Gospel Story Finder

“Do you want a ride home, Bryce?” Kendall asked me as we left the baseball field. “I have my bike here. You can ride with me.”
“Sure. I’ll pedal partway, if you want.” Kendall’s bike was chained to the back of the bleachers. A few feet away was another one, lying in the dirt. It was one of the nicest bikes I’d seen.
“I wonder whose bike that is,” I muttered.
“That’s Dusty’s,” Kendall grumbled, shaking his head disgustedly. “His dad bought it for him last month. Dusty just dumped it there before the game. I saw him leave with TJ. If I had a bike like that, I sure wouldn’t leave it lying around in the dirt like a pile of junk.”
I looked at the bike again. Its bright yellow and black paint was beautiful. Grabbing the handlebars, I lifted it to an upright position. For a moment I just admired it; then I swung my leg over and settled down on the seat.
I looked around. We were the only ones still there. I gripped the handlebars and hunched over, pretending to be flying down the road. I straightened up and told Kendall, “I’m going to ride it home.”
“Huh?”
“Dusty lives just a block from me. I’ll drop it by his place on my way home. He’ll thank me. Let’s go.”
Kendall and I had planned to go right home, but on the way, we passed the construction site of the new shopping center. Heavy equipment had been brought in, and there were huge piles of dirt and sand everywhere.
It was an awesome place for dirt biking. The construction crew wasn’t around.
We had meant to stay only five minutes or so, but once I got started, I couldn’t quit.
“I’m going to try that big hill in the middle, where they’ve started digging the foundation,” I called to Kendall.
“You’ll kill yourself. It’s too steep,” he called back. “No, on this bike it will be easy!”
But from the top, it looked higher and steeper than it had from below. When I looked at Kendall, standing at the bottom, gazing up anxiously, I almost chickened out. But I’d worked hard to get up there, and Kendall was watching, so I decided to give it a try.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed off. Immediately I wished I had not. Dusty’s bike went down the hill as if shot from a gun. It was all I could do to stay on as the bike bounced and swerved down the rocky dirt.
About halfway down the hill, I lost my balance and took a tumble. I went in one direction; the bike went in another. Everything was a spinning, twisting blur. My fall ended when I crashed against a rock at the bottom of the hill.
“Are you all right, Bryce?” Kendall was kneeling beside me, his face white.
I groaned and tried to sit up. There was a sharp pain in my right knee. When I tried to talk, my teeth ground on dirt and sand. “My leg’s killing me,” I moaned.
After I got up and walked around a bit, I felt better, even though my knee was still throbbing. I pulled up my pant leg and discovered a scrape. It was bleeding some, but it wasn’t too bad. “I think I’ll be OK,” I finally muttered. “Where’s Dusty’s bike?”
The bike was twisted on its side, next to a pile of iron rods. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was badly damaged. I pulled it up. The handlebars were bent at an angle.
Kendall and I were able to straighten the handlebars, but as we were doing it, we saw that two spokes were broken on the front wheel, and its rim was crumpled. The tire had a small rip in the side. I had a sick feeling in my stomach.
“What are you going to do?” Kendall asked me.
I shook my head slowly, wishing I had never seen Dusty’s bike. “Maybe we can fix it,” I said hopefully.
Kendall studied the front wheel more closely, then shook his head. “That thing’s totally wrecked, Bryce.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have just left it lying there in the dirt,” I said, trying to blame Dusty for the accident. “He’s lucky somebody didn’t just steal it. I’m going to take it back to the ballpark. He can pick it up there—if he still wants it. Hey—he might even forget he left it there.”
I didn’t tell anybody at home about my accident. I did my best not to limp. But every time I took a step and felt the pain, I remembered what I’d done to Dusty’s bike. I tried to believe it was his own fault for leaving it there, but that didn’t get rid of the guilty feeling.
Before Primary the next day, I heard Dusty talking to some guys. “Someone ruined my bike,” he complained. “I left it at the park, and someone came along and wrecked it.”
“Well, why did you leave it at the park in the first place?” Tyson asked.
“I forgot it—don’t you ever forget things?”
“I’d never forget my new bike. If I did, that would be the last time my dad ever got me anything.”
“Well, if I ever find out who did it,” Dusty muttered angrily, “I’m going to bust him in the nose.”
I looked at Kendall. He looked away and started down the hall for class. Ducking my head, I followed him.
I had a hard time thinking about the Primary lesson, and when sacrament meeting started, I tried to crowd thoughts of Dusty and his bike out of my mind. But as the priests were preparing the sacrament, I thought of a family home evening lesson Mom had given. She had talked about the sacrament and had pointed out that we should always take it worthily. Taking it unworthily was mocking Jesus.
Until that Sunday, the sacrament was just something we did on Sundays. It was just bread and water that the deacons brought around. But that morning I couldn’t help thinking of the broken bike, and I knew I wasn’t worthy to take the sacrament—not until I made things right with Dusty.
I swallowed hard and bowed my head, feeling horribly ashamed. Heavenly Father knew about the bike, and I knew I couldn’t take the bread and water and renew my covenants with him while pretending I hadn’t taken and damaged Dusty’s bike.
When Mom handed me the bread tray, I started to reach for a piece. Then that sick feeling inside me welled up bigger than ever. I pulled my hand back. Without looking at Mom, I slowly shook my head and stared down at my hands. When the water came a few minutes later, I shook my head again.
It was funny that as soon as the sacrament was over and the deacons and the priests had gone to sit with their families, I felt better. I didn’t feel good about what I had done to Dusty’s bike, but I was glad I’d had the courage not to mock Jesus by taking the sacrament just so people wouldn’t look at me funny. I also realized I was going to have to tell Dusty what had happened.
I walked home after the meeting, reaching the house before the rest of my family. I didn’t wait to change my clothes—I headed straight for the garage, grabbed my bike, and pushed it over to Dusty’s.
My hand shook a little as I rang the doorbell. Sister Baker answered it. “Is Dusty around?” I asked nervously.
“Sure, Bryce,” she said pleasantly. “Why don’t you come in?”
“I need to talk to him out here.”
A moment later Dusty came bounding out. “What’s happening?”
“Hi, Dusty.” I turned and nodded toward my bike. “I brought you my bike.”
“Oh, you heard mine got wrecked. I couldn’t believe anybody would do that to somebody else’s bike.”
“Yeah,” I gulped, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I thought you could use mine until yours is fixed.”
For a moment he stared at me and then at my bike and then back at me. “You don’t have to do that, Bryce.” He sounded surprised and really sincere. “That’s nice of you, though. Thanks a lot!”
I shook my head and looked at the ground. “No, Dusty, I’m not all that nice. I wish I was. You see, I”—I swallowed hard and wet my lips—“I’m the one who smashed up your new bike.”
I looked up. Dusty was staring at me. He wasn’t angry, just shocked. “I was going to bring it home to you. I saw it at the park and figured I’d ride it here—you know, as kind of a favor.” I was speaking fast and furiously, wanting to explain before he decided to bust me in the nose. “Then I came to where they’re building that new shopping center, and I started riding the dirt hills. I wasn’t trying to mess up your bike or anything.”
I told him everything. I even showed him the scrape on my knee to prove I wasn’t lying. Dusty didn’t say much. He just listened. “That’s why I brought you my bike,” I said sadly. “I’ll pay for what it costs to fix yours, but it’ll take me a little while to earn the money. That’s why I figured you needed another bike until then. It’s not as good as yours, but it’ll get you around. I’m sorry, Dusty. I didn’t mean for things to end up this way.”
Dusty stepped over to my bike and walked around it, looking it over.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you still wanted to bust me in the nose,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “I’ve thought better about that.” He poked me in the arm. “I still think this is pretty nice of you. Most guys wouldn’t even have told me.”
“Well, I am sorry. And I’ll make up for it.”
I turned and started down his driveway, leaving my bike behind. “Hey, Bryce,” he called after me. I stopped and turned. “Do you want to play a little catch tomorrow after school?”
I hesitated and then smiled. “Sure. I’d like that.”
As I returned home, I was smiling, both inside and out. That deep-down sick feeling was gone, and I knew that next Sunday I’d be able to take the sacrament—and I’d appreciate it.

