Gospel Story Finder

In February 2022, the Alnwick Branch of the Church in Northumberland set up free weekly 4-hour sessions for anyone in the local community to come and charge their digital devices, play games, warm-up, eat soup, chat, and access the internet.
President James Perry recalls how the project began, “I felt we could utilise the building and our facilities much more. We have church on Sunday, youth during the week, and then some activities but the rest of the time it is not used. At the same time, our Relief Society president found out that warm hubs were being set up around the country but so far none in our town.”
The initiative first ran for three months, where the local newspaper helped spread the word before residents turned up to attend.
President Perry continues, “It has been wonderful to see people mingle together, especially after these last two years with Covid. We have had a real mix of people attending. Some have benefitted from coming here and not heating up at home. Others have been looking for company to meet new people. We have also had people who have come because they are willing to help others.
“We have also had people being reactivated through this. Some of our Ukrainian members can invite and speak to other Ukrainian people in the area, and the missionaries also use this opportunity to invite the people they speak to.
“Some [visitors are] curious, others just want to be informed. People also want to know what other things are on and then we tell them about our monthly walk, our monthly family history workshops, weekly youth nights and Sunday worship. And we have people attending those too, including on Sunday.
“It is very simple to run. Bring some soup and some buns and some board games. It does require some commitment, but members are committed and practical to do it.
“We are starting it again next month. The need is clearly there, and the cost-of-living situation has only got worse so more than ever there is a need for this.”
Truly, the members of Alnwick Branch can testify of the truthfulness of Elder Quentin L. Cook’s statement, “I have found that most significant spiritual experiences occur when we are helping and serving others and accomplishing the Lord’s purpose.”1

