Gospel Story Finder

Over the 2020 Christmas period I was given an opportunity to participate, as a service missionary, in Cardiff Stake’s ‘Help for Refugees’ projects.
Necessities were packed and prepared for approximately 150 refugees at the local centre. When delivering the packages, it was very heartwarming to see the reactions of those involved, as to what was being delivered to the centre and the sheer amount. There was even a box of cuddly bears for children.
I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work alongside so many caring and compassionate people. It was a joy, that couldn’t be found anywhere else, such as when young men are so happy to see nappies for their children, and to hear their expressions of thanks.

Stringy orange chunks went skittering across the road. Nothing was left of the carefully-carved pumpkin face except a lonely candle stuck in the pulpy mess near my feet.
“C’mon, throw yours,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Do it!” Jeff urged.
Kevin pushed my shoulder. “Hurry up! Smash it, and let’s get out of here.”
My friends stood in a circle around me. The pumpkin felt smooth and cold in my hands. It was heavy, even though the stringy insides had been pulled out and holes carved for a silly face. I remembered how long it had taken me to clean and carve my own pumpkin at home, scooping out the slippery seeds and carefully slicing out sections for its eyes, nose, and mouth.
But this pumpkin wasn’t mine. I had grabbed it off a porch tonight after trick-or-treating, then waited impatiently for house lights to blink off one by one. It wasn’t my idea to smash the pumpkins, but my friends said it was great fun. They had each swiped one too.
“Everyone does it,” Mike had said. “It’s a Halloween tradition. Nobody can see you—it’s too dark out. Just hold the pumpkin up as high as you can and smash it on the road.”
“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Kevin added. “It’s just an old pumpkin. It’ll be rotten soon anyway.”
They were right. It was great fun. My pumpkin-smashing sent chunks flying farther than anyone else’s. I laughed out loud when some gooey pieces splatted on Jeff’s pant legs. Jeff pushed me backward into some pumpkin mess on the road. Mike grabbed a pumpkin chunk and plopped it on top of Jeff’s costume wig. Soon pumpkin pieces were flying everywhere.
A porch light switched on suddenly, and a man’s voice growled from the lit doorway. “Hey you boys! What’s going on out there?”
A small figure in pajamas, clutching a teddy bear, stood by the man’s side. “Daddy, where’s my pumpkin?” asked a tiny voice. “Did the boys break my pumpkin?”
We raced through neighborhood yards until we were safely out of sight, finally crouching behind shrubs to see if anyone was following us. “Watch out! Over there!” But it was only a tree shadow stretching its long black body over the ground toward us. The wind moaned and sighed. Clawlike branches scratched unearthly noises against rooftops. I gulped deep breaths of cold night air and tried to steady my trembling legs. This was scary—but exciting too!
We listened for police sirens or neighbors yelling for us to come out. A dog howled faintly in the distance. An airplane droned in the dark overhead. But there were no footsteps, no searching flashlights, no angry voices. We were safe. We laughed, patting each other on the back. This had been easy!
But something followed me as I walked home. Something invisible wrapped its long, icy fingers around my head and invaded my ears. It was sneakier and more chilling than any make-believe Halloween ghost.
It was a tiny voice crying over a pumpkin—the one I had smashed.
The voice chased me all the way back to my house. I quietly climbed the front steps and sat down in the dark shadows. My own pumpkin scowled at me from the porch railing as if it knew that I had smashed one of its relatives. For fun. Because “everyone did it.”
The front door opened, and Dad poked his head outside, whistling for our dog. “Hey, kiddo, did you have a good time trick-or-treating? Did you get any candy for your old dad?”
I handed him my bag full of treats. “Here. Take what you want. I’m not hungry.”
Dad sat down beside me. He pulled a sucker out of the bag, unwrapped it, and pointed it at my pumpkin on the railing. “You know, Son, in a way you’re a little bit like that pumpkin over there.”
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “I have an empty space where my brains should be.”
Dad rolled the sucker over his tongue. “There’s nothing wrong with your brain—when you use it,” he said, picking at some pumpkin goo still clinging to my pants. “I meant that there’s a ‘candle’ inside you, too—a bright spark that lights up your face and makes you who you are. It’s a pure, clear, beautiful light that’s inside every person. Maybe it shines a little less when they do something they’re ashamed of, but it never goes out completely.” He gently turned my face toward his. “Your light looks a little dim tonight.”
“It’s a wonder it didn’t go out like a smashed pumpkin,” I said. “A broken pumpkin just lying in the road, waiting for a car to run over it. A pumpkin that didn’t even belong to me.”
I stood up and walked over to the railing. My hands circled the perfectly-decorated pumpkin that had taken me a whole hour to clean and carve. I picked it up and started down the front steps.
“Where are you going?” Dad asked.
I turned to face him. “A little voice is calling me,” I choked out.
Dad studied his sucker. “A voice?”
“Of a little boy in pajamas.”
Dad smiled. “Follow that voice,” he said. “Your light is getting brighter every second.”

