help us set goals. Then he would teach us how church, school, and extracurricular activities would help us achieve those goals. He had three rules:
We needed to have worthwhile goals.
We could change our goals at any time.
Whatever goal we chose, we had to diligently work towards it.
When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like Uncle Joe. Larry had experienced a serious operation and had acquired great respect for doctors, especially his Uncle Joe. I told Larry how all the worthwhile things he was doing would help prepare him to be a doctor.
Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. Changing the goal was fine, so I explained how his various activities would help him achieve his new goal.
Almost as an afterthought I said, “Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What changed your mind?” He answered, “I still like the idea of being a doctor, but Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I don’t want to miss Saturday-morning cartoons.” Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday-morning cartoon.

Hi! My name is Breana Johnson, and I am a Merrie Miss. I have been working on my Gospel in Action program. I had a hard time thinking up a goal for the family area. I wanted to do something different, but I also wanted to do something my whole family could learn from. Most important, I wanted it to be fun for my seven sisters and my mom and dad.
When my mother came home from a women’s conference in our stake, she told me about the different classes she had attended and the many things she had learned. I could tell without even asking that it had been fun, so I decided that for my family goal I would organize the Johnson Family Conference.
I wrote a note to everyone in the family who could read, asking them to prepare a five-minute class on “How Our Family Can Be Happier.” The note also told them that the conference would be the following Sunday at four o’clock and that the theme would be “The Secret Is Love.” My sisters got excited and asked me all about what we were going to do.
All week our house was buzzing like a beehive. Everyone was getting his or her class ready but keeping it a secret from everyone else. I decided to do my class on sharing with others.
I made a program for every member of my family by folding sheets of paper in half. On the front I wrote, “Johnson’s Conference.” Below that, in red letters, I wrote, “The Secret Is Love.” On the inside I wrote the program:
Opening prayer: Mariah
Opening Song: “As I Have Loved You”
4:10 Den—Mom’s lesson
4:15 Living room—Dad’s lesson
4:20 Laresa’s room—Laresa’s lesson
4:25 Talena’s room—Talena’s lesson
4:30 Nursery—Breana’s lesson
4:35 Family room—Anissa’s lesson
4:40 Mariah’s room—Mariah’s lesson
4:45 Dining room
Closing prayer: Mom
REFRESHMENTS IN THE KITCHEN!
When my littlest sisters discovered what was going on, they wanted to do a class, too, even though they couldn’t read. So I helped Kirsha and Meleah learn a flannel board story, which they gave in the family room after Anissa’s lesson.
When Sunday finally came, everyone was ready and excited. We started in the dining room, then traveled around the house to each class. It was fun to go into the different rooms and find posters and pictures waiting. And in each room we were given handouts with a scripture or a picture or a poem that would help us remember what had been taught there. By the time we finished, I had a whole bunch of cute things to hang on the bulletin board in my bedroom.
After all the lessons, we met back in the dining room and had a special family testimony meeting. Testimonies were borne by each person in our family. It was a very special time. I felt a lot of love for my family, and I could tell that the rest of my family felt the same way.
After the testimony meeting, we had a closing prayer. Then I served the fudge pudding cake I had made. We lingered at the table, talking and laughing. We were having such a great time that no one wanted our family conference to end.
Finally some of my sisters started to leave. But before they went, they all said that they wanted to have another Johnson Family Conference sometime. I felt very happy. Maybe I’ve even started a new Johnson family tradition!

When he was 14 years old, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) was asked whether he had read the Bible all the way through. “I had read many books by that time, the funny papers, and light books, but my accusing heart said to me, ‘You, Spencer Kimball, you have never read that holy book. Why?”1 From that point on, President Kimball made it a point to “feast upon the words of Christ” (2 Nephi 32:3).

Years ago, I observed a powerful example of letting your light shine. We were living in Salt Lake at the time. My wife and I were watching the evening news, and they announced that there was a huge shortage of blankets at the homeless shelter.