“I can’t take another day of the rowdiness and disrespect of those young people on our tour!” The American woman introduced herself as she sat down across the table from me.
“I don’t know what has happened to this younger generation. They have absolutely no regard for the beautiful or the sacred. We have some teenagers in our group who sit in the back of the bus smoking, drinking, and disrupting our whole tour with their rowdiness.”
We arose and walked through the rose garden behind the hotel, viewing the Holy City across the Kidron Valley. She continued: “Only yesterday in Bethlehem the obscenity and vulgarism of their language was a desecration of those sacred shrines.”
As she spoke, I thought of the eight young people who made up nearly a fourth of our tour group.
“What do you do with all those teenagers you have with you?” she asked. “I noticed that you have quite a number of them with your group. How do you control them?”
I thought of the way Melvin Bushman and Bonnie May Hiatt had been so concerned about Mrs. Foster as we all ascended the narrow, age-polished stone steps to the “Upper Room,” which tradition identifies as the site of the Last Supper. And wasn’t it Carolyn Bushman and her cousin Virnell Bushman who had made sure that Mrs. Turley wouldn’t miss the view from the minaret? Diane Hess was the very essence of sunshine and cheerfulness, always a bright spot in our group. And Shelley Crane, quiet and somewhat shy, was always concerned for others before herself.
Then there were Jerome and John Horowitz. Jerome was a typical 17-year-old and as typically unpredictable. I was a little annoyed when he appeared so zealous to board the plane that day when we didn’t have seat assignments, but a few moments later I realized that he was trying to reserve seats for some of the older members of our group.
“What do you do about them when you are visiting these sacred sites?” she asked.
“We take them with us, or rather they take us, and we share in their enthusiasm. You see, we’re Mormons, and—”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard about your church and the marvelous programs you have for young people,” she interrupted. “You have some sort of youth activity program, don’t you?”
I explained that the quality of our young people is the result of more than just activities and programs; the gospel is a whole way of life. It is the influence of the gospel of Jesus Christ and his priesthood in the lives of Mormon young people that makes the difference. Because of their own feelings for their Savior, their own spiritual strength and testimonies, and in many cases, their own sacrifices, this journey to the Holy Land meant as much to the young people of our tour group as it did to the adults.
My conversation with this lady came back many times during the subsequent events of our tour, events that vindicated my defense of LDS youth.
We found Athens hot and humid when our group arrived there. Without air conditioning, the bus trip left us tired and bedraggled. But it didn’t take long before the light-hearted quips and personal concern of the young people had the rest of us forgetting our discomfort. It was Carolyn who decided we needed some singing, and Virnell, Shelley, Bonnie, and Diane soon joined in.
As usual, Melvin was the first to help with the luggage when we reached our hotel, checking the number of pieces and helping the ladies with their heavier bags.
“How do you control them?” the lady had asked.
It was just past noon when we returned from a spectacular tour of the Acropolis and Mars’ hill where Paul preached to the Athenians. The young people had assisted their not-so-young associates along the rugged terrain among the ancient ruins, not only giving their physical strength, but sharing their excitement and wonder as well. When we returned to the hotel, we were stunned by the news that Greece was at war with Turkey. Cyprus had been invaded by Turkish troops. All of the Greek men between the ages of 18 and 45 were to be mobilized within the next few hours. Suddenly the streets were filled with people. Young men carried small tote bags; neighbors gathered for brief farewells; a woman stood in her doorway weeping as she saw the men leave. She told us her children were too young to go, but she had five brothers who would have to fight.
This was not just a disruption of the afternoon-scheduled tour to Corinth. This was not just the temporary inconvenience of having no other bus at our disposal. Greece was at war! Greece’s borders were sealed. Her harbors were closed. Her airports were shut off. No commercial transportation was allowed in or out of the country. With the shortage of help in the hotel, we were informed that we would receive no further clean linen, there would be no room service, and the waiters from the dining room were gone. Making our own beds would be no problem. Hanging our towels to dry was no inconvenience. But what kind of chaos would the dining room be in without anyone there to help?
Dinner time arrived, and we walked into the dining room. To our delight there seemed to be plenty of help. John seated me at our table, and Jerome filled our water glasses. Carolyn was serving the rolls to other hotel guests, while Virnell followed up with butter. Bonnie was laughing and joking with some of the tourists as she and Diane served them cool beverages. Shelly was clearing dirty dishes from the tables and refilling glasses with ice. Melvin did anything that might have been overlooked—clearing tables, bringing a salad where one was forgotten, or resetting tables for the next group. They had not been asked; they had volunteered. For the duration of our stay in Athens, their service made the dinner hour something to look forward to.
With the tension of the war mounting, rumors of a military coup circulated throughout the city. Tanks were brought in, and armed police platoons became numerous on the streets. The U.S. Embassy warned us to remain in our hotel until further notice. Thus confined, we were threatened with boredom. But again our young people came to the rescue; they would have nothing to do with boredom. At our sacrament meetings our priests, Melvin and Jerome, prepared the sacrament and were assisted by John in passing it. Virnell and Carolyn served as chorister and organist. By recalling our experiences of the previous week in the Holy Land, our sacrament hymns were even more meaningful to each of us. We followed the admonition that “the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me.” (D&C 25:12.)
In the days that followed, the strain of being in war-inflicted Greece, our evacuation from Athens, and many long delays between planes were all made lighter by the humorous good nature and thoughtful consideration of the young travelers in our group. The lives of all those who traveled with them were made richer by their influence. Our LDS youth serve as an ensign, proclaiming the spirit of the gospel to all the world.