My eyes begin to sting as I ride my bicycle through smoke drifting from the barbecue on the side of the street. I close them just long enough to hit a hole in the road, nearly knocking me from my bike. I again focus my attention forward, as we keep riding amid the glare of neon lights and the headlights of the oncoming traffic. Everything seems a little hazy on this hot, muggy December night in Bangkok, Thailand.
Sister Jones and I park our bikes in front of an apartment complex. As we head toward the stairs, I ask, “Who are we going to see?”
“Her name is Nóg,” Sister Jones answers. “She is a 12-year-old girl who was baptized last month.”
I remember hearing about Nóg. She had been referred to the missionaries by her mother, who was not interested in the Church but thought Nóg might like Christianity.
The missionaries had been hesitant to teach a 12-year-old, but as they began to tell Nóg of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, she was captivated. Her eyes never left their faces.
I am touched by the image of this little girl, who works in her family’s flower stand on the side of a busy street, learning about the Savior. I wonder how a little girl could accept the gospel of Jesus Christ, which is so foreign to her Buddhist culture.
We knock on the pale green door and are invited in by Nóg’s mother. Removing our shoes, we enter the one-room apartment. Before we can ask where Nóg is, we hear her voice calling from the balcony, “Sisters, come quickly.”
We step onto the small balcony overlooking the busy street. Nóg grabs me by the hand, points to the sky, and asks, “Can you see them? Can you see the special stars?”
I look up and see a few breaks in the clouds through which stars shine faintly. “Which ones?” I ask.
“The five baby ones, right over there. You can see them only on certain nights,” she answers.
I look again and see a cluster of five tiny stars through the pollution and lights of the enormous city. I ask how she was able to see them twinkling so dimly.
Nóg answers simply, “I look for them every night, and tonight I found them.”
I glance at Nóg, who is gazing intently at the night sky. Her face is peaceful; her countenance shines. They are simple, childlike words, yet I think how similar they are to those spoken by wise, learned men—the Wise Men of old (see Matt. 2:2). How long those Wise Men must have searched the heavens looking for the star. How excited they must have been to see it.
Nóg, a 12-year-old flower girl, learned of Jesus Christ amid the chaos of downtown Bangkok, above the smoke, lights, glitter, and pollution of the world. Nóg had looked for and recognized the words of Christ and eagerly followed, just as the Wise Men did. She is among those who “look forward unto the Messiah, and believe in him” (Jarom 1:11).
How could a little girl so readily accept the gospel of Jesus Christ, so foreign to her family and culture? My question is answered as I stand on a small fourth-floor balcony above the pollution and noise and, with Nóg, look to the heavens.

I had always believed that Church callings come from our Heavenly Father and that they help us progress spiritually. But I really didn’t have a testimony of this until I had a special experience several years ago.
I had just spent a year in Utah as a high school exchange student. After I returned to Japan, I received my first calling in the Church—president of our Mia Maid class. In a letter to my host family in Utah, I wrote about my calling.
A couple of weeks later I received a letter from my host “father.” He wrote:
“I didn’t tell you then, but one month before you left for home, our bishop told me, ‘We want to assign Kazuko to be class president of the Mia Maids. How long will she be here?’
“I told him that you would be leaving the following month. So they didn’t give you the calling.”
I found it remarkable that the same calling the bishop in Utah had been inspired to extend to me was given me when I came back to Japan. It made me realize that God knows about me no matter where I am—in Utah or Japan or anyplace else. I believe he knew that particular calling was what I needed then in order to grow.
I have received various callings since then. When I look back on them, I am amazed to find that each calling was somehow necessary at that time in my life to strengthen a weakness.
I have learned to accept any calling that comes to me, even if it seems difficult. I know that it comes from Heavenly Father, who knows me.

I was close to a family who had a son in Young Men. During an activity while he was a deacon, a leader got after him and embarrassed him in front of his peers. He subsequently felt further discredited, quit attending activities, and sought friends outside his ward.
That experience had a tremendous impact on me. I determined that something like that would not happen on my watch if I were called to work with young men. Two years later I was called to work with the deacons.
Within a few months I found myself dealing with a young man who was constantly pushing the boundaries in his behavior.
“This is the line,” I finally said regarding his actions. “Do not cross it.”
He crossed it, we had a bit of a verbal altercation, and he left.
Later, I had a chat with him to resolve our differences. I said, “David, I love you and you’re a good young man, but I don’t love some of the things you do. The other young men look to you as a leader, and if they see you getting away with something improper, they may try it as well.”
We patched things up, he felt accepted, and we leaders helped temper some of his personal challenges. When he turned 14, he asked me to ordain him a teacher. Today, years later, he gives me a big bear hug whenever he sees me, and he talks with admiration about his time in Young Men.
When we love the young men and enjoy being with them, they know it. That’s why my counselors and I took a genuine interest in our young men. We never did an activity just because it was in the book; we did it because we knew the young men would learn a skill, grow, and have fun.
On one occasion, we had a young man whose parents were not interested in our program.
“That’s OK,” I told them, “but do you mind if your son still comes, learns, and has some fun?”
We included him in our program, and before long his parents said OK to his full involvement. They saw that their boy was learning and having fun. Later he served a full-time mission. His younger brother blossomed as well and also served a mission.
We saw a correlation between leaders taking an interest in a young man and that young man learning, growing, and eventually serving a mission. It’s satisfying to watch young men grow, and it’s enjoyable to learn with them. The key to our success was to love them while we served them.