When I was little, I lived in Zwickau, Germany. My grandmother had a friend with white, flowing hair. Her name was Sister Ewig, and she invited my grandmother to church. When our family went there, we saw many children. All of us were very impressed by the music, especially the singing. One song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,” really impressed me.1 I felt very close to Jesus when I sang it. I knew that He wanted me to be a sunbeam for Him. I still love that song—and the testimony that it gave me of the Savior.

It was the very first day in December, and although there was a light blanket of snow covering the grass and fields, the sidewalks were bare and dry. The air was nippy, and anyone outside could see his own cloud of warmth dispel the chill when he spoke.
Down the large staircase, warm within the Johnson house, hurried Cindy. She was pulling on the red and blue striped stocking cap Grandmother had given her. As Cindy reached the landing, Mom greeted her from the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Mom,” Cindy said. “Can I go out and make a snowman before breakfast?”
“You certainly may,” Mom said.
“Call me when Dad comes down for breakfast, OK, Mom?” With that, Cindy grabbed her blue parka from behind the door, put it on, pulled on her mittens, and disappeared out the door.
Cindy huffed and puffed as she pushed the fat middle section of the snowman up onto the bottom mound. As she stepped back, she saw a small boy standing near the hedge that divided her yard from the neighboring field. “Hello,” Cindy called, waving to him.
The boy threw a snowball that landed by the half-built snowman. Cindy noticed that he made his snowball with bare hands that were very red and that his jacket needed a few patches. He wasn’t wearing boots or any kind of hat.
“Come on over,” Cindy called out.
When the boy only threw another snowball, Cindy decided that she should reply. She tossed a snowball, and it hit the boy’s leg. He turned and ran away.
Cindy went back to her snowman and began to form its head. When she mounted the ball atop the others, she said, “Well, hello there, Mr. Snowman. I’ll be right back.”
Soon she brought a scarf and a hat and placed them on the snowman. Cindy could see the little boy peeking over the hedge again. She pretended not to notice him as she walked slowly around to the backyard, looking for rocks to use for the snowman’s nose, eyes, and mouth. When she returned with the stones, she saw a large red button pressed into the center of the snowman’s face. It made a splendid nose.
“Oh!” Cindy exclaimed loudly. “You already have a nose. If I give you a mouth, will you tell me where you got it?” She pushed in some small stones in a crooked row across the snowman’s face, forming a mouth. “Now are you going to talk to me?” she asked as she stuck in two larger stones for his eyes.
When she stood back to admire her finished product, a snowball flew over her head and hit the snowman’s hat, knocking it down over one eye. Cindy turned suddenly and ran after the boy. She chased him around the corner and down the block, until he ducked out of sight.
Cindy returned home to eat breakfast.
“Cindy, the snowman looks terrific,” Mother said, looking through the kitchen window.
“Yes, you did a great job on him,” Dad agreed. “By the way,” he added, “today’s the first day of December. That means that the Christmas season is upon us. Have you finished your Christmas wish list?”
“No, not yet,” Cindy replied as she picked up her glass of juice. “Dad, do you go home teaching to that family that just moved in on Second North?”
“Yes. The Smith’s moved here from Idaho, and they have a boy a year or so younger than you. Why? Have you met them?”
“Not really, but I think I’ve seen the boy. Are they very poor?”
“Well, their father was supposed to work for the college, but his job fell through. He hasn’t found any work yet.”
“That’s too bad,” Mom commented, “especially with the holiday season just about here.”
Thursday afternoon Cindy took the long way home from school. She walked slowly along Second North. There was a small house with large trees in front of it and a broken-down fence around the yard. When she came to a gap in the fence, she saw a small snowman with a large red button nose looking back at her. It had a crooked pebble smile, just like her snowman. The little boy was playing alone on the porch.
“Hello,” Cindy called out, but the boy turned and slipped quickly into the house.
Puzzled, Cindy walked slowly on down the street. When she was almost home, a snowball flew past her head. She spun around but couldn’t see anyone. She walked a little farther, and when a snowball hit her in the back, she kept walking. A third snowball whizzed past her arm. Cindy ducked out of sight when she reached the hedge, then watched the boy peer around cautiously as he came her way. Just before he reached the hedge, he stopped, stood still for a moment, then turned and started back. Cindy sprang from behind the hedge and grabbed his sleeve. The boy tried to run, but she had a firm grip on his jacket. He looked up at her, and his bottom lip quivered.
Cindy smiled at him. “My name is Cindy,” she said. “My dad is your home teacher. Do you want to come to my house for some cookies?” The boy nodded, and then he smiled too.
Cindy let go of his coat, and they went to her house together. Soon, full of cookies and milk, the boy was answering all of Cindy’s questions.
Later Cindy told Mom, “Jason’s five years old, and I gave him my last year’s galoshes.”
After she had made a friend of Jason, Cindy started walking the long way home from school every day. And Jason waited by the fence for her every day and walked partway home with her.
A few days before Christmas Cindy and Jason were playing together. “I’m going Christmas shopping with my mom this afternoon,” Cindy told her friend.
“Oh,” was all Jason said.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Cindy asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not completely Christmas this year,” Jason answered.
Cindy looked surprised. “But it’s nearly here. You’d better decide soon.”
“Oh, I guess I’ll ask for a new coat or maybe a truck, but Mom says that we won’t be having much Christmas this year. She’s sad that we can’t buy even a Christmas tree. Because it won’t be completely Christmas this year, I might not ask for anything at all.”
Later, when Cindy was shopping with her mother, she was drawn to a window display, where a train chugged past a pond and went through a tunnel. As she watched it, she remembered the look on Jason’s face when he’d talked about his mother and Christmas, and suddenly the toys and other things that she’d seen weren’t so important.
On the way home her mother asked her which things she had liked best. “I don’t know, Mom,” Cindy said slowly. “I saw toys and books and some neat T-shirts and a lot of things I liked, but what I want most is for it to be completely Christmas!”
“Completely Christmas?”
Cindy tried to explain. “It doesn’t seem as happy this year, because Jason isn’t having a real Christmas—you know, with a tree and everything.”
“I see,” Mom said. “Well, Dad and I would still like you to make out your wish list. We’ll work out some way so that Jason has a nice Christmas too.” She gave Cindy a squeeze.
When Cindy went upstairs to her room that night, she took some notebook paper from her drawer and wrote:
Christmas Wish List
A Christmas tree for Jason
A new coat and mittens for Jason
A train for Jason.
She took the list downstairs and said, “Mom, here’s my list.”
Mom read her list and smiled. “Cindy,” she said. “Your dad will be home soon, and I’m sure the two of you can go pick out a tree for the Smith’s.”
On Christmas day Cindy was awake soon after daylight. She put on warm clothes and went quietly down the stairs. On the chair where she always hung her stocking were two big boxes, wrapped just alike. One had her name on it, and Jason’s name was on the other box! She quickly opened hers and discovered the same train set that she had seen in the store window. Cindy hurriedly put on her boots and coat and hat. When she picked up Jason’s box, she saw something fall. Reaching down, she picked up two pairs of new warm mittens. One had a tag that read “Cindy”; the other tag read “Jason.”
“All right!” Cindy exclaimed. Looking up she saw her mother and father smiling at her.
Dad said, “Brother Smith said they’d managed to get a new coat for Jason, so we got mittens to match it.”
Cindy gathered up Jason’s gifts and scampered outside. When she got to Jason’s house, she put the gaily wrapped box on the front porch, placed the new mittens on top of the box, rang the doorbell, then raced home.
“Merry Christmas!” Cindy shouted, giving Mom and Dad both a big bear hug. As Cindy again opened and peeked into the box that held her new train, she imagined Jason’s face as he peeked into his box.
After Cindy and her parents exchanged gifts, she sorted through the goodies in her Christmas stocking. Then she heard her mother call, “Come help me stuff the turkey, Cindy. We’re having company for dinner.”
“Company?”
“It’s a Christmas present for all of us,” Mother said. “The Smith’s are coming, and we’re celebrating Mr. Smith’s new job!”
“Hurray!” Cindy shouted. “Now it really is completely Christmas!”