The next day for family home evening, we invited our kids to come outside into the backyard without their coats. We all stood in a small circle in the snow and talked about what it would be like to live outside in the winter. As we stood there shivering in the cold winter air, we told the kids about the shortage of blankets, and invited them each to go into the house and pick one of their blankets that they would be willing to give to the shelter. My wife and I grabbed a couple of comforters that we had been given when we were first married that we had never used. They were not super attractive or stylish, but they were warm. Each of the kids returned to the family room with a blanket. Our oldest daughter came into the room with her special blanket that she slept with every night—the one we wrapped her in when we brought her home from the hospital. She absolutely loved this blanket! When I saw the blanket she had chosen, I asked my wife to grab a back-up blanket “just in case.” As we drove down to the shelter, I noticed she was holding her blanket very tightly. We walked into the shelter, and it was dinner time. We could see many people of all ages talking and eating at tables in the other room. We pointed out to our kids that these were the people they would be helping. One by one, each family member handed their blanket to the woman at the desk. All but our oldest daughter. She was standing at the back of the room, just holding her blanket tightly with tears in her eyes. I motioned to my wife to grab the back-up blanket. We told her that she could just give this other blanket instead and that it would be fine. To be honest, we really did not want her to give away the blanket either, because of the sentimental connections we had with the blanket. Our daughter just stood there clutching her blanket and looking at families eating in the other room. I again told her she could just use the back-up blanket, to which she replied, “If I was one of those girls in that room, I would want this blanket. This one is the warmest and most cuddly.” She then, with tears in her eyes, walked up and sat the blanket on the desk and turned and walked away sobbing. We were taught a great lesson that night by our daughter. She had seen others with her “compassion glasses.” She got out of the boat and did her small part to “light the world.”

Can a clown fish from the Indian Ocean find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California? That is the question we asked ourselves as we watched our recently acquired amphiprion bicinctus wriggle out of the plastic bag it had resided in for the past hour and into our aquarium. The salesman at the tropical fish store had assured us that the two of them would get along famously, but then that’s what he had also told us when we introduced a moray eel to our seven-armed octopus!
The meeting in this instance was considerably less dramatic. After hovering around in an upper corner of the tank for a few minutes and being sized up by the other fish, the banded clown made her maiden voyage across the ten-foot expanse of our upstairs show tank. Scattered across this stretch of sand and coral are twelve different anemones that we have collected from the Gulf of California just south of Puerto Penasco, Mexico. We wondered which one the clown would choose for her own. Would it be one of the smaller reddish ones? Or would it be the large brown and purple one in the center of the tank? Or maybe several of them?
Throughout that first day we didn’t notice too much activity on the part of the clown fish directed toward any of the anemones. But then on the second day, we saw that she had taken up a semipermanent residence close by the large anemone near the center of the tank. And soon she was vigorously wriggling among the many tentacles of her newly claimed possession.
This close association between clown fish and anemones has been a topic of some controversy among observers of the symbiotic (living together) relationship for several years. It has usually been agreed that nestled among the tentacles of the anemone the clown is protected from its enemies. But what does the anemone reap from the association?
At various times it has been suggested that the clowns purposely provided anemones with food or even lured other fish toward the anemones’ grasping tentacles with their nematocysts (poisonous stingers). This view has been challenged, however, by the observation that although clown fish have been observed to bring large chunks of food to an anemone partner, they do not let the anemone eat it. Instead, they often tear at it as soon as the anemone has grasped it, feeding themselves with small portions they break away from the large chunk. In the end, the anemone is left with nothing.
Which view is true? We decided to find out for ourselves—and find out we did.
Our first step was to provide a suitable food source. A quick trip to a nearby pond supplied us with plenty of freshwater minnows. We introduced three of them into the tank. Immediately the water churned with activity as the community of marine fish began to subdivide the minnows for their lunch. But then, as if from out of nowhere, the banded clown darted into the melee and returned just as rapidly with one of the minnows intact in her mouth. The clown fish’s rapid wriggling reminded us all of the joyous wagging of a puppy’s tail as the puppy returns to its master with a stick it has retrieved.
Upon reaching the large brown and purple anemone, the clown fish actually shoved the minnow down into its outstretched tentacles. Immediately they responded to the stimulus and began to close about the prey. Assured that the minnow was securely trapped, the clown turned back to the fracas at the end of the tank. Once again she somehow managed to secure another minnow, and once again she wigwagged her way back to the plump anemone. Plumper still with her second delivery, the anemone was soon to be truly gorged when the clown returned a third time with the last of the minnows.
On the following day, in the manner of true scientists, we proceeded to see if our observations were repeatable. And indeed they were. Not only did the clown fish again succeed in securing three minnows for the anemone, but she retrieved them when a sneaky Heniochus (pennant butterfly fish) stole them out of the anemone’s grip. And in no instance did the clown fish attempt to reclaim any of the minnows as her own.
It thus appears that the answer to our initial query about the banded clown and the displaced anemone is affirmative. An amphiprion bicinctus (clown fish) can indeed find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California, and the association is most certainly mutually beneficial. What else can you say about a friend who brings you a three-course meal each day?