Memories of a very special Christmas gift presented to me ten years ago are still among the most inspiring and meaningful of my life.
I had the good fortune to be a volunteer teacher at a home for mentally retarded children, where my duties included helping the children with their normal daily routines, teaching music, reading to the children, and creating various forms of recreation. As I grew to know and love these special children, I realized that a very important part of their lives was being neglected, and that was when I began to teach the gospel to the most receptive and eager group of students I have ever known.
My eight students, who ranged in age from eight to sixteen, were so excited to learn about Jesus Christ that it was very difficult for me to control their enthusiasm. A whole new world was opening up to them, and despite their various capacities to learn, they did learn and respond, each in his own way. There was one exception, however, and his name was Freddy.
Freddy was fourteen years old, mildly retarded and severely emotionally disturbed. He had been abandoned when he was very young, as had many of the children at the home, and outside the people who lived or worked at the home, no one really cared about Freddy. This was the reason I allowed Freddy to become a member of the class, even though he was the center of every disruption imaginable. At times I felt like sending him out of the class, but I knew that rejection was not the answer to Freddy’s problems, so the class endured the situation.
It disturbed me that I was not able to get through to my little troublemaker. While the rest of my class had a concept of Jesus Christ, Heavenly Father, and what they represented, Freddy seemed oblivious to the whole thing. Each week it was my practice to present each child with a Bible verse that he could understand. While most of the children could not read, each one received a copy of the scripture to place among his personal belongings, so he could look at it or read it every day. Many times I would have the children draw pictures to represent the verse I had given them, and if they were not able to draw, I created something visual to correspond to the verse. Most of the children hung their verses and pictures above their beds so they could be reminded of it as they offered their evening prayer, which was a requirement in my class. Each time I gave Freddy his verse, he would tear it up in front of me. All in all it was very frustrating for me because I knew that Freddy was not as severely retarded as many of his classmates but he couldn’t or wouldn’t learn.
Seeking a solution to Freddy’s disruptions, I tried many forms of creative discipline, but nothing seemed to affect him. At times I had the urge to just shake him, but that would have accomplished nothing. Freddy was surely putting me to the test, and I was failing. I was running out of answers, I had already run out of patience, and I was beginning to seriously consider removing Freddy from the class.
As Christmas was approaching, I explained to my children the true meaning of Christmas. They were curious and very receptive. All except Freddy. Several days before Christmas, the entire home held a party for everyone: staff, volunteers, students, parents, and anyone else who wanted to come.
As the party progressed, I noticed Freddy was not to be seen. I searched for him and found him in his room, laboring over a very crumpled, worn-looking package that he was obviously wrapping by himself. I left him to his task and returned to the party. Shortly after, Freddy approached me and threw the package in my lap and ran away. When I opened the package, I found the most beautiful gift I have ever received. It was a ragged piece of coarse fabric, hand sewn at the top, with a piece of cork glued in the middle. It was a wall hanging, and the cork in the middle was to be used to tack the weekly Bible verse to. I was told that Freddy worked three months on the gift and the design was his own idea. It was indeed a labor of love, sacrifice, and above all patience, because I knew the frustrations Freddy must have suffered while making it. I also knew that in his own way Freddy understood what I had been trying to teach him, and in some ways, he understood even better than I.
Freddy now lives with our Heavenly Father, and with few exceptions, I am sure that he has been forgotten on earth. The gift he gave me still hangs in my home as it always will. It is a little older and much more tattered, but as I look at it I see Freddy and remember the sacrifice he made to teach me the virtue of patience. When I feel frustrated or want to give up, Freddy is there, gently nudging me to go on.
Freddy’s Christmas gift has changed my life, and the lesson it taught is deep within my heart. I am so very grateful to have had that very precious child as my teacher.

Young men in Uganda start playing football as small boys, using tightly bound branches for a ball. Ever since he was very young, Dennis had a gift for the sport, and his high school gave him a scholarship to play for their team. After he completed high school, a professional team offered him pay, room, and board. It was a dream come true, but Dennis knew this would likely interfere with his plans to go on a mission later in the year.
Dennis’s desire to do what his Heavenly Father wanted him to do was so strong that he did not even want to be tempted to remain on the team when the time would arrive for him to serve a mission. Many people questioned his choice, but Dennis is certain he made the right decision—for himself and others. “My two little brothers and my little sister were just baptized,” he says. “I never thought my sister would hear the gospel. When I see God doing miracles in my family, it gives me a bright hope for my future.”