When my wife, Kathy, and I were in Africa a few weeks ago, we visited Mbuji-Mayi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Because the chapel was not large enough for the 2,000 members, we met out of doors under large plastic coverings supported by bamboo poles. As the meeting began, we could see dozens of children watching us, clinging to the bars on the outside of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. Kathy quietly whispered, “Neil, do you think that you might want to invite the children to come in?” I approached District President Kalonji at the podium and asked him if he would welcome the children outside the fence to come join us inside.
To my surprise, with President Kalonji’s invitation, the children not only came but came running—more than 50, perhaps 100—some with tattered clothes and bare feet but all with beautiful smiles and excited faces.
I was deeply moved by this experience and saw it as symbolic of our need to reach out to the youth who feel alone, left behind, or outside the fence. Let us think about them, welcome them, embrace them, and do everything we can to strengthen their love for the Savior. Jesus said, “Whoso shall receive one such … child in my name receiveth me.”14 In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“When I was a boy, I had decided that I would really like to work in an office at Church headquarters. I came to Salt Lake City after my mission, when I was twenty-one years old. I’d studied shorthand and typing in school, but I couldn’t afford to go to college. Every Monday for many months I went to the Church Administration Building and applied for a job. Finally I was hired for $100 a month in 1938, and I worked there for several years in various capacities. One day Brother Joseph Anderson told me that President George Albert Smith wanted a male secretary who could travel with him, and I was accepted for the job. Years later, on his eighty-first birthday, President Smith died while I was holding his hand.”

In late September 2005, a group of Saints from the island of Chuuk in the Federated States of Micronesia made a journey west to the Manila Philippines Temple. This trip, which took them thousands of miles from their tiny island in the Pacific, was the first temple excursion from the island of Chuuk.
The group consisted of three sisters and two families from the Mwan and Mechitiw Branches of the Namoneas Chuuk District. They were accompanied by Elder Gordon and Sister Jerry Stewart, a senior missionary couple.
They spent four days doing temple work for themselves and for their ancestors. Members of the group expressed gratitude for the rare opportunity of receiving their temple blessings and felt it worthy of all their sacrifices to be able to do so. “I may someday be able to buy another little boat, but I will probably never have the chance to go to the temple again,” said Simion Anap, president of the Mechitiw Branch.
As part of the trip, President Anap’s family reunited with their daughter, Tersy, as she completed her mission in the Philippines Manila Mission.

One evening my missionary companion and I knocked on the door of a young man who was an international student studying at one of London’s many universities. He invited us in, and we explained that we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He seemed eager to learn more about the Restoration of the gospel, so we testified of the Prophet Joseph Smith and told him about a sacred book from our Heavenly Father called the Book of Mormon. We emphasized that it was sacred because it testifies of Jesus Christ.
We explained that he could know for himself of its truthfulness and offered to give him a copy. As I handed the Book of Mormon to him, he got up from his chair and left the room without saying a word. I held the Book of Mormon in my hand momentarily, and my companion and I looked at each other in puzzled silence, wondering what to do. I put the book down on the table.
We could see our young friend in the kitchen washing his hands and drying them on a fresh towel. He came back into the room and picked up the Book of Mormon from the table and simply said, “My people always wash their hands before they touch something sacred.” Tears came to my eyes as I watched this young man open the Book of Mormon for the first time and turn its sacred pages with his clean hands.
I was sent on a mission to teach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, yet I was the one being taught by this young man with his clean hands. In many cultures—including my own—it isn’t necessary to wash our hands before reading the scriptures, but his simple gesture of respect was a reverent and powerful reminder of the sacredness of the Book of Mormon.

We met Julian and Carmen a few months after they were baptized when we visited their home with President Chaverri and the same missionaries who had taught and baptized them. We sat on their front porch, listening to their amazing conversion story as the rain sprinkled around us.
The Spirit was strong as Julian retold his story. Shortly before their baptism, Julian told the elders about a dream he had the night before that first day they met. In his dream, two young men in white shirts walked down his street. When they passed his house, he went out to invite them in and fed them yuca. He thought the dream strange but forgot about it until he saw these young men in their white shirts walking down his street just as they had in his dream. As he learned about the gospel of Jesus Christ, he knew the dream was a significant sign from God, and he felt grateful he had followed the prompting to invite them in for yuca.

