Gospel Story Finder

Car horns blared and taxis and buses jostled for a place in the traffic. As Benjamin Misalucha sat in the marketplace watching the automobiles roll by, he reached for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He hoped his wife would be done with the shopping soon. The weather was hot and muggy, as it often is in the Philippines, and he was eager to get home and relax with his children.
Then he noticed a sign, high on the side of one of the buildings overlooking the square. “No other success can compensate for failure in the home,” the sign read. He found himself contemplating the message and believing in its truth.
“During those times I was young, about 30, and had four children. We had everything, comparatively speaking, compared to other Filipinos, but I was not satisfied with life. In my heart I knew I was searching for something more,” he said.
He didn’t guess that the quotation from President David O. McKay had been inscribed on the sign by missionaries living in the building, the same kind of Mormon missionaries who had already visited with him for three weeks when he lived in Manila, the capital city. He had also been visited twice by the elders here in Davao, another large city in the south.
A short time later, Benjamin Misalucha was transferred by his pharmaceutical company to Cebu City, an important community on one of the central islands. It was in Cebu that Mr. Misalucha and his family would discover the secret of what had been lacking in their lives.
In a society in which sharing is so accepted, it might seem unusual that someone would stand out as being particularly kind and generous. But such was the case with the local Parent Teacher Association (PTA) president. Right from the start she went out of her way to help the Misaluchas adjust to their new city. Soon Mr. Misalucha was serving on the PTA board. He eventually found out that the PTA president was also the wife of the local Mormon bishop. His curiosity grew and grew.
“One day I saw both of them walking home, and I ran over to catch up with them,” Mr. Misalucha explained. “I told him I wanted to know more about his church. He said he could recommend a couple of nice young men who could teach me about it.”
For the next ten months, the elders became a regular fixture in the Misalucha home. Benjamin Misalucha would entertain them with stories about previous encounters with missionaries, before he fully understood who they were: “They knocked on my door and asked me if I was the head of the house. I was all hot and perspiring from doing some chores, so I told them, ‘No, I’m just the janitor here.’ It’s something I say jokingly to my family all the time, but they believed me!”
Avelina would always provide cold water or juice, cake, or even siopao (doughy, white, steamed Chinese bread stuffed with sausage and eggs). And of course, the children, who numbered five by now, would have fun teasing the missionaries and telling jokes before the serious gospel discussions began.
“I wanted answers from the Bible,” Benjamin said, “because I didn’t believe in the Book of Mormon yet. And they showed me answers in the Bible. I was totally perplexed by how they could always get answers to questions I couldn’t even answer myself.” Slowly, his perplexed state gave way to understanding. The missionaries could find the answers because they knew the truth. He summoned a family council.
“Take this individually into prayer,” he told his wife and children. At the next family council, they all voted in favor of becoming Latter-day Saints. The family was baptized on April 29, 1978, a Saturday.

Accepting a calling. Just before legal papers were filed for divorce, our Relief Society presidency was reorganized, and I was called to be secretary. Our new president later told me that my name came to her while she was meditating in the temple. Looking back, I see that Heavenly Father put me in a position to receive loving help, kindness, and concern from my sisters in the presidency during those stressful days during and after the divorce.
My Relief Society job required me to prepare weekly bulletins and a number of monthly reports. I began acquiring computer skills. As I carried out my other duties, I occasionally conducted meetings and found my leadership skills improving also. My self-confidence grew. When I had to go back to work again as a nurse after many years absent from the profession, I discovered the job required computer skills, and I was grateful for all I had learned through my calling. My improved skills helped me step more confidently back into the workforce.

With the dedication of the Frankfurt Germany Temple in 1987, they became its president and matron. Sister Busche had never been a temple worker, so President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) advised her at a training seminar, “The most important thing is to have love and love and love.” She took his counsel to heart. She asked temple workers to make it their top priority to help patrons feel God’s Spirit.