In the city of Coronel Oviedo, a native Paraguayan missionary, Elder Christian Turrini, prayed that the Lord would help him and his companion, Elder Matthew Porter, find people who were prepared to listen to the gospel. After his prayer, they left their room and walked two blocks. A campesino (a poor rural farmer) came running up to them. Speaking in Guaraní, he asked, “Are you LDS missionaries? I came looking for you because I know the Church is true and I want to be baptized!”
That campesino was Isabelino Giménez. He and his wife, Estanislada, had heard the missionary discussions in a distant city a few years earlier, along with Estanislada’s family. But although her family joined the Church, Isabelino refused to be baptized or to let Estanislada be baptized. “I told her, ‘We’re going to leave this city and look for our future.’ But really, I was running from the gospel.”
Isabelino and Estanislada moved to a remote area in the Paraguayan jungle. “We walked a long, long way through the jungle,” he says. “We arrived without anything. We didn’t have more clothes than what we were wearing. We didn’t have beds, but slept on the floor. We barely had enough to eat.” He cleared some land and worked hard to grow crops. But then he developed an infected sore on his foot, and one of his sons got a similar sore. A local doctor was unable to give them any relief. I was very discouraged and unhappy. I wanted to change my life.”
Estanislada’s family moved from the city to be near them. Even though moving to this remote place caused them to lose contact with the Church, they continued to live their religion. “My brother-in-law was always reading the scriptures,” says Isabelino. “One day I told him I couldn’t sleep at night because of the pain I had in my foot. He told me I needed to pray to Heavenly Father. I asked him, ‘How should I pray?’ And he began to teach me about prayer. He told me I had to give myself to the Lord.
“That day, I knelt down and prayed to Heavenly Father and asked forgiveness. I asked him to heal my son and me of our sores. I told him I needed to work for my family. When I told my wife that I had given myself to the Lord, she smiled because she was very happy.
“My wife’s parents started teaching me about the Church. We read the Book of Mormon and Gospel Principles. They taught me to pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Our sores were healed.”
Now he and Estanislada wanted to be baptized, but they didn’t know how to proceed. They didn’t have the means to travel back to the city where the missionaries had originally taught them. Finally, four years after being cured of the sore, Isabelino made the four-hour trip on foot and by bus to Coronel Oviedo—the nearest city—hoping the Church was there and that he would be able to find the missionaries.
“I got off the bus at the terminal and asked a boy on a bicycle if he knew where The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was; he told me it was very far away. I walked about four blocks toward the center of town and asked a man; he said he didn’t know. I began praying to Heavenly Father to help me, so I wouldn’t lose hope.
“On a corner, I asked a woman. She said, ‘Wait here. I know the missionaries. They will pass by here soon.’ I waited about twenty minutes, and the woman said, ‘Here come the missionaries.’ When I saw them, I crossed the street without watching the traffic. I could have been killed, but I wanted to talk to them so much.”
The missionaries were eager to teach the Giménez family. First they received permission from their mission president to travel to the remote jungle location. Then they left at 6 A.M. and rode a couple of hours on a bus from Coronel Oviedo to a neighboring town. There they met Isabelino and rode with him on another bus for thirty minutes. Then they walked another hour and a half through the jungle, arriving at the Giménez home at 10:00 A.M. “I don’t think I had ever walked that far,” says Elder Turrini. “I had never been in the jungle like that, even though I’m from Paraguay. We saw lots of wild animals, snakes, and birds. When we got to their home, the family treated us like we were angels. The kids jumped all over us, and the adults were in tears. They had been praying for our safety and had lunch ready for us.”
That day, the missionaries taught three discussions to a group of about thirty people. Some of them were Estanislada’s family—members of the Church—who had almost lost hope of ever finding the Church again. Others were interested neighbors. After three hours of teaching, the missionaries returned home.
The next day, the Giménez family made the journey into Coronel Oviedo. It was raining, and since they were traveling with small children, the trip took seven hours. The elders taught them the last three discussions, and the following day—Sunday, 8 September 1991—Isabelino and Estanislada were baptized, along with two of their children, Aníbal and Diana; a foster daughter; and Estanislada’s younger brother and sister. They also have two younger children, Derlis and Emanuel.
“When I went down in the water,” says Isabelino, “I don’t know how it happened, but I felt that I was dead for one second. As I arose from the water, I felt so happy that I cried for joy. When the missionaries confirmed me, I felt a beautiful feeling. Then I arose to bear my testimony and couldn’t finish because of the great happiness I felt. Since then, I have shared my testimony with all my friends and neighbors. I want them to feel the joy I feel.”

At age nine, Elizabeth had immigrated to the United States with an uncle. Her parents and their six other children planned to join them in America, but never could. She never saw them again.
Elizabeth grew up, married, and one day welcomed two Latter-day Saint missionaries into her home. A few months later, Elizabeth joined the Church. But her life was difficult. Her husband lost a leg in an accident. He also suffered from tuberculosis and glaucoma and was blind during the last fifteen years of his life.
His death left Elizabeth alone to run a farm and raise nine children. She added to the family’s limited income by working as a midwife.
Three times the family lost their home—to a flood, a fire, and a tornado. But despite her trials, Elizabeth maintained a positive attitude and shared the joy of the gospel message wherever she went.

On a later visit to Cimezile, Richard and I found Brother Nqunqa very ill. We blessed and passed the sacrament—but not until after he had risen and dressed himself, insisting that he had to have his jacket and tie on to show proper reverence for the sacrament. He wept as he told us that he knew Richard and I would come that Sunday and that the Spirit had witnessed to him all would be well. Before we left, Richard and I blessed Brother Nqunqa through the power of the priesthood.
The next day, I went to Brother Nqunqa’s home to see how he was feeling. His wife, Judith, assured me he had been completely healed—he was down in the fields, attending to his plowing.

Still, things weren’t perfect after that. Most of my family was not happy that I joined the Church. My dad even offered me a brand-new pickup truck if I would just forget about it. But my brother Roger supported me. When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%. Whether I was serving a mission or not, he told me to always do my best.
When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%.
I tried to prepare the best I could by studying the scriptures, praying, and going to a mission prep class. While I was on my mission in North Carolina, I lost myself in the work and did my best to follow Roger’s advice to give it 110%.
Ten years later, I lost my dad to cancer. Even though he and I had hard times, I love him so much. As I leaned down to hug him and say “I love you” one last time, he said something I will never forget. He told me he was proud of me and that he was glad I served a mission. Two years later, Spencer got to baptize me for my father in the temple.
My family may not have approved of my joining the Church, but because of their unfailing love and the example of my friends and their families, I was able to serve a mission, be married in the temple, and help my dad after he passed on. I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