When Liphapang Monesa from Maseru, Lesotho joined the Church as a child, his choice to enter the waters of baptism came largely as a desire to follow the example of his parents. “I was only nine years old at the time, so I was following my parents more than a clear reliance on a new-found testimony,” he said.
As Brother Monesa became a teenager, he began to question many of the tenets of his faith. “The real question is not what made me join the Church, but what made me stay in the Church,” he said. The answer, largely, was a personal testimony borne of scripture study.
“Through seminary, the scriptures came alive for me and I eventually had a serious study of the Book of Mormon,” he said. As Brother Monesa found that “the word [was] good,” and that it began to “to enlarge [his] soul . . . and beginneth to be delicious to [him] (Alma 32:28), so his desire to share the gospel with others took root in his soul.
“My testimony of The Book of Mormon solidified my resolve to serve a mission,” he said.
He was called to serve in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission between 2005 and 2007.
The experience was a sort of fast-tracked course in life lessons.
“They say the growth you experience can only be apparent when you finally return home,” he said. “I believe this is very true. In the two years I spent on mission I believe I gained the experience of life it would take me a lot of years to have through other avenues of life.”
Serving his mission set the tone for his future in terms of leadership, hard work and ambition to succeed both spiritually and temporally.
“I learnt that leadership is not a question of a position, but the ability to influence others through integrity, consistency and a display of genuine care for other people,” said Brother Monesa. His ability to lead and support others has been amplified since his two years in the field. The growth he experienced was a game-changer, he said.
And perhaps most importantly, those two years of full-time service created a foundation for a commitment to the Lord for the rest of his life.
“My commitment to serve the Lord has been resolute since I served a mission,” he said. “I live by the code that as you take care of the Lord’s business, He takes care of yours. I have seen the Lord take care of my business for the past almost three decades and I have no doubt He will continue to do so as I keep my end of the promise,” he said.

Now, just one final thought. I sat in a class in Sunday School in my own ward one day, and the teacher was the son of a patriarch. He said he used to take down the blessings of his father, and he noticed that his father gave what he called “iffy” blessings. He would give a blessing, but it was predicated on “if you will not do this” or “if you will cease doing that.” And he said, “I watched these men to whom my father gave the ‘iffy’ blessings, and I saw that many of them did not heed the warning that my father as a patriarch had given, and the blessings were never received because they did not comply.”
You know, this started me thinking. I went back into the Doctrine and Covenants and began to read the “iffy” revelations that have been given to the various brethren in the Church. If you want to have an exercise in something that will startle you, read some of the warnings that were given through the Prophet Joseph Smith to Thomas B. Marsh, Martin Harris, some of the Whitmer brothers, William E. McLellin—warnings which, had they heeded, some would not have fallen by the wayside. But because they did not heed, and they didn’t clear up their lives, they fell by the wayside, and some had to be dropped from membership in the Church.

Journey with Joseph started out as a single song. It was written by Kurt Metzger, a member of the ward, to be sung by the youth. The song was written as a tribute to the Prophet, titled “Great Shall Be the Memory of Your Name,” and was sung at a youth conference. End of story.

Well, not exactly. The youth sang it again in a church meeting a few weeks later, and the bishop soon called Brother Metzger to write an entire presentation. And so Brother Metzger got to work. As the weeks flew by, ward members busily sewed costumes, painted scenery, and choreographed dances. The youth spent hours and hours learning lyrics by heart, then moving on to the next song, which was sometimes still in various stages of composition as they learned it. For some people, the idea of getting a full-length presentation written and produced in six months would seem crazy. But the youth had the energy, the leaders had the creativity, and they all had the dedication to make it work.

It wasn’t easy, but Jon Kirkham, who plays the part of Hyrum Smith in the presentation, says that sometimes the things that require the most sacrifice also become the most valuable.

“I’m so busy with school and everything that lately things have just been nuts. Last week I came home from my job and discovered neither of the cars were home, so I had to ride my bike to the church. It’s about half an hour by bike, but once I got there I didn’t care how tired I was. It’s just incredible being there with everyone and learning about the Prophet and the Church,” says Jon.

