Gospel Story Finder

Last February my cousin, who was a very bright, intelligent, and fun high school junior, committed suicide. I was so terrified, confused, upset, and sorrowful that for weeks I walked around idly not knowing what to do with myself.
My cousin dwelt on her problems and didn’t communicate to anyone what was really disturbing her. As a result, those terrible thoughts and emotions could not be cleansed from her system. She didn’t give anyone the chance to hear, care, or help. I miss her now, and what hurts the most is that I couldn’t do anything to help her or save her.
If my cousin had taken her confusion and pain to someone that loved, understood, and cared about her, maybe she would be here today.
Do anything and everything you can to feel the Lord’s presence and love. I’m sure that when you feel that presence, you will be determined to fulfill your mission here on earth rather than end your potential quest which God has planned for you.
Nigelle Halloway, 16Vienna, Virginia

I know how you feel. In my school, the children think that I am strange and that I am “too” good because I never swear or do inappropriate things. I felt very much alone, but I made friends with some girls who have good hearts, although they are not members of the Church. Today, whenever students need help with something, they come to me because they know that I am a member of the Church, that I would never lie, and that they can trust me.Ester K., 11, Itatiba, Brazil

Childhood abuses or neglect of children that occur after birth are more publicly visible. Worldwide, almost eight million children die before their fifth birthday, mostly from diseases both treatable and preventable. And the World Health Organization reports that one in four children have stunted growth, mentally and physically, because of inadequate nutrition. Living and traveling internationally, we Church leaders see much of this. The general presidency of the Primary report children living in conditions “beyond our imaginations.” A mother in the Philippines said: “Sometimes we do not have enough money for food, but that is all right because it gives me the opportunity to teach my children about faith. We gather and pray for relief, and the children see the Lord bless us.” In South Africa, a Primary worker met a little girl, lonely and sad. In faint responses to loving questions, she said she had no mother, no father, and no grandmother—only a grandfather to care for her. Such tragedies are common on a continent where many caregivers have died of AIDS. Even in rich nations little children and youth are impaired by neglect. Children growing up in poverty have inferior health care and inadequate educational opportunities. They are also exposed to dangerous environments in their physical and cultural surroundings and even from the neglect of their parents. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland recently shared the experience of an LDS police officer. In an investigation he found five young children huddled together and trying to sleep without bedding on a filthy floor in a dwelling where their mother and others were drinking and partying. The apartment had no food to relieve their hunger. After tucking the children into a makeshift bed, the officer knelt and prayed for their protection. As he walked toward the door, one of them, about six, pursued him, grabbed him by the hand, and pleaded, “Will you please adopt me?” We remember our Savior’s teaching as He placed a little child before His followers and declared:
“And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
“But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea” (Matthew 18:5–6).
When we consider the dangers from which children should be protected, we should also include psychological abuse. Parents or other caregivers or teachers or peers who demean, bully, or humiliate children or youth can inflict harm more permanent than physical injury. Making a child or youth feel worthless, unloved, or unwanted can inflict serious and long-lasting injury on his or her emotional well-being and development. Young people struggling with any exceptional condition, including same-gender attraction, are particularly vulnerable and need loving understanding—not bullying or ostracism.
With the help of the Lord, we can repent and change and be more loving and helpful to children—our own and those around us.
There are few examples of physical or emotional threats to children as important as those arising out of their relationships with their parents or guardians. President Thomas S. Monson has spoken of what he called the “vile deeds” of child abuse, where a parent has broken or disfigured a child, physically or emotionally. I grieved as I had to study the shocking evidence of such cases during my service on the Utah Supreme Court.
Of utmost importance to the well-being of children is whether their parents were married, the nature and duration of the marriage, and, more broadly, the culture and expectations of marriage and child care where they live. Two scholars of the family explain: “Throughout history, marriage has first and foremost been an institution for procreation and raising children. It has provided the cultural tie that seeks to connect the father to his children by binding him to the mother of his children. Yet in recent times, children have increasingly been pushed from center stage.”
A Harvard law professor describes the current law and attitude toward marriage and divorce: “The [current] American story about marriage, as told in the law and in much popular literature, goes something like this: marriage is a relationship that exists primarily for the fulfillment of the individual spouses. If it ceases to perform this function, no one is to blame and either spouse may terminate it at will. … Children hardly appear in the story; at most they are rather shadowy characters in the background.”
Our Church leaders have taught that looking “upon marriage as a mere contract that may be entered into at pleasure … and severed at the first difficulty … is an evil meriting severe condemnation,” especially where “children are made to suffer.” And children are impacted by divorces. Over half of the divorces in a recent year involved couples with minor children.
Many children would have had the blessing of being raised by both of their parents if only their parents had followed this inspired teaching in the family proclamation: “Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children. … Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and to teach them to love and serve one another.” The most powerful teaching of children is by the example of their parents. Divorcing parents inevitably teach a negative lesson.