During World War II, on my first Sunday as a Marine, I ran into a very special missionary companion of mine at a Church service. Both of us had volunteered for the Marine Corps! When we completed boot camp, we were both assigned to the Second Marine Division.
After the battle was over on the island to which our division was assigned, we were able to obtain a tent for Church services. We made benches, a pulpit, and a sacrament table out of any pieces of lumber we could find. Under the sacrament table we placed a special green footlocker. We carried that footlocker with us from island to island as our division completed its orders. The contents of the green footlocker represented all we held dear: a wooden plate, a wooden sacrament tray, a card containing the sacrament prayers, and several boxes of small paper cups.
As President David O. McKay has reminded us, partaking of the sacrament is a renewal of the covenants we made at the time of baptism, which are that “We are willing to take upon ourselves the name of the Son. In so doing we choose him as our leader and our ideal. … We will always remember him. Not just on Sunday, but on Monday [and the other days of the week]. … We promise to ‘… keep his commandments. …’—tithing, fast offerings, the Word of Wisdom, kindness, forgiveness, love.” (Gospel Ideals, page 146.)
As we gathered each week on the Lord’s day, we opened our footlocker and used the contents to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament. It was a spiritual and uplifting experience that renewed our faith and gave us hope for the days ahead.
Eventually our tent chapel was filled with many holes caused by shrapnel tearing through it. When frequent tropical rains made it uncomfortable to sit in a tent with so many holes in it, we determined that our meetings deserved better quarters. We finally obtained enough material to construct a chapel. Now the green footlocker was placed beneath the table in a dedicated house of worship.
When our duties on the island were completed, we boarded a ship and moved out. Our footlocker remained in the chapel for others to use. I don’t know its final destination, but that old green footlocker will always have a special place in my heart because even in one of the most trying periods of my life, I was able to receive spiritual renewal for the days ahead as I partook of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.

Years ago I received a phone call from a distraught mother. She told me that her daughter had moved far from home. She sensed from the little contact she had with her daughter that something was terribly wrong. She pleaded with me to help.
I found out who the daughter’s home teacher was. You can tell by that name that it was a long time ago. I called him. He was young. Yet he told me that he and his companion both had been awakened in the night with not only concern for the daughter but with inspiration that she was about to make choices that would bring sadness and misery. With only that inspiration of the Spirit, they went to see her.
At first she did not want to tell them about her situation. Under inspiration, they pleaded with her to repent and choose the path the Lord had for her. She realized then, I believe by the Spirit, that the only way they could have known what they knew about her life was from God. A mother turned her loving concerns over to Heavenly Father and the Savior. The Holy Ghost had been sent to those home teachers because they were willing to serve the Lord. They had followed the counsel and promise found in the Doctrine and Covenants:
“Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God; and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven.
“The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth; and thy dominion shall be an everlasting dominion, and without compulsory means it shall flow unto thee forever and ever.”

There had been some minor conflicts with local nonmember youth. A bus was vandalized and a young conference attender was pushed around a bit. What was the reaction of these young Mormons who were learning about service and how to apply gospel teachings in their lives?

“We only have two cheeks to turn,” said one of the youth leaders, “so we’d better solve the problem before it grows.” They discussed it and came to the realization that the troublemakers were probably just feeling left out of all the fun. So an invitation went out, formally and on a one-to-one basis. “Come and join us! There’s enough fun for everyone, and we’d love to have you.”