Both of these sisters know firsthand the religious confusion and uncertainty some of their investigators are feeling. Sister Pálinkás Bernadett is from Dunaújváros, a factory city built by Joseph Stalin as a model Communist city. For many years, there were no churches at all in the city. “My parents are not believers in God,” she says. “But somehow I felt close to Him and felt that He loved me.
“I often thought about what I was doing here on earth, what the purpose of life was, why I was born here in Hungary and not somewhere else, and why now and not earlier or later. Something was missing in my life, but I didn’t know exactly what.”
When Bernadett was almost 20, two American missionaries came into the store where she sold office supplies. “My co-workers and I could tell from the very first that these young men were different from others,” she remembers. “There was something shining from their eyes that made me very curious as to who they were and what they were doing here in Hungary. I felt that they could show me something that I didn’t know—something that I needed to know.”
Bernadett and a co-worker arranged to hear the first discussion. Although her friend soon lost interest, Bernadett attended sacrament meeting alone the following Sunday and was baptized a month later, on 22 August 1992. A year and a half later, she became a full-time missionary. None of her family has yet been baptized.
Bernadett’s parents are not happy with either decision—to be baptized or to serve a mission. “It hurts them because they don’t understand what I’m doing and why, even though I’ve tried to explain it to them. When I decided to be a missionary, my first goal was to somehow bring my parents closer to the Church. Now I recognize that each person has to personally walk the road to get to God, and it takes some people longer than others. I write to my parents every week and pray for them always.”

I have gone back to these scriptures over and over again. They apply to so much more than just being single. We are constantly in different waiting periods in our lives—waiting on blessings or answers or major life changes. My husband and I right now have been waiting and hoping to have children. I’ve watched as sisters and friends have gotten pregnant and had children while we’ve prayed and waited for the same blessing.
This wait has been hard and often heartbreaking, but there have been many blessings and opportunities at the same time. I have been able to complete a graduate degree, grow within my career, create a home where family and friends feel loved and welcome, continue to serve in Church callings and volunteer, and seek personal revelation and direction. My husband and I are trying to use this time to become the type of people (and hopefully future parents) that God wants us to be. We can’t shorten the wait, but we can try not to waste it.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep this perspective. Like Paul wrote, sometimes we’re “full” and other times we’re “hungry.” It’s through Christ and His grace that we’re ever able to be both together, to find that careful balance between contentment and hope. Where so much of life is made up of waiting, I’m trying not to miss the blessings and lessons that can come at the same time.
Lori Fuller Sosa has worked on the Friend magazine for more than a decade and loves it. Since writing this article, she and her husband are now expecting a baby! They’re very excited and trying to make the most of this new wait.

I share with you an account described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. She wrote:
“Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied, ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’ ”
The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”

I caught the vision of family history by realizing I’m not so different from my ancestors. My great-grandma and I have always had a really special connection, so for a Personal Progress project, I decided to compose a family history book dedicated to her. Writing this book was such an amazing experience because it created a closer bond to my ancestors. I’m so grateful for this new perspective of family history work.
Ashley N., 16, Utah, USA

Kaylie: Some people who don’t believe in God feel that the Bible and the law of chastity are out of date. I had some friends in high school who were basically atheist or agnostic—and I had one friend who didn’t really believe in the teachings of her religion. She just lived according to what she wanted, what she felt was right for her. Physical intimacy, from her point of view, is self-gratifying, and anything that would restrict that gratification is undesirable.

I think my friend was surprised that I believed in the Bible and God’s commandments, but I tried to help her understand that I don’t view the commandments as restrictions; I live them because they make me happier. Although we disagreed, she respected me, and we remained great friends.

Now, to conclude, there is a lesson from the life of President Gordon B. Hinckley that we have perhaps overlooked because it occurred at the end of his life. President Hinckley was a bold leader filled with faith, but there were two things he feared: the first was getting cancer, and the second was losing his wife. His mother, brother, and sister had died of cancer. He feared cancer. And Sister Hinckley was the joy of his life, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

But then, in April 2004, Sister Hinckley missed General Conference. In his concluding remarks, President Hinckley acknowledged that she was not well.