After a year here at BYUH, I needed to make a decision about my major. My desire was to graduate and return to Samoa to help the students at my high school, CCWS. I wanted to be close to the students I was going to teach, to be a mentor as my teachers were to me.

One evening in the unit, I was sharing my feelings with a new roommate who had just returned after serving a mission. She asked where I was from and what I was studying. I mentioned that I was unsure whether I should be a school counselor or an English teacher and was having a difficult time deciding. She asked me if I had fasted and prayed about my decision. I replied that I hadn’t. She began to counsel with me and shared her experiences about fasting and praying for direction and confirmation of decisions. As she shared her thoughts and feelings, I felt strongly that I should try what she suggested. I had fasted every single fast Sunday while growing up at home, but had never fasted for a purpose. Using my own method of pros and cons, I decided I was going to be a school counselor. I reasoned that it was a way that I would be able to encourage and motivate students to not only pursue higher education, but also inspire them on their spiritual path. I chose a day and fasted and prayed to receive confirmation about my decision to be a school counselor. A few days later, I was sitting in a Psychology class taught by Professor Carl Harris. I distinctly and clearly heard Brother Harris say during the lecture, “If you want students to come to you for advice and if you want to inspire your students, don’t be a counselor, be a teacher! Students typically don’t go to counselors. They go to their favorite teacher.”

This experience taught me about what inspiration feels like.

I am eternally grateful for my roommate who was courageous enough to share her spiritual wisdom and her missionary experiences with me about praying and fasting with a purpose. I believe that she was sent by a loving Heavenly Father to help me, an amateur sophomore, at “such a time as this.”

As volleyball tryouts approached for my senior year in high school, I couldn’t believe the thought that was running through my head: I wasn’t supposed to play volleyball. I’d played volleyball since seventh grade—why should this year be any different?
Not seeing the sense in quitting, I ignored the feeling and continued to participate in summer volleyball events. After a while the feeling came back, so I decided that if I really wasn’t supposed to be on the team, my coach would just cut me during tryouts.
Then one night at the gym, I couldn’t focus on the game at all. I felt terrible and restless inside. I came home frustrated with my team and with myself. I sat next to my mom and sister and cried. I told them how confused I was, and my mom told me to pray and ask Heavenly Father what He wanted me to do. I went up to my room and began to pray. I told Heavenly Father how I felt, then I asked Him to help me feel peace if I was not supposed to continue playing volleyball. I felt His peace in my heart and knew that I needed to quit.
I’m still not sure all the reasons why that was the right decision, but I know that it’s what the Lord wanted me to do, and that’s a good enough reason for me.
The next morning I told my coach and my teammates that I wasn’t going to be playing. Even though it was incredibly hard, I knew I was doing the right thing.

Temple work is even better when paired with family history. I experienced this myself when I brought a family name, for whom I had already received all the other ordinances, to be sealed to his parents. I had a strong spiritual impression that my ancestor was watching and that he had accepted the work I had done for him. This feeling wouldn’t have been the same if I’d stopped short of the sealing.