There are surely cases when a divorce is necessary for the good of the children, but those circumstances are exceptional. In most marital contests the contending parents should give much greater weight to the interests of the children. With the help of the Lord, they can do so. Children need the emotional and personal strength that come from being raised by two parents who are united in their marriage and their goals. As one who was raised by a widowed mother, I know firsthand that this cannot always be achieved, but it is the ideal to be sought whenever possible.
Children are the first victims of current laws permitting so-called “no-fault divorce.” From the standpoint of children, divorce is too easy. Summarizing decades of social science research, a careful scholar concluded that “the family structure that produces the best outcomes for children, on average, are two biological parents who remain married.” A New York Times writer noted “the striking fact that even as traditional marriage has declined in the United States … the evidence has mounted for the institution’s importance to the well-being of children.” That reality should give important guidance to parents and parents-to-be in their decisions involving marriage and divorce. We also need politicians, policy makers, and officials to increase their attention to what is best for children in contrast to the selfish interests of voters and vocal advocates of adult interests.
Children are also victimized by marriages that do not occur. Few measures of the welfare of our rising generation are more disturbing than the recent report that 41 percent of all births in the United States were to women who were not married. Unmarried mothers have massive challenges, and the evidence is clear that their children are at a significant disadvantage when compared with children raised by married parents.
Most of the children born to unmarried mothers—58 percent—were born to couples who were cohabitating. Whatever we may say about these couples’ forgoing marriage, studies show that their children suffer significant comparative disadvantages. For children, the relative stability of marriage matters.
We should assume the same disadvantages for children raised by couples of the same gender. The social science literature is controversial and politically charged on the long-term effect of this on children, principally because, as a New York Times writer observed, “same-sex marriage is a social experiment, and like most experiments it will take time to understand its consequences.”
I have spoken for children—children everywhere. Some may reject some of these examples, but none should resist the plea that we unite to increase our concern for the welfare and future of our children—the rising generation.
We are speaking of the children of God, and with His powerful help, we can do more to help them. In this plea I address not only Latter-day Saints but also all persons of religious faith and others who have a value system that causes them to subordinate their own needs to those of others, especially to the welfare of children.
Religious persons are also conscious of the Savior’s New Testament teaching that pure little children are our role models of humility and teachableness:
“Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3–4).
In the Book of Mormon we read of the risen Lord teaching the Nephites that they must repent and be baptized “and become as a little child” or they could not inherit the kingdom of God (3 Nephi 11:38; see also Moroni 8:10).
I pray that we will humble ourselves as little children and reach out to protect our little children, for they are the future for us, for our Church, and for our nations. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I pressed a criss-cross design on the last ball of peanut butter cookie dough and placed it on the baking sheet. Another pan of cookies was ready for the oven. My girlfriend, Michelle, and I had eaten a dozen before carefully arranging a plate of the best-looking cookies. Ever since our Beehive lesson on giving service without being asked, Michelle and I had been motivated to give service to one of the widows in our ward. We chose Sister Andrews. She had been a widow for at least 20 years and had no children.
Michelle and I organized a plan. Once a month we would take something over to Sister Andrews. We didn’t let anyone know of our plans. After all we wanted to serve without being told. The cookies were our first gift. We jumped on our bikes, with me balancing the plate of cookies on the handlebars, and rode over to Sister Andrews’s tiny home.
When she answered the door, Sister Andrews was wearing a plain blue house dress with a crocheted collar. Proudly, I held out the plate.
“We brought you some peanut butter cookies,” I said.
“Oh, you girls are so sweet, but I can’t have any sugar on my diabetic diet. Why don’t you take these home and share them with your families.”
Surprised and a little confused, we stood wondering what to do next. There were plenty of cookies at home, and Michelle and I could not possibly eat one more ourselves. We left a little discouraged.
We tried to think of another idea. Flowers were a sure thing. All women love flowers, we thought. My mother’s rosebushes were in bloom. We picked red, yellow, and pink roses and placed them in a mason jar.
Again Michelle and I rode our bikes to Sister Andrews’s home. “We brought these for you,” Michelle said and held out the flowers.
“Thank you so much. They are beautiful. But I get hayfever, and I can’t have flowers inside the house,” was her reply. We visited with her for a few minutes and left.
Michelle and I were quite discouraged now. Flowers and treats were off the list. We decided Sister Andrews would like some fruit. We filled a bowl full of the prettiest ripe raspberries we could find. Pleased with our gift, we got on our bikes a third time and rode to Sister Andrews’s home.
“We brought you some fresh raspberries,” I said.
“My, they look delicious. I used to love eating raspberries when I was your age. I can’t eat them anymore. The seeds get caught under my dentures. Why don’t you girls eat them with your supper tonight,” she replied.
I couldn’t believe it. We had struck out. Finally, we told our parents of our failed attempts to offer service. They helped us learn a little more about Sister Andrews. She had a great talent for crocheting and loved to spend her time making items for her friends and neighbors such as baby afghans, hot pads, and slippers. She had a small income which limited how much she could crochet for others. Because of her poor circumstances, she hated to see things wasted. That’s why she turned down our gifts rather than just taking them and discarding them after we left.
Michelle and I pooled our baby-sitting money and went to the store and purchased skeins of yarn for Sister Andrews. This time our gift was perfect. She delightedly showed us some of the things she was working on. And we learned a valuable lesson about service. True service is not just giving what we choose to give, but giving what is really needed.