For some time, the large number of convert baptisms in the Campinas Brazil Castelo Stake had been challenging our ability as leaders to help our new members nourish the seed of truth and grow strong in the gospel. As a stake presidency, we felt an urgency to make sure new converts were being taught “the good word of God,” as President Gordon B. Hinckley has asked (see “Find the Lambs, Feed the Sheep,” Liahona, July 1999, 123).
About three years ago, as we discussed President Hinckley’s counsel as a stake presidency, we noticed an interesting thing: most of the members in our stake who were subscribing to the Liahona were longtime members; they knew the value of receiving the prophets’ words in their homes. However, most new members were not subscribing. We became convinced that an important part of our efforts to help new converts receive the spiritual sustenance they need was getting the Liahona into their homes.
This was no small task. Some 200 converts join our stake each year. How could we encourage these new members to subscribe without making them feel a subscription was obligatory? We didn’t want them to resent our encouragement, particularly if they were facing financial difficulties. And we didn’t want them to feel they had to subscribe to the Liahona to be good members of the Church.
Still, we recognized the power that flows into homes where people regularly read the words of the living prophets and other inspired Church members. We wanted each member of our stake to have access to that source of strength.
In considering the situation, we figured that the number of baptisms we had in a year corresponded to about 80 families. We asked ourselves, Why couldn’t we give a year’s subscription to the Liahona, free of charge, to these 80 families? We felt that after a year’s exposure to the magazine, they would want to continue their subscription on their own. But what of the cost to our meager stake resources? We decided that getting the First Presidency Message and the rest of the magazine into our new converts’ homes on a regular basis justified the cost.
As a stake presidency, we found a way to help new members receive a subscription for their first year in the Church. These new members received the Liahona gladly. Thelma de Paula Silva, a new member of the Rosolem Branch, reflects the feelings of many. “The Liahona has helped me set and achieve goals,” she says. “It has helped me strengthen my own testimony, and it helps my family members who still don’t belong to the Church. It brings joy and love to my home and helps me in my calling as Young Women president. The Liahona is a light for me in moments of darkness.”
As a stake presidency, we also pondered what we could do to help less-active members feel motivated to return to full activity in the Church. The year after our Liahona project began, we asked ourselves the questions, Now that the new members are being exposed to the Liahona, what about the less-active members of our stake? Why couldn’t we extend our Liahona program to them? We figured the number of subscriptions required for these members, and we felt we should order one-year subscriptions for them. Again we found a way to do so.
As our new and less-active members received their magazines, we began to notice an increase in attendance at our sacrament meetings. We felt better as a stake presidency, knowing that our brothers and sisters were being “nourished by the good word of God” (Moro. 6:4).
We began to wonder about active members of our stake who were not subscribing. During all this time, we had asked the bishops and branch presidents to make sure that every member household was given the opportunity to have the magazine. Active members were encouraged to obtain or renew their own subscriptions to the Liahona. We learned that some active members wanted to subscribe but didn’t have the financial means to do so. We decided to include these members in our stake subscription program as well.
As subscription levels among our active members increased, we received many favorable comments. Carla Virginia Soares de Oliveira of the Amarais Branch said: “I’ve been a member of the Church for five years. But I started receiving the Liahona only last year. The things I had not yet learned in Sunday School or Relief Society, I am now learning through the Church magazine.”
Leandro Domingos, a young member of the Amarais Branch, is the only Latter-day Saint in his family. “When I have doubts or questions,” he says, “I always get strength from the Liahona. I love the stories it contains. I usually can relate them to my own situation. Although my mother is not a member, she always compliments the articles.”
The missionaries of the Brazil Campinas Mission were a great support to our stake Liahona program. The missionaries took copies of the Liahona with them whenever they visited the members.
“The missionaries loved this project,” says former mission president Rodney Cuthbert. “The Liahona project gave them an opportunity to visit members who hadn’t been to church for a long time. A number of these people have become active again. The missionaries also used the Liahona to introduce the Church to investigators, and we had some conversions as a result.”
While it is difficult to measure all the benefits of this effort, we are gratified to see joy on the faces of members as they give talks, lessons, or testimonies about the influence of the Liahona in their lives. We have also seen an increased desire among our members to receive the counsel of the Lord through the magazine. Many people wait eagerly for it to arrive, anticipating that its messages will bless their lives.
Karen Pereira da Silva, a magazine representative in the Anhanguera Ward, expresses our sentiments exactly: “It is almost as if the magazine is made especially for me. Many times while reading its articles, especially the message from the First Presidency, I have felt through the Spirit that the counsel being given was what I needed to hear at that particular moment of my life.”
We are convinced our efforts to have a Liahona in every home in our stake have helped bring the joy and peace of the gospel of Jesus Christ into the lives of our brothers and sisters in greater abundance.

Brother Tony Wong was assigned to speak during a stake priesthood meeting. “I think the stake presidency wanted me to talk about whether emigration was right or wrong. But I didn’t know,” he says. He read books, checked references, and prepared for two weeks, but the night before the meeting, he still had no idea what he was going to say.
“I decided I’d better do something, so I knelt down and prayed. Then I opened up the scriptures.”
Again, the answer and comfort were found in Ether: “Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God” (Ether 12:4).
“The reason for emigrating is looking for a better world,” Brother Wong explains. “People think it will be safer, nicer, or happier somewhere else. This scripture made me realize something. When I talked at that priesthood meeting, I didn’t talk about emigration—I talked about belief in God and Jesus Christ.
“If you ask me if I am going to emigrate, I’ll tell you no. People are worrying and fearing, but we’re forgetting that we have the gospel, we have the Helper. The gospel offers hope and the assurance that Heavenly Father knows what is going on and that he is in charge.”

For about a year I played the role of the mother of the house. I loved my family, and I wanted to take care of them, but I sometimes wondered, “Why do I have to stay home and watch the little kids, fix supper, and do the laundry?” I was only in junior high school. In those moments when I would start to cry, I’d see my father. He tried so hard to make our home happy. All day he would work hard and then come home and listen to our problems and our complaints and smile and say he loved us. I never once heard him complain or break down in front of us. He knew the whole family depended on him. If he broke down, the family would also. But if he were strong, the family would follow.
I remember those days and all the pain and testing we went through. Looking at pictures that were taken then, I can still see the pain when I look into the eyes of those in the photographs.