“Dinner will be ready in a half hour,” Brad’s mother called as he left the house.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be back.”
Walking down a sidewalk bordered with red and pink petunias, Brad looked over his shoulder at the home he had just left, still impressed by the building of white brick and by the green majesty of trees that shaded it.
Facing forward again, Brad slid his fingers into the pockets of tight denim pants, thinking about the contrast between this house on a wide street in a medium-sized California city and the home he and his parents had lived in until two months earlier.
His father, John Brannigan, had been determined to get his family out of the third-floor railroad flat on a Brooklyn street where poverty forced him to take his bride, but his son was 15 before John Brannigan, working days and going to school nights, received his degree that resulted in a job with an electronics firm and eventually earned for him the position with his company’s California office.
The three-bedroom home they bought was so different from the dreary flat Brad had grown up in, the quietness of the suburban neighborhood such a contrast to the day-and-night uproar of the Brooklyn street, that Brad had no more than begun his adjustment to the change.
“Not that I don’t enjoy the scenery and the climate,” thought Brad, “and I envy Mom her delight in our home.” He thought, too, that he understood his father’s pride in his ability to provide so well for his wife and son. Brad wondered, with a sharp twinge of guilt, whether his parents were aware of his unsettled discontent.
Mostly he missed the camaraderie of friends in Brooklyn he’d known all his life, who understood him in a way he was sure no one in this western community ever would.
Even as he brooded over his lack of companionship, he heard a cheerful, “Hi, Brad. How’s the boy?”
He hadn’t noticed Jeff Collier’s approach, so the stocky senior had greeted him and walked on before Brad could respond. Frowning, he looked after the retreating figure.
“How’s the boy?” he mimicked in a sarcastic undertone. “A lot he cares.” At the same time, he was surprised that the other boy even knew his name. Brad had been a student at Caulfield High for barely a month. In that time he had spoken to no more than half a dozen fellow seniors, but he recognized the class president. That Jeff Collier also recognized him disturbed Brad. Walking on, he decided he must have been pointed out to Jeff as “the dude with the weird accent.”
Brad entered a corner drugstore and an agony of homesickness surged through him. No place else in the California town reminded him of his own faraway city, but pausing beside the magazine rack he looked at publications that were duplicates of those on display in the drugstore in Brooklyn. An identical odor that combined the perfume of cosmetics with the antiseptic smell of medicines deepened his nostalgia.
Seated on a stool covered in shiny orange vinyl, Brad studied, with little interest, his reflection in the mirror behind the counter—a lean, tanned face, a thatch of licorice black hair worn loose over green eyes accented by arched, black brows.
The boy behind the counter asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Fresh limeade. Heavy on the fresh.”
Placing a frosted glass in front of Brad, the boy leaned his weight on folded arms.
“I know you,” he said. “You’re in my chemistry class. Have you finished the outside experiment yet?”
With slow deliberation Brad pulled the glass close, removed paper from a straw. Even though classes in his new school were hard for Brad, he was doing well in everything but chemistry. He felt sure the boy who still waited for an answer knew this, that he was taunting him. Grimly Brad drew tart liquid through the straw, thinking, “The guys in school must joke about how tough they think the students in my Brooklyn school were. Bet they think I didn’t learn a thing.”
His voice bitter with resentment, Brad said, “I suppose you breezed right through the experiment.”
The boy straightened. “Don’t even know where to start. I thought maybe we could talk it over, and also I’d like to—”
“Fat chance, man!” Brad tossed a quarter onto the counter and stalked out of the drugstore, the metallic ring of the coin echoing in his head. Fighting the ache of hurt in his throat, he strode toward his home asking himself, “How long before these dudes stop being suspicious of my background?” Brad was sure his classmates suspected him of carrying a switchblade, that they thought his clothes outlandish, and the few times he had spoken in a classroom, he’d caught glances exchanged between several fellow students who appeared to be highly amused because his speech was so different from their own.
In his preoccupation Brad nearly collided with a girl who suddenly appeared around a corner. Mumbling, “Sorry,” he would have hurried on, but she spoke his name.
“Brad Brannigan! Do you always walk right past people you know?”
Recognizing Jill Fenton he wished he could know her. Since his first day in English literature class he had been very much aware of the tall girl with the ash-blonde hair, had admired the friendliness of a smile that seemed to include everyone.
“Even me,” thought Brad. “A doll like Jill wouldn’t cut anybody.” Convinced she spoke to him only because she pitied him, resenting that pity so intensely he could barely speak, Brad muttered, “Gotta go, Jill. See you around.”
As he brushed past her, Brad’s quick sideways glimpse of the girl’s face left him with the uneasy feeling that his abruptness had marred her bright mood. Steps faltering he paused, then turned, but she was walking rapidly away, and Brad told himself, “What makes me think a snub from a guy she couldn’t really give a hang about would bother a popular girl like Jill?”
Dismissing his uneasiness, Brad was soon in an area of the town where he had been several times because a building on the corner of Vine and First streets attracted him. Rich green lawns, trimmed shrubs, and brightly grouped flowers surrounded a large structure of tan brick topped by a tapered, heaven-pointing spire. Brad thought the building was probably a church, but he couldn’t understand why there should be so much activity inside it. Every time he had walked by, people seemed to be going in or coming out.
Leaning against a tree Brad thought about his own religious background. His parents were good, honest people who had explained to him as much about God and the plan of life as they understood themselves, and although aware of the many shadings between right and wrong, Brad still felt a yearning to understand the reason for his existence, and he sensed, from the expressions of purposeful contentment on the faces of both adults and children who went in and out of the building that they knew the reason for theirs.
With a shrug, assuring himself that contentment and self-assurance were moods that could hardly be influenced by anything that took place inside a structure of brick and wood, Brad started home again, hoping he would meet no more of his classmates, not sure he could cope with another condescending greeting, but as he turned to go up the walk toward his house, four girls, walking together, called, “Hi, Brad!” not seeming to notice his surly lack of response.
After a night made restless by loneliness and a wretched sense of displacement, Brad left for school, wondering wearily whether he could ever hurdle the barrier of his strangeness, ever feel himself a part of the California community.
He was so emotionally off-balance all day that when Jeff Collier caught up with him in the hall after the last period, he walked along, unresisting, as Jeff propelled him down the hall with a hand under his elbow.
“Brad, we require another warm body on the decorating committee for the Senior Hop,” Jeff said. “You’ll be glad to know you just volunteered.”
Brad, irritated, wondered why he should help with a dance he hadn’t even considered attending, but before he could voice his refusal, Jeff spoke again.
“I’ll let you know in a couple of days where and when we’ll meet. Okay?”
To his surprise Brad heard himself answer, “Okay,” and felt the muscles in his cheeks relax in a grin, a response to the cheerful smile Jeff gave him.
Still off guard, Brad stopped to wait for Jill Fenton when she called to him outside the school.
She looked up at him with a smile that was hesitant, Brad suspected, because of his abruptness with her the evening before, but she said, “Brad, I wondered whether you’d like to come to activity night tonight.”
“To what?”
Jill laughed. “Oh, it’s an auxiliary of the church a lot of us in this high school belong to. We’re Latter-day Saints.”
“That’s one I never heard of.”
“Some people call us Mormons,” Jill continued, and before Brad could say that he had, indeed, heard of that church, but nothing he’d care to repeat, she added, “We have a chapel on the corner of Vine and First streets. If you’ll be there at 7:30 tonight, I’ll meet you at the door.”
Never could Brad remember living through such an endless evening. He couldn’t eat his dinner; then he had to spend the next hour assuring his mother that no, he wasn’t sick and yes, everything was fine at school. By 7:15 he had definitely decided he wouldn’t go anywhere near the Mormon chapel, and at 7:20 he called, “I’m going out, Mom. I won’t be late,” as he raced out of the house. What if Jill had given up on him? What if he couldn’t find her when he got to the chapel? But as he stepped onto the wide porch, Jill came through the door.
“Oh, Brad, I’m glad you came, but we’ll have to hurry. Rehearsal has already started.”
He followed Jill through a red-carpeted foyer into what was, to his surprise, an enormous high-ceilinged room that looked like a gymnasium. Near a stage on one side of the oblong area at least 30 young people, who appeared to range in age from about 12 to 17 or 18, milled around. Among them were several adults, including a big man whose broad, animated face was edged by rust-shaded sideburns. He turned as Jill, with Brad behind her, walked up to him.
Jill’s hand on his arm moved Brad forward.
“Brother Hill, this is Bradley Brannigan, the new boy in school I told you about. Won’t he be perfect for the Indian chief?”
“Hey, yeah, he sure will!” The man’s examination of Brad was candid and jovial. “Perfect. How about it, Brannigan? You ready to be in our show?”
“Your what?” Brad was confused, not only by the request, but by the bustle around him and the chatter that was suddenly drowned out by a reverberating chord on the piano which seemed to be a signal for most of the young people to run onto the stage where they lined up, arms linked.
As one of the group began to rehearse the others in what appeared to be a somewhat complex dance routine, Jill said, “Brad, our church has all kinds of interesting activities for the boys and girls our age. One of the things we’re doing in this ward right now is a musical show.”
Brad’s bewilderment must have shown in his face because Jill, smiling, explained to him that a ward was an area division of the Latter-day Saint church and that the show now in rehearsal was a dance-drama-musical production put on by the young people of the ward with token help from qualified adults.
“Paul Ensign and Jeff Collier wrote the words and music for this show,” Jill went on, “but we didn’t have anyone who seemed to be right for the part of the Indian chief. Paul said he saw you in the drugstore yesterday and thought how good you’d be, but he couldn’t get you to talk to him, so he asked me to invite you here tonight.”
Intrigued by what Jill told him, but unable even to imagine himself taking part in such a production, actually performing in front of an audience, Brad said, “Oh, I couldn’t do a thing like that, Jill, and anyway I’m not a member of your church, so—”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter at all,“ she said quickly. “You live close, and we desperately need your tall, dark, and handsome presence.”
“Flattery,” said Mr. Hill who had come up to them, “should get you everywhere, Jill. Come on, young fellow, let’s see what you can do.”
Brad, walking forward when Jill did, was amazed to find his feet carrying him onto the stage where he was thrust out in front of the grouped boys and girls. He wasn’t given a chance to say he wouldn’t be an Indian chief. Dazed, he accepted the script thrust into his hands, read lines each time Paul Ensign told him to, and when the play’s finale was reached, he was one of the performers who lined up to sing, with loud enthusiasm, “Home, Home on the Range.”
He left the chapel, part of a large group, and when they reached his house, those who were still together chorused, “Goodnight, Brad!” and “See you tomorrow.”
A glow that had been lit inside him during the evening burned around Brad’s heart and was renewed every time he remembered, during the night, how casually, yet how completely, the friendly, cheerful group had accepted him as one of them.
Entering the school building next morning, Brad was filled with anxiety and anticipation. Would the wondrous sense of belonging, which had so warmed him the night before, carry into the school day, or must he continue to keep himself apart—continue to remain different and alone?
He didn’t have long to wonder. He was barely inside his first classroom when a vivacious brunette who had played the part of an Indian princess the night before smiled at him from her seat across the room, and Jeff Collier lifted a hand in greeting when he walked in.
In his own seat Brad opened his English literature textbook to the poetry assigned for the day. A poem by Edwin Markham caught his attention. He read words that seemed to hold up a mirror reflecting his own recent actions—words about a rebel who, flaunting withdrawal from others, drew a circle around himself to shut out those who would befriend him.
Jill Fenton came in and touched Brad’s shoulder as she walked past him to her own seat. Lowering his head to hide tears, Brad read the poem’s final line that told of friends who, with their love, drew a circle around the rebel’s circle and took him in.