Seventeen-year-old Mindy Coon plays Lucy Mack Smith. “I tried to really understand how much love Joseph’s mother had for him,” she says. “She was one of the first people to recognize that what Joseph was saying was true. Learning about her so that I could portray her was really a humbling experience.”

Eighteen-year-old Nate Brian, who plays Joseph Smith, also feels that he has gained insight from being in the production. “Being able to, in a very small way, live the life of Joseph Smith has been so incredible. I’ve realized so many things, and it strengthens me to know that even though we’re human, if we live righteously, we can achieve great things.”

And it goes on and on. Through the long hours of practice and the stress of learning new things rapidly, the youth also come to understand much better what the early Saints went through to get the Church and its programs up and running. It’s all about sacrifice, loving others as yourself, enduring heartache and illness, and having enough faith in the Lord to carry you through.

But it isn’t just about hardship; it is also about living the gospel. It is about the happiness and blessings that come as a result of obedience. And it is about sharing the gospel message with others. Lots of things have changed for missionaries since Joseph Smith was a prophet—they ride bikes instead of buggies, and they don’t wear all that cumbersome clothing. But no matter what they wear or where they are, their message has remained the same. And, if you know where to look, you just might find member missionaries who are so excited about the gospel, they’ll even sing about it.

After my mission I struggled to find work. Eventually I received an interview. The position would be a great opportunity, but I worried I was not skilled enough. My turn for the interview came, and I sat nervously in front of the manager. As I glanced at his table, I saw a paper with the questions he was asking applicants. My heart pounded. The questions used difficult terminology.
The manager found my résumé and started asking about my work experience. When he read “full-time missionary,” he asked if I could tell him what I taught on my mission.
I talked with him about prophets, the plan of salvation, and eternal families. He smiled and said, “I want you to come and meet my family.”
He again grabbed the paper with the interview questions. My nervous feelings returned. He asked, “Do you have a place to stay here in Manila?” He didn’t wait for my response and said, “Well, you need to look for one. You’ll start tomorrow.”
It was a miracle. I’ll never forget how serving a mission helped me in my job interview.

So that he could learn all the words by heart, Spencer W. Kimball practiced the hymns even while he milked cows. When a Church leader suggested that everyone read the scriptures, Spencer realized that he had never read the Bible. That very night he set a goal to read it from cover to cover. He lighted a little coal-oil lamp and began to read. He read a little every night. One year later, he had completed his goal.

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place as United States marines were taking Kwajalein Atoll, part of the Marshall Islands and located in the Pacific Ocean about midway between Australia and Hawaii. What took place in this regard was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. In the 1944 newspaper article he wrote following the experience, he explained that he and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing we can do for this boy.”