“It is a somber time for me,” he said. “We have been married for 67 years this month. … We’ve walked together side by side through all of these years, coequals and companions through storm and sunshine.”21

Two days later, Sister Hinckley slipped through the veil. President Hinckley was heartbroken and still recovering from the loss when, just nine months later, he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent surgery, but the cancer had spread. Most assumed that, at the age of 95, he would not submit to treatment, but when he asked his doctors if they could administer chemotherapy to someone his age, they agreed to try.

One might wonder why he didn’t see his cancer at that age as evidence that it was time to reunite with his wife, but he explained, in words to this effect, “I feel I should do all I can to live as long as I can. Then when death comes, I will know it is the Lord’s will and that I did all I could do.” President Hinckley lived two more years–likely 12 to 18 months longer than he would have otherwise. In January 2008, he passed away.

In this final act of devotion, President Hinckley set a pattern for all of us. He demonstrated that, above all, he was determined to do all the Lord had sent him here to do. He modeled the admonition he had given the Church when he said, “We are all in this together. ... Within your sphere of responsibility you have as serious an obligation as do I within my sphere of responsibility. Each of us should be determined to build the kingdom of God on earth and to further the work of righteousness.”22

President Hinckley was a disciple of Jesus Christ who did as much as he could for as long as he could. Decades earlier, he had begun planting seeds of faith and devotion to the Lord that he harvested in his final days and years.