I would like to explain to you exactly what took place following the unexpected death of President Harold B. Lee on December 26, 1973. I was in Phoenix, Arizona, to spend Christmas with my daughter and her family when a telephone call came to me from Arthur Haycock, secretary to President Lee. He said that President Lee was seriously ill, and he thought that I should plan to return home as soon as possible. A half hour later he called and said: “The Lord has spoken. President Lee has been called home.”

President Romney, who in my absence was directing the affairs of the Church, was at the hospital with President Spencer W. Kimball of the Council of the Twelve. Immediately upon President Lee’s death, President Romney turned to President Kimball and said, “You are in charge.” Not one minute passed between the time President Lee died and the Twelve took over to preside over the Church.

Following President Lee’s funeral, President Kimball called a meeting of the apostles for Sunday, December 30, at 3:00 P.M. in the Salt Lake Temple council room. President Romney and I had taken our respective places of seniority in the Council, so there were fourteen of us present. Following a song, and prayer by President Romney, President Kimball, in deep humility, expressed his feelings to us. He said that he had spent Friday in the temple talking to the Lord and had shed many tears as he prayed for guidance in assuming his new responsibilities and in choosing his counselors.

Dressed in our temple clothing, we held a prayer circle. President Kimball asked me to conduct it and Elder Thomas S. Monson to offer the prayer. Following this, President Kimball explained the purpose of the meeting and called on each member of the Quorum according to length of service as apostles starting with Elder Ezra Taft Benson, to express his feelings as to whether the First Presidency should be organized that day or whether we should carry on as the Council of the Twelve. Each said, “We should organize now,” and many complimentary things were spoken about President Kimball and his work with the Twelve.

Then Elder Ezra Taft Benson proposed the name of Spencer W. Kimball to be the President of the Church. This was endorsed by Elder Mark E. Petersen and unanimously approved.

President Kimball then nominated his counselors: N. Eldon Tanner as first counselor, and Marion G. Romney as second, each of whom expressed a willingness to accept the position and devote his whole time and energy in serving in that capacity. They were unanimously approved. Then Elder Mark E. Petersen, second in seniority in the Twelve, nominated Ezra Taft Benson as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. This was unanimously approved.

At this point all the members present laid their hands upon the head of Spencer W. Kimball, and President Ezra Taft Benson was voice in blessing, ordaining, and setting apart Spencer W. Kimball as the twelfth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then, with President Kimball as voice, N. Eldon Tanner was set apart as first counselor and Marion G. Romney as second counselor in the First Presidency of the Church. In the same way President Kimball pronounced the blessing and setting apart of Ezra Taft Benson as President of the Quorum of the Twelve.

Throughout the world in Africa, Asia, the Pacific, North and South America, and Europe, charitable women, united with their families, also make a difference in their communities. On the tiny island of Trinidad, Sister Ramoutar, a busy branch Relief Society president, and her family are helping neighborhood children. The Ramoutars live in a village that is a “drug-infested” place where many parents and adults are addicted to alcohol or are trafficking in drugs. The children are at great risk and are often without supervision. Many do not attend school.

Every Thursday night, as many as 30 children, ages 3 to 19 years, sit in the covered area outside of the Ramoutar home, eagerly participating in a group known as “Our One Big Happy Family.” Prayers, hymns, fun songs, and the sharing of good deeds done by the children each week are part of the activities. Sometimes doctors, policemen, teachers, or our own missionaries share useful lessons such as President Gordon B. Hinckley’s six B’s. The Ramoutar family rescues children through their small and simple acts of charity. As they have shared the gospel in their “One Big Happy Family,” others have joined the Church.