“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”11

On the large Idaho farm where I grew up in the 1940s, the work horses had been displaced by the tractor, so my father left them to graze, except when we children wanted to ride them. I always chose Banner, despite his thick, aging, work-worn body.
On summer evenings, my father helped me saddle Banner, then sent us off to bring the cows home for milking. The cows pastured in a field fenced on three sides but open on the fourth to the Teton River. Beyond the river’s main channel, a large flood plain was crisscrossed by lesser channels. In springtime, the swollen river formed many islands and swamps crowded with brush.
Occasionally the cows would notice untouched grass across the river and swim across the swift current to eat it. They then wandered into the thick brush and could be hard to find. Father had given me strict orders that if the cows ventured across the river, I was never to go after them but must return home for help.
One Saturday evening in early spring just after my seventh birthday, I was in a great hurry to bring the cows home for milking because my parents had promised that we could go to a movie if we got our chores done in time. I trotted Banner as much as he could endure at his advanced age, but when I arrived at the pasture, I saw that the cows had swum across the river, even though it ran at high flood stage.
I felt great distress. I knew that if I went for help, the movie would probably be half over before we could find the cows, milk them, and get the other chores done. I decided to go after the cows myself, even though I had been warned so many times not to.
I knew that horses could swim well, as I had seen them cross the river before, but Banner hesitated as I urged him down into the cold, swift stream. As he swam with quick, jerking motions, his head barely cleared the water. An adult sitting on him would also have had his head above water, but at my age, the water quickly covered me. I had to grip the saddle horn to keep from washing downstream in the treacherous current. That kept me underwater, though, except when Banner lunged forward several times, bringing my head above water enough to gasp for air.
When Banner finally climbed the other bank, I realized that my life had been in grave danger and that I had done a terrible thing—I had knowingly disobeyed my father. I felt that I could redeem myself only by bringing the cows home safely. Maybe then my father would forgive me.
Banner and I wandered for some time across the flooded plain, crossing swamps and streams and searching in the thick brush for the cows. In the dusk I began to realize that I might not find them at all. Further, I didn’t know for sure where I was, and I began to fear that I couldn’t find my way back.
Finally I heard the mooing of cows in the distance and found them on a small island. We crossed to that island and began rounding up the cattle just as full darkness fell. Normally at milking time, the cows would be eager to return to the barn, but on this night, because of the darkness and the cold water they would have to swim across, they had no desire to leave. I tried every way I knew to get them to move, but just as we approached the water, they always turned and ran back to the center of the small island.
Despair overwhelmed me. I was wet and cold, lost and afraid, and, worst of all, well aware that my disobedience had landed me in this fix.
I began to cry as I climbed down from Banner and fell to the ground by his feet. Between thick sobs, I tried to offer a prayer, simple but deeply sincere, as I repeated over and over to my Father in Heaven, “I’m sorry. Forgive me! I’m sorry. Forgive me!”
I prayed for some time with my head bowed, and when I finally looked up, I saw a figure dressed in white come up out of the river and walk toward me. In the dark, I felt certain it must be an angel sent in answer to my prayers. I did not move as the figure approached, but felt overwhelmed by what I saw. Would the Lord really send an angel to me, who had been so disobedient?
Then a familiar voice said, “I’ve been looking for you, Son.” I recognized my father and ran to his outstretched arms. He held me for several moments until I finally stopped the emotional sobs. He then said gently, “I was worried. I’m glad I found you.”
I tried to tell him how I felt, but only disjointed words—“Thank you … dark … afraid … river … alone”—came out of my trembling lips.
I will never understand how my father coordinated the next few minutes. We both climbed on Banner and started herding the cows. Father gave a piercing whistle, and the cows seemed to line up in single file and march through the numerous channels of the river toward home. I learned later that when my father noticed that I had not returned from the pasture, he drove the pickup truck out to investigate. When he couldn’t find me or the cows, he knew that I had crossed the river and was in danger. Because it was turning dark, he did not take time to go for additional help but removed his clothes down to his long white thermal underwear, tied his shoes around his neck, and swam the treacherous river in search of me.
He was larger than life to me. He had saved me from the most terrible experience of my young life and replaced fear and danger with love and security. I will always remember what it was like to ride on Banner encircled by my father’s warm arms and hearing him say, “Everything is fine now. You are safe.”
I had been disobedient and had learned the fear and regret that came with it. My father had searched for me, his lost son, and brought me safely home. I had never felt greater gratitude and joy.
I feel similar joy and gratitude to my Heavenly Father, recognizing that when I exercise poor judgment and disregard his commandments, he still is willing to rescue me as I repent and turn to him again.

The Neels have been reading the scriptures in the morning as a family and studying the plan of salvation. That helps to strengthen Drew’s understanding of where he came from, why he is here, and where he is going. At one of those family discussions, his parents talked with him about a special experience that took place when he was born. “Just when you were getting here, there were problems,” his father explains. “But thanks to faith and a priesthood blessing, both you and your mother pulled through.”