The Mormons were not new to me. I was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah. I attended Boy Scout meetings in a local ward building. My best friends were Mormons. But my friends dared not mention their church to me. I guess it was my attitude. Once, while waiting for Scout meeting to begin, I asked my friend what the large picture on the wall represented. I had sat there looking at it each week for many months. He said it was of an angel who had shown the plates of the Book of Mormon to some people.
An angel! How could my best friend believe something like that? For that matter, how could any intelligent person believe that? But it would be years before I had my first real confrontation with the Mormon church.
I guess it was inevitable. I was spending the evening visiting with friends when two women—Mormon missionaries—knocked at the door. They were friendly. I was uncomfortable. I almost had the feeling of being caught in a trap. I decided to give them an argument.
“Do you believe the Bible?” they began.
“Of course,” I replied, not really knowing what I did believe.
They began by reading Acts 7:55–56, trying to show that there are three separate Beings in the Godhead. Then they worked their way into the story of Joseph Smith’s First Vision. I knew there was an answer to their interpretation of the scriptures, and I knew I needed help to find it. After all, I reasoned, everyone knows that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are manifestations of the same person. Was it okay to bring someone to the discussions who knew the scriptures better than I did? The missionaries assured me that it was.
The next week, I arrived with a cousin who was active in my religion. I became a spectator in the discussion that followed. If I had been impartial, I would have given the victory to the Mormon missionaries. But, of course, I decided that my cousin just wasn’t knowledgeable enough. I would find someone more knowledgeable to confront them.
During the week, I contacted a friend who was studying to become a minister. He could give me the support I needed.
“How do I answer Acts 7:55–56?” I asked, after explaining my situation. To my utter astonishment, he replied, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I tend to separate the Godhead more than most members of our church.”
My next source of information was a minister who lived near me. He was a friend, and I had talked with him many times before. His answer to Acts 7:55–56 was less than satisfactory: “How do you know what a person might see while he’s being stoned to death!”
I decided to stop seeing the missionaries. I had heard enough. I told the two missionaries of my decision, whereupon they presented me with a Book of Mormon and decided there was nothing more they could do to interest me in the Church.
A few years later, and in a different city, two missionaries were visiting in the next apartment. I was glad they hadn’t stopped to see me. I was just congratulating myself on my good fortune when there was a knock on the door. There they stood, and before they had a chance to say much of anything, I told them I wasn’t interested and shut the door.
During the next few years, Mormon missionaries seemed to be all over the place. Even my barber was trying to preach to me! Several sets of missionaries came to visit me. Feeling somewhat ashamed about my treatment of the two I had left standing on the doorstep a couple of years earlier, I began inviting them inside, on the condition that they “leave their books in the car, and don’t preach to me.” I always felt uncomfortable when they came, and I would not allow any discussion of religion.
How was I to make them leave without being extremely rude? How? Then I got an idea. Sure, why not? It should be easy. I would just prove that they were wrong. I would show these people that their doctrines were false, and I would do it with their own scriptures. The next time they came, I would be ready.
If I were going to prove them wrong, I had to know something concerning what they believed. How could I find out what they believe? That Book of Mormon the two lady missionaries gave me years ago. Sure! I had put it away in some drawer or box. I soon found it. What did it contain—the story of Joseph Smith’s life? A history of Mormonism? I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: when the missionaries next came, I would be ready for them.
I took the book to work, where I had some free time throughout the day. The first chance I had, I opened the book. Why, this didn’t appear to be about Joseph Smith at all! I noticed a page in the front showing interesting things to look up—the Sermon on the Mount on the American continent, Columbus, the Savior in the Americas. What was I getting into?
Not finding anything about Joseph Smith’s life story in the book, I picked up some missionary tracts at a gas station owned by a Mormon. I wanted to find out about this Joseph Smith. I read about Joseph’s First Vision. Somehow it seemed different from what I remembered hearing years before. I read about an angel named Moroni and some gold plates. Returning to the Book of Mormon, I began reading it in my spare time.
Something strange began to happen. My hostility began to disappear. Indeed, my desire to prove the missionaries wrong disappeared. My brief curiosity after first opening the book was replaced by a desire to know. What was this strange power that seemed to literally reach out and pull me toward this book? What was happening to me? I had to know.
I found myself using all my spare hours to search through the Book of Mormon. I found something else too: a promise by an ancient prophet named Moroni—a bold declaration that I could know the truth of the book by asking God to reveal it to me. Alone one day, I bowed down before my Maker, and, holding the Book of Mormon in my hand, I asked Heavenly Father what it was that was pulling me to the book. Immediately—almost before I had finished my prayer—a recollection of my past habits and hostilities flooded over me. I begged for forgiveness, having not recognized my wretched state until then.
The next few days were about the same—I tried to cope with an overwhelming desire to immerse myself in studying the Book of Mormon. Then it happened. It was a Thursday night before the October general conference of the Church. I came home from work with a peculiar feeling growing inside me—a feeling I had never before experienced. I did not know what to think of it. It slowly grew in intensity. What a marvelous feeling! I remember thinking, “If this is what it feels like in heaven, I wish I were ninety-nine years old and about to die.”
Then came the testimony—that sureness of the missionaries that had disturbed me in the past. I knew! Joseph smith had been in the presence of the Father and the Son. Indeed, he had been visited by angels. I knew. Yes, indeed, I knew.
The next week was a fun one. I hurried to my barber. “Give me a special haircut. I’m going to join the Church.” His mouth popped open, and he couldn’t speak for a short time. When he regained his composure, his reply, in all seriousness, was, “Which church?”
Then I talked with the barber and learned that he would be my first bishop after my baptism. To our mutual surprise and joy, we discovered that we had met once before, two years previously, when he was on a stake mission and a rude person had shut the door in his face and left him standing on the doorstep.

When I was 11, I helped my ward build a new Church building. The members helped build them in those days—pounding nails, painting walls, and doing all sorts of things.
President David O. McKay was the ninth President of the Church and served from 1951 until 1970.
When I heard that President David O. McKay (1873–1970) would dedicate the building, I really wanted to be there. My parents said that I could go. I went early and sat on the front row.
I remember seeing President McKay up close. I saw the way he stood, how he talked to people, how he treated people. He had bright blue eyes and white hair. He looked like a prophet. When I heard him speak and say the dedicatory prayer, I knew in my heart that this was God’s prophet.
I had a powerful spiritual impression from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” Heavenly Father was telling me through the Holy Ghost that President McKay was His prophet.
Once I knew that President McKay was God’s prophet, I knew that the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I knew that the Book of Mormon and the Restoration of the gospel were true. I also knew that all the prophets, from Joseph Smith to David O. McKay, were God’s prophets too.
Now every time a new prophet is called, I’ve had that same confirmation come from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” It all started when I was a boy.