The Saints in Singapore have been tested, in ways common to all as well as peculiar to their circumstances. Joseph Goh, Bedok Branch executive secretary, has fought through two bouts of cancer, with the help of his wife, Jemmie, and his two children. In 1987, Joseph discovered a growth on his left leg. He relates, “I’d been playing soccer and felt some pain while walking. When the pain persisted, my wife insisted that I see our doctor. X-rays revealed a tumor. The doctor later said that he might have to amputate if the growth was connected to the bone. But we remembered the priesthood blessing I had received the night before. It had promised that I would walk again.”
The operation successfully removed the growth, then Joseph underwent radiation treatment for three months. “I had to relearn balance and walking. Our seven-year-old son, Kelvin, prayed every day for me and often held my hand to comfort me. I recovered in time to baptize him. I worried about falling during the baptism since I couldn’t put weight on the leg, but everything went smoothly.”
Then, in January 1988, X-rays uncovered white spots on his left lung. He underwent chemotherapy for six months, losing all his hair. Because his natural immunities were weakened, he suffered through several illnesses, including chicken pox. Eventually, all spots but one disappeared. The remaining spot is being monitored closely. Joseph was well enough by December for his family to travel to the New Zealand Temple to be sealed.
Jemmie, who serves as first counselor in the Relief Society presidency, says, “These experiences taught us how to pray deeply. I had never really known what sorrow was before, or joy. I learned a lot about faith from Joseph: he did not blame God, and he did not murmur. The second fight with cancer was very frustrating. But during one prayer, some words came to my mind, ‘I know what I am doing,’ and I realized that I must trust God.”
Joseph adds, “The problems drew us together. Through our testing, I learned of the love my wife and children have for me, and I loved them more. I believe the Lord wants us to learn to be more patient and to know how people suffer so we can be more compassionate and understanding.”

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

Tamika curled up under the soft blanket and took a deep breath. The quilt smelled sweet, like the cherry lotion her grandma used. She loved that smell.
“Gram, I’m glad Mama and I came,” Tamika said.
Gram sat on the bed next to Tamika and stroked her hair. “I’m glad too. Do you want a bedtime story?”
Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
Tamika sat up. “Can I read what you wrote?”
Gram nodded. “We can look at it tomorrow—”
Just then, Mama came in to kiss Tamika goodnight.
“Are you two still talking about Grammy Rose?” Mama said. “Tomorrow you can explore secret passages and trap doors at Slave Haven. But right now, it’s time for bed.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mama said, looking at Gram. “Or a beautiful smile.” She turned to Tamika. “Or the miracle of Tamika finally falling asleep!”
Tamika laughed. She had never thought about sunshine and smiles as miracles, but the world would be pretty dark and sad without them!
Tamika felt happy and warm thinking about how brave her great-great-grandma was. Just before Gram shut the door, an idea popped into Tamika’s head.
“Gram? Can I have a journal? I want to look for miracles and write them down too,” Tamika said.
“We’ll get you one tomorrow,” Gram said.
“I know what my miracle is today,” Tamika said.
“What?” asked Gram.
“It’s you,” Tamika said. “And Mama, and us coming to visit, and learning about Grammy Rose …” Tamika’s words became softer and softer until she finally fell asleep, curled up beneath the warm, sweet-smelling quilt.

At the beginning of my eighth-grade year, I went with my mom and brother to close and clean a laundromat that was located across the street from my school. There was a girls’ volleyball game going on. We were almost through cleaning when the game was finished, and people were all over the place. A few of the students had discovered some wet cement. They got all excited and wanted to scratch their initials in the cement. My friends wanted me to go with them to put our initials in the cement too. I had to check with my mom.
“Hey, Mom. There’s a new sidewalk out here and everybody’s putting their initials in the wet cement,” I said. “Can I go for a few minutes and do it too?”
“If everyone puts their initials in it, don’t you think it will ruin the sidewalk?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll just go see what’s going on.”
I took off before my mom could say anything more. By the time I got to the wet cement, there was quite a crowd. My friends wrote their names, and I was about to kneel down and put mine in too. Then I noticed a lot of bad words had been scratched in. Actually the whole sidewalk looked like a mess of words and drawings. Suddenly I didn’t feel good about writing my initials in the sidewalk, and I started to back away.
My buddies coaxed me to put my name in. They said it would be fun to look at years from now. They even called me chicken. But I didn’t scratch my name or my initials in that wet cement. And the next day I was glad.
During third period, our principal’s voice came over the intercom. He asked certain students to come to the office. One of my football buddies was in third period with me, and he was one of them. They were calling in students with names and initials from the sidewalk. The sidewalk was ruined. The city crew was going to tear it out and replace it that day. The students involved had to call their parents to come to school. They also had to help pay for the new section of walk—about $60 each.
I was so happy I hadn’t written anything in the wet cement. But I couldn’t believe what happened next. The girls on the volleyball team and the guys on the football team who’d written in the cement were suspended from their teams for the rest of the season. I was sick for them, but as bad as I felt for my friends, I was happy that I had backed away from the cement. I was glad when things got tense that I made the right choice.