Back in the year 2000, Christina Jenkins’s family had a grand idea for family scripture study: why not read the whole Book of Mormon in a month?! The family, from Yorktown, Virginia, started the month before the school year started, and her dad calculated they would need to read at least 17 pages a day to meet their goal. To help them feel the true spirit of the Book of Mormon, the Jenkins family also decided not to watch television for that month.

“The events that occurred and the lessons we learned became so much clearer,” Christina says. “Reading the Book of Mormon personally and with my family each year has strengthened my testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Christina’s family enjoyed their month-long reading of the Book of Mormon so much they have done it every year since.

Jacqueline’s family talked and laughed as they walked through the snow-dusted woods. But behind them, Jacqueline quietly trudged with the speed of a melting snowman.
She had waited all year for her family’s Christmas-tree hunt. She had dreamed about crunching through the frosty forest, sipping hot cocoa, and decorating the perfect tree until every branch sparkled with lights.
But now the frost she had waited for was freezing her toes, and the hot cocoa in her thermos didn’t taste as sweet as usual. She kept thinking about Travis.
Travis was Jacqueline’s best friend. He used to have a house near hers, but this winter his family had to move into a small trailer. The move had been really hard for Travis. There wasn’t even enough room for a Christmas tree in their new place. And Travis loved Christmas trees!
Suddenly Jacqueline stopped. Popping up from the snow in front of her was a tiny pine sapling. Maybe it would fit in Travis’s new home! Jacqueline’s eyes lit up as she reached for it—
“Whoa!” Dad said, putting a mittened hand on her shoulder. “We can’t cut down the little trees. They need to grow for next year.”
As Dad continued through the forest, Jacqueline looked back at the sapling and smiled. She had an idea.
Hours later Jacqueline was walking through the snow again—but this time in her own backyard. From where she stood, she could just glimpse her family’s Christmas tree twinkling through the windows of their house. Their tree hunt was over, but hers wasn’t quite finished.
She walked next to the towering trees that marked the edge of her yard until she saw a pine branch growing low enough to reach. It was just the right size for Travis’s trailer. Dad had told her that taking one small branch wouldn’t hurt the tree too much.
With a grunt Jacqueline broke off the branch. But it didn’t look at all like the Christmas tree twinkling inside. Making Travis’s tree was going to be harder than she thought!
The next day Jacqueline sat in the car and watched the forest rush by in a blur of brown and green.
“Aren’t you excited to give Travis his tree?” Mom asked.
Jacqueline shrugged. She had spent all day trying to make the little tree look just right, but it didn’t end up nearly as nice as she wanted.
They parked in front of Travis’s trailer, and Jacqueline opened the trunk. When she saw the tree, her heart sank. It was lopsided, with needles drooping from its branches. Even the ribbons Jacqueline had tied around it were crumpled. Hot tears stung at the corner of Jacqueline’s eyes. It looked nothing like a real Christmas tree. It would probably just make Travis’s Christmas worse!
The door to the trailer swung open, and Travis bounded down the steps. With a deep breath, Jacqueline held out the tree. “Merry Christmas!” she said shakily.
When Travis saw the tree, a grin spread across his face. “Wow! It’s perfect!” he cried out. “Thank you!”
Jacqueline felt a warm feeling grow inside her, melting away the sad and worried feelings she’d had before. She realized that her gift wasn’t really the tree or the ribbons—so it didn’t matter if those were perfect or not. What she had really given Travis was love. Like Jesus would have done.
And she couldn’t wait to give it again.