A few years ago, I knelt to pray for the first time in my life. Earlier that day, I had had my first meeting with the missionaries, and they shared the message of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ and gifted me a Book of Mormon.
Presented with my first opportunity to ask my Heavenly Father any question at all, I didn’t ask if any of what I had heard or read was true. I also didn’t ask Him about the confusing and worrisome rumors I had heard about the Church from popular culture.
Instead, I begged Heavenly Father to bless me with the desire to know that what the missionaries were telling me was true.
And through that prayer, I was led to the truth—that the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ really had been restored to the earth again.

It may have happened several months ago, but being part of the Masskara opening number for the cultural show we staged during the welcome dinner for the Tabernacle Choir in February and during the area broadcast with Elder and Sister Stevenson in May still inspires me.
Looking back, I had to sacrifice my weekends to attend the practices. There were times when I felt so tired, especially since I had to juggle family, a ton of school work, and practices while also waking up early, traveling, dealing with sore muscles, and more.
Despite this, I knew that I was doing it for the Lord and that all of my efforts would be worth it. I felt the Lord’s hand every step of the way. On top of that, I got to know so many people, built unexpected friendships, and had so much fun!
We were only given less than two months to practice compared to previous cultural presentations which had several months of preparation, so I was amazed that we were able to learn the steps quickly. I was also inspired by the hard work of those around me, especially the trainers and those who arranged the show.
They were sacrificing so much of their time and effort (to the point that some even sacrificed their sleep), and they were so patient with us. They cared for each one of us. I felt this the most when our trainers gave each of us awards that were well thought out and personalized, which deeply touched my heart. Our trainers also pushed for us to bond with one another, and I think this bond we have with our fellow dancers would not exist without them.
On the day of the performance, we all gave our best. When I saw how the Tabernacle Choir members enjoyed our performances so much, and how they were moved to tears, it made me feel that all of the efforts and sacrifices we made were worth it. I was also surprised and moved to tears when they sang a song for us. It was such a memorable experience for me. That moment felt like we were Zion—of one heart and of one mind, all worshipping the Lord, all united by music. Nothing can replace the sacredness and joy that I felt that night.
Three months later, we performed our Masskara dance again, this time with Elder and Sister Stevenson, the Area Presidency and their wives, and the entire country as the show and the devotional were broadcast live! We experienced the same high, this time brought about by the inspiring words of Elder and Sister Stevenson. They counseled us to P.R.O. every day: Pray over and over, Read time after time, and Obey again and again.
My Masskara co-dancers and I have been trying to apply the things we learned during our rehearsal period and our recent performances, and today I am happy to note that among the Masskara dancers, three are already serving their missions, and two have received their call.