Elder Peterson and I took the Star Ferry to Hong Kong Island. From there we boarded a bus that would take us to our area on the back side of the island. Elder Peterson was a new missionary, and I wanted him to see, as soon as possible, how the gospel brings new joy into a person’s life. We chatted for a while; then we each drifted off in thought.
I don’t know what Elder Peterson was thinking about. Maybe the hot, humid August weather. Maybe the strange foods. But I clearly remember my thoughts.
Our pool of investigators was average in size, but we didn’t have anyone who was ready for baptism. As I prayed silently, I had a calm understanding within my heart that the Lord would guide us to people who were prepared for the truth. I hardly expected a miracle, though.
We set out that day tracting through Shek Pai Wan—one of the many government housing complexes that crowd entire families of six or eight people into one-room apartments the size of a small living room. For being in Hong Kong only two days, Elder Peterson did remarkably well speaking Cantonese during his door approaches. But we had little success.
The next few days we worked hard and followed the Spirit. Although we found one or two new investigators, no one seemed to really be catching fire.
Then it happened.
I was looking through the drawers in our bedroom and found an old notebook. I opened it and saw a book of contacts and investigators from years before. The pages were torn and soiled. The writing was faded. But the Spirit whispered that I should read through the scores of names. I sat on my bed and began reading the book. As I slowly skimmed the lists of faceless names, my eyes and fingers stopped at a Mr. Chan.
The notes indicated that he had been taught the first discussion but that he wasn’t interested.
The burning in my heart was distinct and comforting. At once I knew we should visit this man. That afternoon we found the apartment listed in the old notebook. I said a silent prayer as we knocked on the door. The burning of the Spirit deep within us intensified as we waited for Mr. Chan. We waited. No answer. We knocked again. Still no answer.
“I guess no one’s home,” I said to Elder Peterson. “Let’s try later.”
We were a few feet away when the door opened.
“Matyeh a?” The man was asking us what we wanted.
“Hou ma?” We responded with the traditional Chinese “How are you?” greeting.
A minute later, this man was introducing himself as Mr. Chan.
“May we tell you a little about our church?” we asked.
“Please do,” Mr. Chan said.
The Spirit of the Lord was with the three of us as we discussed the Prophet Joseph Smith and the First Vision. We testified of Christ and of His atoning sacrifice. As we testified, the Spirit told us Mr. Chan believed our words.
“How do you feel about what we’ve said?” we asked.
“I know what you tell me is true,” Mr. Chan replied. “Wait here a minute.” He walked to a chair and stood on it while reaching for some books on a shelf. Finally he found the Book of Mormon.
“This is your church, isn’t it?” he asked, handing us the book.
“Yes, it is. Where did you get this?”
“Some missionaries like you came to my home three or four years ago,” he explained. “I bought this book from them, but they never came back.”
Elder Peterson and I looked through the well-worn Book of Mormon.
“Have you read this book?” I asked.
“Yes, many times. It is the word of God. Can you baptize me?”
“Why do you want to be baptized?”
“So I may return to live with God and Jesus Christ,” he said.
The Spirit was strong as we knelt in prayer with Mr. Chan. He had truly been prepared by the hand of God for baptism into His kingdom.
The words of Alma to his son Helaman in Alma 37:9–10 now have more meaning to me: “These records and their words … brought them to the knowledge of the Lord their God, and to rejoice in Jesus Christ their Redeemer. And who knoweth but what they will be the means of bringing many thousands … to the knowledge of their Redeemer?”

Eighty-three-year-old Luella Boyd, a widow, would leave her home in Basin, Wyoming, at five o’clock in the morning, drive seven hours to the temple in Idaho Falls, arriving about noon, and then participate in four endowment sessions. The next morning she would be at the temple as it opened and attend eight more sessions, going without lunch. On the third day she would start at 5:00 a.m., and complete four endowments by noon—then drive home to Basin, Wyoming, arriving at 8:00 p.m. Sixteen sessions—six hundred miles—three days—eighty-three years old! One year she did this eleven times, missing only one month because of bad weather. The most exceptional part of this story is that she currently is serving as a Family History missionary right here in Salt Lake City. Remember, Sister Boyd is eighty-three years old. And you and I think we are busy! What a marvelous spirit and dedication! She is one of 365 full-time Family History missionaries serving in Salt Lake having a remarkable spiritual experience.

I know exactly what it’s like to carry the burden of having a guilty conscience. I had something I needed to confess to my bishop, but it was of such a personal nature that I was horrified of telling him about it. To make matters worse, my bishop was also my neighbor. Every day I would see him and I would feel so uncomfortable when he’d smile at me and ask me how things were going. I knew deep in my heart that I needed to talk to him, but I needed strength and courage. I decided one day to fast and pray and search the scriptures for an answer and strength. I came across several scriptures that seemed to help me: Doctrine and Covenants 64:7; 82:1; 95:1; 98:47 [D&C 64:7; D&C 82:1; D&C 95:1; D&C 98:47]; Mosiah 26:29–30.

It is never easy for one to confess something one has done wrong, but if you will ask Heavenly Father for strength, he will bless you for it. He loves you as he loves all his children. I testify to you that by confessing and sharing your problems with your bishop, you will feel so much better. It will help take the weight off your shoulders and you can start on the road to forgiveness.