When Kate Hansen was 10 her father drove her to Slider Search, a local clinic being held for kids to try out for luge. “I tell people that luge is like bobsledding,” says Kate. “At the clinic, they set up hay bales and cones on the street and then let the kids ride a trainer sled with wheels down the course. I went through the cones without crashing. I remember it being really fun. Plus they wanted to see how well I took direction.”

As a result of the clinic, both Kate and her cousin were invited to come to Lake Placid, New York, where the national luge training facility is located. The first time Kate tried out a real sled on an ice course, she loved it. It was fast and fun. “It’s like a roller coaster but pretty relaxing. It’s very flowing.”

When I was three years old, my mom was cooking and set a cup of boiling water on the counter. I grabbed the cup and accidentally spilled it on my tummy. The hot water hurt my skin and I cried. Dad gave me a priesthood blessing, and prayed that I would be healed. The next morning, I woke up and there was only a small red spot where I had been burned so badly. I have a testimony that the power of the priesthood heals.

Jennifer Reid did not always like to perform, but you would never know that to watch her today.
She has overcome her fear of speaking and recently won the California state championship in the competition for dramatic interpretation of original prose and poetry. “Three years ago, I was terribly shy,” says Jennifer. “But I signed up for a speech elective, and once I started competing—and winning—I gained my confidence.”
Besides the honor of winning the state title, she was recognized for being the only freshman in the history of her high school to do so.
Jennifer serves as Mia Maid president in the Laurelglen Ward, Bakersfield California South Stake.