My brother Bryce and I have been best friends since we were little. I remember afternoons when we’d compete to see who could catch the most bees in a clear plastic cup or he’d “catch” ants on a piece of licorice.
When we were a little older, we read poetry and went for ice cream together, and everyone told us how lucky we were to have each other. Eventually I graduated from high school and went to college 750 miles away. Two years later he followed me. That year together at school was one of the best of my life. It was great to have him close again. But we both knew change was inevitable.
As Bryce’s 19th birthday got closer, we would talk for hours about how excited we both were for him to serve. We couldn’t wait to see where the Lord would ask him to go. The day finally came, and our family gathered as he read us the letter calling him to North Carolina. He’d report to the missionary training center in less than two months.
Suddenly, the reality that Bryce would be leaving hit me with more force than I’d ever imagined it would. That night I poured out my heart, begging Heavenly Father to send me peace. I would miss Bryce so much. It wasn’t that I didn’t think a mission was the right choice. We’d both known it was since we were little. I just needed comfort so I could support my brother as he prepared to enter the mission field.
One night, just a few weeks before Bryce would enter the missionary training center, the Spirit was especially strong as I prayed. I cried, telling Heavenly Father all the things Bryce might miss. Then a thought entered my heart: “Shelli, this is just mortality.” I opened my tearful eyes and looked up, wondering at its simplicity. I smiled, realizing that we were a family and that the blessings of our parents’ temple sealing could hold us together forever. Yes, Bryce was going to miss a lot, but we’d have an eternity to catch up.
The day we took Bryce to the missionary training center was one of the best days of my life. I’d been with him while he shopped for suits and journals, but nothing prepared me for what I saw that day. He was really a missionary. As I hugged him good-bye, I said a silent prayer of gratitude to Heavenly Father for this wonderful young man and all the years of friendship we’d shared. Those years had truly been a gift. And now, the next two years would be a gift to Him.