Name withheld

Snowflakes fell as Sofia stepped outside. Snow usually made her happy. But this year, things were different. She bent down and scooped up some snow in a bowl, then went back inside.
The kitchen was warm, and Mama was at the stove cooking breakfast. Sofia dumped the snow into a pot so it could melt. They would use the melted snow for washing their hands and faces.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia,” Mama said.
Sofia wanted to say Merry Christmas back, but the words stuck in her throat as she walked toward the barn to help feed the animals. The barn was attached to the house by a long hallway, and Sofia was grateful she didn’t have to go outside again.
Papa and her older brother Isak were already in the barn when she got there. A knot formed in Sofia’s stomach as she looked around. Cows, goats, and sheep were chewing their breakfast. Chickens pecked around her feet. But the barn was a lot emptier these days.
A month ago, some of their animals got sick and died. People in the community were afraid the disease would spread to other farms, so Sofia’s family’s farm had been quarantined. That meant no one was allowed to visit or leave their farm until they could be sure the sickness was gone.
Sofia had not seen any of her friends. She could not go to school or church. Her family could not sell their milk or go to the store. They were like prisoners on their own farm.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia!” voices squealed when Sofia returned to the kitchen. Her little brother and sister, Frej and Kaia, were sitting at the table eating bits of bread soaked in milk.
“You won’t have any room in your tummies for dinner!” Sofia said, smiling.
“Not that it matters,” she thought. Christmas dinner was going to be the same food they’d been eating for a month. Bread. Potatoes. Dried vegetables. All things they had stored from summer. They couldn’t even afford to eat one of their chickens. Who knew how long the quarantine would last?
“Hey, everyone,” Isak said, coming in from the barn. “Get your coats on. I want to show you something.”
Isak led them through the pine forest near the farm.
“Are we going to cut down a Christmas tree?” Kaia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sofia said. “We can’t go to the store to buy decorations. We don’t even have any presents to put under it.”
Kaia and Frej looked disappointed, but soon they were running through the snow, trying to see who was fastest.
“Wait!” Isak called after a few moments.
Sofia peered into the forest. “What’s that?” she whispered.
There was a little click, and suddenly a light flared in the darkness.
“Oh!” they all gasped.
In front of them was a table built from fallen branches. A small stable made from moss sat on top, and inside was their family’s Nativity set. Angels, shepherds, and Wise Men gathered around Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. A small lightbulb in the roof of the stable lit the scene.
Kaia and Frej stared, fascinated. Sofia stared too. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Merry Christmas,” Isak said.
And suddenly Sofia knew that it was. There would be no presents, no tree, and no special dinner. But there would always be the precious gift of the Savior. And that was enough.

Jane’s mother was a wonderful gardener. She could grow beautiful flowers even in a patch of rocky soil. “No matter how tired I get, working in the garden or just looking at a meadow of Maine wildflowers always perks me up,” she had once told Jane.
After Mama got sick, Jane picked flowers for her each day, filling her bedroom with forget-me-nots, daisies, lady’s slippers, and wildflowers of all the colors of the rainbow.
But then autumn came, and there were no more flowers.
“The frost killed the last flowers,” Jane whispered one day as she brought a handful of bright orange and red maple leaves to cheer her mother.
Mama took her hand. “When spring comes, Jane, remember to look at the flowers for me.”
Jane thought that the long Maine winter would never end. The house seemed so cold without Mama. Little Rose and Isaac had been sent away to Aunt Ellen’s. Father was grave and silent.
One day her father said, “Aunt Ellen has found a cousin of your mother’s who can come and keep house for us this spring. If she does, then Rose and Isaac can come home.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Cousin Kate.”
Cousin Kate didn’t look much older than a girl. She was plump and wore her dark red hair in braids piled on top of her head. Rose and Isaac came home. They missed Mama, and so did Jane. But Cousin Kate cuddled Rose and Isaac and made them laugh. Even Papa smiled a little at her funny ways. But Jane still could not laugh.
Finally the beauty of spring touched the world. Mama’s daffodils came up; then the forsythia bushes burst out in bright yellow. There were new leaf buds on the trees. One night Jane caught the sweet scent of lilacs from the bush under her window.
But Jane only wanted to scream and yell at the flowers. How could they be here when Mama was gone?
One morning Kate said, “Jane, we must set about spring cleaning.”
Kate and Jane began a whirlwind of turning over mattresses and shaking out rugs. After the whole house had been cleaned, Kate said, “We haven’t touched your mother’s dresses. Come and help me go through them.”