Elder Eyring: Throughout my life, the scriptures have been a way for God to reveal things to me that are personal and helpful. When I was a little boy, I was given a small Bible. If I remember correctly, it was only the New Testament. For some reason, I was drawn to 1 Corinthians 13, which is about charity. Somehow, even in my childhood, I knew that for me that chapter was about the family I would have someday. Years later, before I was married, I received a patriarchal blessing. In that blessing, the patriarch described the feeling that would be in the home I would someday have. He described exactly what I had felt years before when I read 1 Corinthians 13.
The scriptures were one of the ways God spoke to me—even when I was a child—about my needs, my situation, and my life. They still are. Since our needs change over a lifetime, God has different things to tell us at different times.

Some women face illness and incapacity, even to the point of being bedfast. Even so, there is the privilege to rise above affliction and to be a true example of faith, of love, and of service. Such was the partnership of Virginia and her husband, Eugene Jelesnik. They for many years worked together in bringing the gift of song and the joy of music to thousands of servicemen and women and to audiences from stages worldwide. Then illness and advancing age forced Virginia to remain within four walls—bedfast. But her spirit could not be held hostage by an impaired body. She continued to encourage her husband and to be his inspiration and constant support. All who are the beneficiaries of Eugene’s community concerts and his civic service marvel at his energy, his enthusiasm, and his kindness. In his many responsibilities, Virginia was ever a source of his strength.

With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”

When I was 12, my mother died of cancer. After her death, I thought I was dying of cancer too. I didn’t really have cancer, but my thoughts were very real to me. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. I carried the burden alone and was quite troubled.
I knew that when we have a problem we should go to the Lord in prayer. I always said my individual prayers at night and would think my prayers in my head as I knelt by my bed. But this particular time, I felt I needed to pray out loud.
Now, it was not easy to find a time to be alone in our house. I had five brothers and sisters and shared a bedroom with a sister. One afternoon I remember coming home from school to an empty house. I went into the living room and poured out my heart aloud to my Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to suffer as my mom had suffered. I pleaded with the Lord.
Immediately after I had closed my prayer, a peaceful, strong feeling surrounded me. It was as if loving arms were around my shoulders and as if a voice said to me, “You are fine. You are fine.”
My prayer had been answered. I felt very loved, and I knew I was OK. A huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. My thoughts of dying left me. Since that time, I have prayed to my Heavenly Father for answers. The answers never have come as quickly as they did that day, but I know prayers are answered—even if it is in the Lord’s timing and not mine.

When Elder Maxwell learned in 1996 that he had leukemia, the diagnosis was discouraging. He had worked for years on making himself “willing to submit” (Mosiah 3:19) to the Lord’s will. If it was time to face death, he didn’t want to shrink from drinking his bitter cup.
But his wife, Colleen, thought he was too willing to yield. With loving directness, she said that Christ Himself earnestly pleaded first, “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” Only then did He submit Himself, saying, “Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Matthew 26:39). Elder Maxwell saw his wife’s doctrinal insight and agreed. As a result, they pleaded together that his life might be spared. Motivated by their determination, Elder Maxwell’s doctor found a new medical treatment that prolonged his life for several years. Elder Maxwell was grateful that he was not the only theologian in their marriage.8