I used to listen to music at every possible moment. It got me up for seminary and then on to school. I couldn’t drive unless I had a CD to play. The thing was, the music I used to listen to was not happy. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it didn’t make me feel good.
I listened to it because it was cool, and because I always listened to it, I never felt good. It changed my attitude about everything I did, the way I saw the world and the people in it. I didn’t know how to get out of this cycle of negative emotion. It was a part of my identity, and there seemed to be no way out.
When my brother left on his mission, I was impressed by his willingness to adhere to the strict lifestyle so readily. He wouldn’t be able to choose whatever he wanted to read or listen to for two years. I thought about my music, and how I could be doing so much better. I decided that if he could go two years only listening to hymns and Primary songs, then I could at least reconsider my own listening habits.
It was hard, but I immediately gave away some CDs and threw away others. The music that I was so attached to was part of my high school identity, but thinking about my brother’s example gave me courage and resolve to change.
For nine months straight I listened to nothing but classical, instrumental, and easy listening. I noticed very quickly that I was happier, I thought more clearly, and my days seemed to go smoother. I was more prepared to feel the Spirit and learn in seminary each morning. My entire outlook on life changed for the better.
After my brother returned, I gradually started listening to some popular music, but I gravitated to positive, upbeat, and clean songs. Going through that musical cleansing period made me more sensitive to how music affected the way I thought and felt. I chose music that made me feel good instead of what was considered popular or cool. I know that these choices brought the Spirit back into my life, and because I have the Spirit with me, I feel lighter, happier, and I am able to enjoy life more fully.

Hiki turned over on the broad shelf of snow that was her bed and buried her face deep in the fur sleeping bag to keep warm. She had not slept well, and the morning was much too fast in coming. As her mother lighted the seal oil lamp, Hiki peeked from under the fur to see the light sparkling on the snow ceiling of the igloo. She loved the way it glistened and imagined it was smiling at her, but this morning she didn’t smile back. Today I will walk on the bottom of the sea alone and I am afraid, she admitted to herself.
Many times when the tide was out she had gone with her mother under the sea ice to gather mussels. Always the giant shadows from the candlelight, the far away rumbling of the sea, and the strange undersea world had frightened her. But Mother had always been close-by to reassure her.
Today Hiki must lower herself under the ice alone. At the thought she buried her face even deeper into the fur blankets. She had never in her eleven years been sick. She had never even thought she would want to be sick, but this day she wished for a sore throat or a headache, anything that would keep her at home.
“Hiki,” Mother called, “it is time to arise.”
Hiki peeked out of the fur once more. Her mind raced, trying to find a reason to stay in the warm bed, but she could think of nothing.
All of her friends had gathered mussels alone on the ocean floor. Hiki had heard them tell of the fun it was, but to Hiki it could never be fun.
“Hiki?” Mother called again. “There is much to do.”
Slowly Hiki crawled from the sleeping bag. Quickly she put on her clothes made of caribou skins and her socks of baby sealskins. She began chewing on her caribou hide boots to thaw and soften them so she could put them on.
“It’s so nice to have a daughter who is now old enough to help,” Hiki’s mother said, smiling and patting her daughter’s shoulder. “Today I will sew while you go for the mussels.”
Hiki wished she could tell her mother how she felt, but she couldn’t. She wanted her mother to be proud, and who could be proud of an Innuit girl who was afraid to enter the under-ice world alone?
Hiki lingered over her seal meat breakfast much longer than usual. She poked a hole in the snow walls and looked out, hoping to see a terrible blizzard, but the day was beautiful with few clouds and little wind.
“A nice day for making snow statues,” Hiki commented.
“After you bring the mussels,” Mother said. “You must hurry now or you will miss the tide.”
Slowly Hiki put on her fur coat and mittens. Then taking a candle, matches, shovel, long ice chisel, and a pan, she removed the ice block from the tunnel that led into the igloo and crawled out. Once outside she listened as Mother slid the ice block back into place. Never before had she felt so alone.
Carefully she placed her tools on a small sled. Then, pulling the sled, she started for the ice-covered beach. With each step her heart beat harder and her breath came faster. Her hands began to perspire inside her mittens and her knees felt weak. She reached the beach much faster than she wanted to, then stepped beyond the beach ice to the thick, snow-covered sea ice. It was bumpy and covered with ridges caused by the terrible pounding of the sea. Hiki brushed away the snow on several of the ridges until she found one that had a big crack. Taking her chisel, she chipped at the crack until a hole about two feet wide was made.
As the last piece of ice fell, the girl jerked away. There was no longer anything between her and the ocean floor. I must go down, she agonized. But what if the tide comes in before I get out? What horrid creatures are lurking on the sea bottom? What if I get lost and can’t find the hole to get out?
Hiki’s stomach rocked and churned. She knew that she must go down to the sea floor, but also that she couldn’t do it alone. For a moment she closed her eyes tightly. “Please help me to do what I must do,” she prayed.
Then, taking her equipment, the girl lowered herself under the ice before her fear could stop her. Hiki’s hands shook, but after three tries she managed to light the candle. Carefully she picked her way over the pools of water and slimy seaweed until she saw a string of blue black mussel shells embedded in the sandy seafloor.
“This is a good place,” Hiki muttered, a feeling of confidence replacing some of the fear. “There are enough mussels here to fill my pan, and I will not have to go far from the opening I made.”
As she spoke, the words echoed eerily through the ice-covered cavern. The echo was strange and scary, but somehow it was more comforting than the stillness. She placed the candle between two rocks and hurriedly gathered mussels until her pan was almost full.
Several times as she worked she was startled by a glimpse of her own shadow, big and black against the smooth sea walls. But by the time the pan was full, the fear had eased. She stood for a moment and listened to the angry rumbling of the faraway sea.
“The tide is coming in,” she said, and hurriedly tossed the last two mussels into the pan. Gathering up her tools, Hiki found the hole and, with a sigh of relief, lifted herself back into the cold-white world she loved.
“It is done,” she whispered.
Looking proudly at the overflowing pan, Hiki sat down on the small sled. For a moment she did nothing but enjoy the warm feeling of accomplishment.
“I have done what I feared to do,” she declared, and then her face broke into a soft smile. Closing her eyes tightly she whispered, “Thank You for helping me. Next time it will not be so hard.”