Reluctantly Jane followed Cousin Kate into her parents’ room. Mama’s dresses still hung in the closet.
“We’ll put some of these dresses aside for you, Jane. Then you’ll have something of hers to wear when you’re grown.”
Kate began to sort through Mama’s dresses. Jane sat on the floor, holding a familiar red wool dress her mother had worn often to church. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and turned toward the window so that Kate wouldn’t see them.
Outside, Papa was just visible near the barn, and Rose and Isaac were playing near the garden. Kate had worked hard in the garden, and it was blooming with the promise of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.
Jane looked down at the dress in her hands. She didn’t want to give it—or any of them—away. They would help her remember Mama during the long, cold winters when there were no flowers. Suddenly she had an idea. “Remember to look at the flowers,” Mama had said. Jane turned to her cousin and said softly, “Kate, could I have one of my mother’s dresses now, before I’m grown?”
Kate stopped and looked at Jane. “These dresses bring her back, do they?”
Jane nodded. “I want to make something to remember her by. I could make a quilt, but I’m not very good at quilting.”
“Did your mama teach you how to make rugs? She made some beautiful ones herself, with applique and embroidery.”
“Oh yes! Mama did teach me! I remember she said that if you knew how to make a rug, you could make any house into a home.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Kate, nodding her head. “The red dress you have there would be perfect. Here’s a black wool one too.” She smiled at Jane.
She understands how I feel, thought Jane.
The rug would be made from wool, so it would last. Jane began to plan its design—it must have lots of flowers!
Jane worked on the rug each summer evening. It was big—over a meter wide and almost two meters long—perfect for in front of a fireplace or in the kitchen.
She filled the center of the rug with pictures of everything around her that summer; trees, their old cow, birds sitting on their nests in the apple orchard, her father riding his horse to town. She even put in their house, with its two large windows downstairs, four windows upstairs, and two big chimneys. She embroidered a beautiful starflower, and a dozen lovely hearts. In the very center she copied her mother’s favorite vase filled with a bright bouquet.
“You don’t have any more room in the center,” Kate laughed one evening. “Now what will you do for the borders?”
“Vines and more flowers,” Jane said.
“That’s quite a project for an eleven-year-old,” her father observed. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like it in the whole of Maine.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“Well, in Wiscasset, anyway. It’s sure to win a prize at the Harvest Fair.”
“Jane has put a lot of love and memories into the rug, and it shows,” Cousin Kate agreed.
Jane cut out over one hundred flowers to applique around the border. She used her mother’s brightest clothes. She embroidered curving leaves, vines, and flowers trailing up and down the sides of the rug. Each night when she went to bed, she had to shake her hand because her fingers were so tired and sore from holding the needle. But each morning she looked around even more eagerly, wanting to capture the beauty her mother had taught her to see.
Finally it was done. Cousin Kate helped her press it with a warm iron the night before the Harvest Fair.
They took the wagon to the center of Wiscasset to the big churchyard. Quilts and rugs and samplers of all kinds were already displayed.
Jan hesitated.
“Come,” said Cousin Kate, taking her arm. “Let’s enter it.”
“What have we here?” Mrs. Kingsbury asked.
“A rug made by Jane Gove, age eleven,” said Kate proudly, while Jane stood shyly to one side.
In the morning sunlight the bright cloth and the colored threads shone and sparkled on the black wool.
“Why, it’s almost like being in a garden! You’re Mary Gove’s oldest, aren’t you? Your mother would be proud!” Mrs. Kingsbury exclaimed.
As they walked around the churchyard, looking at jams and jellies and animals and pumpkins, it was almost like being a family again. Cousin Kate couldn’t ever take Mama’s place, but Jane was glad that she had come to live with them. It was good to see Isaac and Rose laughing again. And Papa seemed to walk with a lighter step. But was haven’t forgotten Mama. She is still in our hearts, thought Jane.
After supper, the winners were announced. After seeing the display of needlework, Jane didn’t really think her rug would win. But suddenly she heard her name!
“For the 1845 Wiscasset Harvest Fair, first prize for needlework, the winner is Miss Jane Gove. This young lady is only eleven years old, but she has created one of the most extraordinary pieces of needlework our judges have ever seen!”
Although Jane grew up and made other rugs for her own family, she always kept this special rug. It stayed in her family for a long time, and finally someone decided that it should be seen by other people as well. It is now recognized as a masterpiece of American folk art and is displayed in the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, California.
As long as she lived, Jane kept the joyful memory of her mother in her heart. And she never forgot to smile each spring when the flowers came back to the gardens and meadows.