Timothy John Harris was a bully. Everyone at Pierce School stayed out of his way, including me. I could count on three hands the times he got me into trouble. He didn’t just push everybody around, he tattled. If I so much as rested my head, T. J. would tell the teacher, “Danny’s looking at his neighbor’s paper!”
Well, Timothy John had been here for about three weeks when my chance to get even came. Mr. Roundy, our teacher, had sent us to the school bookfair in groups of six. I happened to be by T. J. when he slipped a book into a folder that cost fifty cents. The book was Cool Cars, and everybody wanted it. I wanted it, too, but I didn’t have $4.95, which is what it cost. When it was time to buy, Timothy John was in line in front of me and was only charged the fifty cents for the folder. They didn’t see the book. I wondered if I should say something right then, but I didn’t.
When we got back to class, I thought I’d tell the teacher. Then I thought, What if T. J. really picks on me after school? I have to admit—he was pretty scary. He had blond hair that stuck out all over his head, and he had dirty hands with scabs on them. Well, scary or not, I had to do something!
Mr. Roundy said that he was going to show us a film about a family starting a farm. When the lights were off, I thought I could tell Mr. Roundy without T. J. noticing. I looked over at T. J. and couldn’t believe my eyes. He was crying! Crying over a film! I hardly felt like telling on him then.
By the time the lights came on, Timothy John looked as hard and mean as ever. I decided to write him a note before I chickened out: “I know you stole that book. Just take it back, and I won’t tell.”
I set it on his desk when I went to sharpen my pencil, and when I came back, I could feel him watching me. I’m in for it now, I thought.
At the start of recess, T. J. came over to me. He had mean green eyes and gave me the creeps. “OK, Danny, I’ll do it,” he said. “You come with me.”
We walked in silence to the book fair. I watched T. J. over the top of a book I picked up. He tipped his folder upside down, and the book slipped neatly back into it’s place on the shelf.
When we went out for the rest of recess, I kept expecting to get clobbered, but he picked on other kids.
I couldn’t play after school that day because my whole family had to go to the dentist. That evening it was my turn to wash the dishes, and when it was time for bed, I couldn’t sleep. It’s impossible to sleep when you live in a trailer and the wind is blowing. It sounds exactly like monsters moaning all around you.
The next day, after eating lunch, I played tetherball with Morse, my best friend. His real name is Cody, but on the roll, his name says, “Morris, Cody,” so we call him Morse Code. He doesn’t mind. Anyway, I was actually winning, when T. J. walked over. I sure didn’t want to play against him, so as soon as I won, I yelled, “I’m going to get a drink!”
I looked back to see T. J. slump down, holding his stomach. I hoped someone else would help him, but nobody did, so I walked him to the nurse’s office. He looked pretty sick.
“Did you eat lunch today?” the nurse asked him, taking his temperature. T. J. shook his head.
“How about breakfast?” He shook his head again.
The nurse got him some juice out of her little fridge, and a paper about the free breakfast program.
“You have a temperature,” the nurse said. “If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll call your mom to come get you.”
“We don’t have a phone,” T. J. mumbled.
“How can we reach your mother?”
“I don’t have a mom.”
The nurse looked at me. T. J. drank his juice.
“I’ll walk him home,” I said.
“No!” T. J. said sharply. Then, softening, “I’ll get there OK.”
“I think Danny’s right,” the nurse said. “Someone should make sure that you get in the door.”
T. J. and I checked out and walked toward the river without saying much. We call it the river even though it’s dry most of the year. The air smelled like people were starting to burn wood in their fireplaces.
I had some peanuts in my pocket left over from lunch, so I held them out. “Want some?”
We shared my leftovers, and he cracked the shells with his fingers instead of his teeth, just like I do.
When we got to the end of the street, T. J. said, looking toward the river, “I never stole anything before. I’m glad you stopped me.”
I didn’t know what to say. He went on, “I just live a few houses down. You can go back now.”
“No,” I said, “I told the nurse I’d see you in the door.”
“Look,” he said, clenching his teeth, “this is as far as I want you to go.”
“All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” I walked off, wondering why he was so touchy.
Then he called after me, “Danny, thanks!”
“It’s OK,” I called back. I felt kind of good.
I watched him from around a fence. He kept walking and walking, way past the houses. I found a closer lookout point and saw him walk clear to the river bottom.
A man in a baseball cap got out of an old car and gave him a hug. T. J. leaned against him, and the man felt his head. Then he put T. J. in the backseat and tucked a blanket around him. They didn’t drive anywhere. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until the man got some things out of a sack and started to build a little fire. Then it hit me: T. J. lived in that car! That’s why he didn’t want me to come with him.
I thought about T. J. a lot that night. His dad must have been out of a job. Suddenly our trailer seemed like a pretty nice place to live.
Morse and I were playing tetherball the next morning before school started, when T. J. came over and just stood looking on. “Hey, T.J.,” I yelled. “Want to play?”
Morse looked at me like I was crazy, but T. J. shrugged his shoulders and walked over.
“No rope swings,” I said, hitting the ball to him. T. J. almost smiled and played hard. He skunked me!
“Come on, Morse,” I said. “You play the winner.”
T. J. beat him too. Soon there were kids lined up, bragging that they could beat T.J.—but not one did.
From then on, kids started hitting T. J. on the back instead of in the stomach. He stopped trying to get kids into trouble, and he wasn’t a bully anymore.
The art teacher said, “Timothy John, you are a fine artist!” T.J., of all people!
The day T. J. won the district art contest, he told us that he was going to move. “My dad got a new job.”
Even though he was a friend now and I would miss him, I was happy for him.
Two months went by before I heard from T. J. again. I smiled when I got his postcard; there was an apartment number on it.
It’s winter now. I kick holes in the ice puddles with my heels on the way to school. Sometimes when I walk home by way of the river bottom, I think about T. J. And peanuts. And friendship.

Take a dose of Irish mist, mix well with 13 lively Scouts (plus three tired leaders), add a blazing campfire, a bucketful of gnats, and stir with tons of energy. The result? A bubbling, sizzling Scout camp set at Castlewellan beside the Mountains of Mourne, deep in the wilds of Northern Ireland.
Scouting has been organized in the Belfast Northern Ireland Stake barely two years. The 111th Belfast Troop includes both member and nonmember boys who found many adventures during their campout. The highlight was the obstacle course on the last day, which was won by 11-year-old John Pratt, a fourth-generation Latter-day Saint.
Fourth-generation Saints are rare in northern Ireland. John’s great-grandmother was baptized in 1926 in England when missionaries still wore top hats. To celebrate the Church’s 150 years in the British Isles, John and some of his fellow Scouts went to the National Jamboree in Preston, England, further strengthening the Scouting program in the British Isles.