President Monson grew up during the Great Depression, when money was scarce. When he was 12 years old, he worked hard and saved five dollars in coins. Tommy traded the coins with his father for a five-dollar bill. He tucked his precious five-dollar bill in the pocket of his jeans for safekeeping. He had never had that much money before.
Tommy’s family did not own a washing machine, so they sent their dirty clothes to the laundry each week. A few days later, the clean, wet clothes were delivered back to Tommy’s family, and they hung them on the clothesline to dry.
When it was time for his jeans to go to the laundry, Tommy forgot to take the five-dollar bill out of his pocket, and his money went to the laundry too! Tommy was sick with worry because he knew that the people who worked at the laundry usually checked pockets for change. Even if they didn’t find and take his money, he knew it would probably be lost in the washing machine.
Tommy needed that money, and he had worked very hard for it. He knew there was only one thing to do. He knelt and pleaded that Heavenly Father would keep his five-dollar bill safe until his jeans came back.
After two long days, Tommy watched the delivery truck pull up to the curb. As his mother unloaded the clothes, Tommy grabbed his jeans and ran to his room. With his heart pounding and his hands trembling, he reached into the pocket. At first he found nothing, but then his fingers touched a wet five-dollar bill. Filled with relief, he offered a prayer of gratitude. He knew Heavenly Father had heard and answered his prayer.
“Since that time,” said President Monson, “not a day has gone by that I have not communicated with my Father in Heaven through prayer” (“Stand in Holy Places,” Ensign, Nov. 2011, 84). President Monson wants everyone to know that as we pray daily, we will be entitled to Heavenly Father’s guidance—even in things as small as a five-dollar bill forgotten in a pair of jeans.

First is a story about my son, Michael, who did something wrong when he was six or seven years old. He’s my only son. I want him to be better than his dad was even as a boy, and so I expect a great deal of him. So I sent him to his bedroom with the instructions, “Don’t come out until I come and get you.”

And then I forgot. Some hours later, as I was watching television, I heard his door open and tentative footsteps come down the hall. I said, “Oh, no,” and ran to the hall to see him standing there with swollen eyes and tears on his cheeks. He looked up at me—he wasn’t quite sure he should have come out—and said, “Dad, can’t we ever be friends again?” Of course, I hugged him and expressed my love for him. He’s my boy, and I love him, despite anything he may have done.

I walked into the house, exhausted. It had been a long day, and I was starving. I sat at the table while my mom made dinner, telling her everything I had done that day. All of a sudden my little sister, Cherri, was at my side. She twisted her hands together nervously and didn’t quite look at me.
“What happened?” I asked, not feeling very sympathetic.
“You know your pearl necklace?” she replied in a small voice. “Well, I was playing with it, and it broke.”
A million thoughts raced through my head. How many times had I told her not to play in my room or with my things? The necklace was hardly important, but that was beside the point. She had ignored my warnings one too many times.
Somehow I managed to bite my tongue, and an exasperated sigh escaped my lips. “Come on, show me where it is,” I said.
She took my hand and led me to my room. Pearls littered the floor, which wasn’t exactly clean to begin with.
“What have I told you about playing in my room, Cherri?”
“Not to,” she mumbled.
“Okay, then, why did you?” I pressed.
She just shrugged her little shoulders and looked at the floor. “I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Help me clean them up, and don’t play in here again,” I said. She did so and left the room, and I put the incident behind me.
The next day, I came home to an ecstatic Cherri. She grabbed my hand, jumping up and down. “I have something for you!” she said. “Sit here on the couch and I’ll be right back.”
She raced downstairs and returned a few minutes later cradling something in her hands. “Here, I made it for you all by myself,” she said proudly. “Mom didn’t even help me at all!”
She held out her little arms so I could see what she had made. Laying in her hands was a scrap of frayed black ribbon strung with meticulously arranged yellow and white plastic beads.
“It’s a necklace!” she said, jumping up and down again. “I made it for you because I broke your other one. Do you like it?”
I smiled. The necklace was a bit tacky, and yet it was beautiful. “Yes, Cherri, I love it.” I put it on and wore it the rest of the day to show my appreciation. I was so glad that I hadn’t yelled at my sister in anger and made her feel like I didn’t love her.
I kept her little token of restitution in my drawer, a constant reminder that a pearl necklace could never be as special or beautiful as my frayed black ribbon with yellow and white plastic beads from a precious younger sister.