A story is told of the son of King Louis the Sixteenth of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months, he was exposed to every evil thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”*

This promise has been realized by devoted disciples across the world.
Brother Lauri Ahola from the eastern United States admits that at times he finds it awkward to share the full name of the Church. But because of the prophet’s counsel, he persists. On one occasion, he was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Here are his words:
An acquaintance asked, “Are you a Mormon?”
“‘I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, yes,’ I said. He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: ‘Does the Mormon Church believe … ?’ And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: ‘In the restored Church of [Jesus] Christ, we believe …’
“… When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title ‘Mormon,’ he asked me point-blank, ‘Are you not Mormon?’
“So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet … [and I was] honored to be associated with [him].
“‘But,’ I continued, ‘Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Mormon didn’t … suffer in Gethsemane or die on the cross [for me]. … Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. … And it is by His name that I want to be known. …’
“… After a few seconds of silence, [the acquaintance exclaimed], ‘So, you are a Christian!’”

When Elder Dale G. Renlund was 12, his family lived in Sweden. One Sunday, Dale’s friend Steffan brought a large firecracker and some matches into the Church building. Dale was excited. Dale took the firecracker and lit the fuse. He was going to snuff out the fuse, but he burned his fingers and dropped the firecracker! Dale and Steffan watched in horror as the fuse kept burning.
The firecracker exploded! An awful smell filled the chapel. Dale and Steffan quickly picked up the pieces of firecracker and opened the windows to let the smell out. They hoped no one would notice.
As people came to sacrament meeting, they did notice. The smell was so strong that people couldn’t focus on the meeting. Dale felt very embarrassed and ashamed. He knew that what he had done had disappointed Heavenly Father.
After church, President Lindberg, the branch president, asked Dale to come to his office because he could tell that something was wrong. Dale told President Lindberg how sorry he was about the firecracker.
President Lindberg was kind. He opened the scriptures and asked Dale to read some underlined verses. Dale read, “Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more. By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them” (D&C 58:42–43).
When Dale finished reading, he saw President Lindberg smile. He felt he had been forgiven. As Dale left the office, he felt happy.
Elder Renlund learned that he could be forgiven when he did something wrong. He could feel happy when he repented and kept Heavenly Father’s commandments.

My first district leader’s motto seemed to be “Work smarter, not harder.” I don’t agree with the second half of this motto, but if I had it to do over, I would certainly try to work smarter. My district leader was quite creative and quite successful. For instance, he organized a volleyball team among the youth in his branch, and they invited their friends to play. It was a fun and simple way to help the youth be missionaries. Teaching opportunities and conversions resulted from this nonthreatening approach to sharing the gospel.

I was probably too rigid and restrictive in my definition of what the Lord’s work should be. I considered myself lazy if I wasn’t out knocking on doors all day long or teaching serious investigators. But the Lord’s work doesn’t have to be hard to be considered work. If I were a missionary today, I would, under the guidance of my mission president, try to be more creative in finding people to teach.

Two groups of young people in California and some Scouts in Idaho followed through on their own cemetery projects. The El Centro California Stake set aside a Saturday in February to record information found in the Evergreen Cemetery. Along with their clipboards, pencils, and typewriters, 75 youth and adult advisers arrived at the cemetery carrying rakes and shovels. Working in teams, they probed the ground to search for hidden plaques and, at the same time, cleaned up the area and cleared away overgrown grass. Approximately 7,670 names were recorded. Copies of their work were given to local agencies and a local genealogy library as well as being sent to the Church Genealogical Department in Salt Lake City.