The young women of the Stevensville Montana Stake wanted to do more than just camp at their last girls’ camp; they also wanted to do some good. Reaching out to needy children around the world, the young women put together 72 hygiene kits and gathered around 250 toys and stuffed animals to be distributed by LDS Humanitarian Services.
This project helped the girls realize how blessed they are to have what they have. Many talked of wanting to do more and said they were grateful that the Church has the ability to send these items to people who are truly in need.

When Deepak Shrestha’s older brother, who was the first missionary to serve from Nepal, told him the Church was the greatest thing in the world, Deepak was interested. Then his brother challenged him to live the Word of Wisdom. Deepak quickly felt the wisdom of this advice because “it affects the future.” The result of that decision has been the start of Deepak’s strong and continually growing testimony of the gospel.

When I was younger, I lived next door to an elderly lady who spent most of her time alone and seldom left her house. When she did leave, she would be gone for a long time, and that is when I went to work.
I would get a rake or snow shovel or broom and sneak around the tall wooden fence that separated our yards and do some yard work. Sometimes I would just leave her a plate of cookies with a note. I tried so hard to be a friend to the lady who lived there, and I thought that if I did these things for her she would be nice to me.
I really enjoyed the extra work because it made me feel good inside, but I thought I would feel even better if she would only acknowledge my kindness. I would watch her come home and feel disappointed because she never made an attempt to show thanks or appreciation. I had worked so hard and never received so much as a smile.
Then one Sunday at church we had a lesson on service, and I realized that I had been performing acts of service for my neighbor with the expectation of getting something in return. I went home and asked my mom about service and she gave me a scripture to read. It was Mosiah 2:17:
“And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”
That taught me a valuable lesson about my activities. And I knew that even if my neighbor didn’t seem to care about my efforts, my Heavenly Father did care.

I was preparing for my first assignment to preside at a stake conference as a new Area Seventy when President Packer called me. He asked if it would be convenient if he attended the conference with me, and I readily accepted. When we arrived for the meetings, President Packer said to the stake president, “You are probably wondering why I am here.” He then pointed to me and said, “I am here to whip him into shape.” It wasn’t long before I realized that he meant what he said.
Following our planning meeting with the stake presidency, President Packer suggested we take our seats on the stand. It was 20 minutes before the leadership meeting was to begin. Nearly everyone was in their seats, and I leaned over to compliment the stake president. Suddenly I received an elbow in my side, and President Packer said firmly, “No talking.”
I was shocked to receive a reprimand from an Apostle, and it took me a moment to recover. As I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he was writing some notes on a fresh notepad, including a few scriptures that he planned to share. I was filled with the Spirit as I realized that President Packer was receiving revelation for what the Lord would have him teach. President Packer’s previous general conference address came to mind, “Reverence Invites Revelation” (Ensign, Nov. 1991). It was imperative that I keep quiet so as not to interrupt the whisperings of the Spirit.
A few moments later, President Packer leaned over and asked me to have the stake president request that the organist play the prelude more reverently. She had been playing energetically and perhaps with some added fanfare. I prayed in my heart that she would not be hurt by the request, and I passed the word on. The stake president somewhat hesitatingly spoke to the sister and almost immediately the volume, tempo, and spirit of the music changed. As I listened to the prelude, I was reminded that reverent, worshipful music adds immeasurably to the spirit of a meeting.
As the congregation began singing the opening hymn, President Packer whispered to me, “Not everyone is singing. Please have the stake president stop the hymn and invite everyone to sing the hymn ‘thoughtfully’ as suggested in the hymn book. This hymn communicates an important message that we will be learning about today.” Once again I passed the message on to the stake president. The spirit of the meeting changed as the entire congregation participated in singing.
Our meetings that weekend were reverent. There was a spirit of worship. Many of us received personal revelation and communed with God. I learned that reverence truly does invite revelation. I also learned that sometimes the difference between a mediocre meeting and a powerful meeting is in the planning and in the details.