“We were playing with a Ouija board in school one day,” said JoAnn, a Laurel in Southern California. “We kept asking questions and the board kept answering correctly. I became increasingly frightened and eventually so scared that I fled from the room. I couldn’t sleep for days. I kept waking up with nightmares. It was a horrible experience. We are told to seek for the positive in life,” she continued, “but the negative is just as powerful. By forcing all your attention and your thoughts on an object, using ritual to make the image emotional, you can easily surrender your consciousness to evil powers.”

In the marvelous experience of Brigham Young in February of 1847, when the Prophet Joseph appeared to him in a dream or vision, Brigham pleaded to be reunited with the Prophet. Brigham Young asked the Prophet if he had a message for the Brethren. The Prophet said:
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and to be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and it will lead them right. Be careful and not turn away the still small voice; it will teach them what to do and where to go; it will yield the fruits of the kingdom. Tell the Brethren to keep their hearts open to conviction, so that when the Holy Ghost comes to them, their hearts will be ready to receive it.”
The Prophet further directed Brigham Young as follows: “They can tell the Spirit of the Lord from all other spirits; it will whisper peace and joy to their souls; it will take malice, hatred, strife and all evil from their hearts; and their whole desire will be to do good, bring forth righteousness and build up the kingdom of God.” (Manuscript History of Brigham Young: 1846–47, Historical Dept., The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, pp. 528–31.)

It was just a normal Sunday morning until we entered the classroom. Our new Primary teacher, Brother Smith, was waiting for us.

“We’re going on a field trip today,” he announced after Sue gave the opening prayer. He put on his coat, grabbed his cane, and walked out the classroom door. “The bishop has given us special permission.”

Brother Smith had a twinkle in his eye, but he’s old and walks with a cane, so we didn’t have a hard time keeping up with him.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we went out the foyer doors and started down the walk.

“To a very special library,” explained Brother Smith, the twinkle in his eye getting brighter.

Our town had just opened a new library, but I hadn’t been to it yet. This was going to be fun! Then I remembered something. “The library is closed today—it’s Sunday!”

Brother Smith smiled as we reached the parking lot. “This library is open whenever someone wants to read and learn.” We all looked at each other with surprise; nothing in our town was opened that often!

“What kind of library is it?” asked David. David’s father was a lawyer, and he knew that lawyers had their own libraries full of law books.

“It’s a sacred library,” Brother Smith answered.

“You mean the meetinghouse library?” asked Sue, looking back. Her mother was the meetinghouse librarian, and she knew that it had lots of books and pictures and tapes about gospel subjects.

“No, not the meetinghouse library.” Brother Smith took out his keys and opened his van. “Everyone in!” We all piled in, jockeying for the window seats, as Brother Smith explained more about his mysterious library. “It has two rooms—an ‘old’ room and a ‘new’ room.”

“Our new city library has two rooms just for children’s books!” Jared piped up.

“This sacred library doesn’t have many books,” Brother Smith said. “In fact, it has only sixty-six.”

“We have more books than that at home!” exclaimed Justin.

“In the old room there are thirty-nine books,” Brother Smith continued with a smile.

“What kind of books?” asked David.

“Well, the first five are often called ‘The Law.’”

“My dad uses law books,” David bragged.

“These law books teach us God’s laws. They teach us about the Creation and about Adam and Eve. They also teach us about Moses and the laws God gave to him.” Brother Smith paused, but none of us said anything, so he continued, “There are twelve history books that tell us how the people were blessed when they obeyed God and how they were punished when they didn’t obey.”

“Is there any poetry?” Michelle asked. “I like poetry.”

“Yes,” Brother Smith replied, “there are four poetry books and another of wise sayings.”

By now I’d noticed that Brother Smith hadn’t started the engine; we were just sitting in the van, talking.

“And the last collection of books in the old room of the sacred library is seventeen books written by prophets.”

“What do they say?” Justin asked.

“They teach the people to obey God, and they tell us about future events.”

By now most of the class realized we weren’t going on an ordinary field trip. But we still wanted to know about this sacred library.

“Now, in the new room of this library,” Brother Smith continued, “there are only twenty-seven books.”

“Yes,” said Sue, “and four of them are history!”

Unlike me, Sue seemed to know what Brother Smith was talking about.

“Actually, there are five history books,” he told her, “but in four of them, sometimes called the Gospels, four different authors tell the story of Jesus and his life and teachings.”

“What are the rest of the books?” I asked.

“They are letters from church leaders to church members who lived in different places,” Brother Smith explained, pleased to see that I was interested.

“Where is this library?” I asked.

“In my hand.” Brother Smith held up a book.

“The Bible!” David announced.

“The Holy Bible,” Michelle added.

“The Holy Bible,” Brother Smith agreed. “In the Greek language, bible came to mean ‘divine library.’”

“The Old Testament and the New Testament are the two ‘rooms’!” I exclaimed.

“What did you learn today in Primary?” my mom asked later that day. She always asks, and in the past, I didn’t remember very often.

“We learned that we carry a whole library to church,” I answered proudly.

Mom gave me a funny look. But then Dad whispered, “Brother Smith’s his new Primary teacher,” and her puzzled look changed to one of understanding.

I can’t wait to go to Primary next week. Brother Smith says he’s going to take us on another field trip.

President Smith showed an example of such kindness in a meeting where an accident involving a Church-owned automobile was discussed. An elderly man driving a vegetable truck with no insurance had caused the mishap. After some discussion, it was recommended that the Church pursue the matter in a court of law. However, President Smith spoke up: “Yes, we could do that. And if we press with all vigor, we might even succeed in taking the truck away from the poor man; then how would he make a living?” The committee reversed its recommendation and let the matter rest.15