Broto stood on the pendapa (large porch) built on the front of his father’s bamboo house. The village, on the north coast of Java at the edge of the Java Sea, was filled with excited people.
They were arranging for a selamatan (feast) to be held that night because the dalang (puppet master) was making his yearly visit to the village. After the selamatan he would put on an Indonesian wayang kulit (shadow play) with his intricately carved leather puppets. This wayang kulit portrayed stories that were brought to Indonesia over a thousand years ago from India, and the people loved them.
Close by the tall rubber trees Broto saw an old woman stumble and fall in the dirt street. As she fell, something rolled out of her selendang (piece of cloth for carrying personal belongings). Broto saw Amat, the big bully of the village, rush out from the shadows and snatch up whatever the woman had dropped. Then he ran back among the trees.
The hot tropical sun beat against the old woman’s body, and dust arose around her. She cried out, and startled birds flew from the rubber trees, scattering their bright colors above her.
Broto jumped from the porch and ran to help the old woman get to her feet. He noticed that she had been carrying mangoes in her selendang and he assumed that Amat had picked up some of the fruit she had dropped.
Later, when Broto was eating a lunch of spiced meat, rice, and salad with his family, a crowd of people gathered outside the house and started shouting.
"Come outside, Broto!" they called.
"Give back the money, you thief!"
"Come and face the woman!"
Broto and his father walked out onto the pendapa. Amat stood in front of the crowd. "A terrible thing, stealing from a poor old woman!" he shouted with pretended anger.
Broto’s father raised his hands. "What is this all about?" he asked.
Amat pointed his finger at Broto. "He stole an old woman’s tax money. It was all she had, and the tax collector will be here next week."
Amat was so big and seemed so angry that Broto was frightened. He couldn’t find his voice to deny the accusation. All the people in the village were afraid of Amat.
Broto’s father pushed his son into the house and dropped the split-bamboo curtain that formed the front wall. They could hear Amat’s roaring voice.
"Give back the money or we’ll chase you and your family out of the village!"
After a few more shouts, Amat and the crowd left.
"Did you steal the money?" Father asked Broto.
"No," Broto answered. Then he told his father about what he had seen Amat do when the old woman fell.
"You must tell the people that you did not steal the money," his father said.
Broto agreed. But how can I convince them that my story’s true! he wondered. Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to notice the old woman fall and see what happened. She must have told how I helped her up and so everyone suspects me.
In the afternoon Broto walked by a roundabout way to the puppet master’s camp. Later that night he would help the old man, for they had become friends in times past. As he walked, he worked out a plan to let the people know that Amat had stolen the money.
At the camp he greeted the dalang affectionately and then told him what had happened.
"I must tell the people the truth," Broto said. "I have a plan but I will need your help."
"Kami berteman (we are friends)," the puppet master said. "I will be glad to help you."
Broto explained his plan, and the dalang immediately began gathering the puppets for the new characters. Broto went to work setting up the stage for the wayang kulit.
He stretched a piece of white cloth over a wooden frame. Then he hung a lamp behind the cloth. When the dalang held the puppets between the cloth and the lamp, the people watching would see the shadows moving on the white screen. Then the dalang would tell the story in a high, squeaky voice.
As Broto finished helping the dalang, the people began gathering in front of the screen, waiting for the selamatan. Broto watched the dalang arrange his puppets.
"Now I will prove my innocence," Broto said. "And I hope the people will be angry and punish Amat."
"You’ll gain virtue if you forgive him, and you’ll feel better too," the wise old dalang told him.
After the feast of vegetables cooked in coconut milk, rich-smelling meat curries, and turtle and goat’s meat on a stick dunked in peanut sauce, the dalang started his wayang kulit.
Watching their eager faces, Broto knew that whatever the villagers saw on the screen, they would believe as though it were a real happening.
The people enjoyed the show immensely, laughing and crying in turn. Then the scene on the screen changed. Lacy shadows of the rubber trees and their houses in the village appeared. The crowd became silent.
Then the old man began working his thin leather puppets and Broto held the trees and houses in place. While the dalang maneuvered the figures and told a story, Broto felt bitter and revengeful.
Then the people saw the shadow of an old woman hobble past the trees. They recognized her and let out a long sigh. "A-h-h-h!"
The dalang made the old woman’s shadow fall and she appeared to drop a bundle. The villagers saw a great, hulking figure dash from the trees and pick up something and then run back into the trees.
Then the dalang turned off the lamp.
Amat jumped to his feet, exclaiming, "That’s ridiculous!"
Now the villagers realized who the large puppet represented, and they were angry.
Broto stepped from behind the screen. Two men held Amat. "You have been wronged, Broto. Tell us to, and we will drive Amat out of the village!" one of the men said.
Broto saw the fear in Amat’s eyes and he remembered the old dalang’s words. "No," Broto said. "If Amat returns the money to the old woman, she will forgive him, I am sure. And I also will forgive Amat that we may all live in peace together in our village."

As we cleaned I told Sister Wong about Topie. I told her about how I had sold him because we couldn’t afford to take him to California. I also told her about how I had earned the money to buy him two years ago when he was just a foal. I explained the voice commands I had taught him before he was old enough to be broken. I told her of the endless hours walking with him when he was sick with colic, and how he trembled when I put salve on his wounds after he tore himself on barbed wire.
I explained how hard it had been to pay my tithing when I was responsible for my horse financially. Yet somehow it had always worked out. The baby-sitting jobs had come, and I was able to keep the promise I had made to Mom and Dad that my horse wouldn’t burden the family financially. Now I had decided to sell my horse. I had decided to sell my beautiful friend rather than beg and cry to my parents and break my promise.

When two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited the Graybeal home in 1959, Alexandria knew their message was special. Her husband and two children were touched, too, and the Graybeals progressed toward baptism. When Brother Graybeal learned that the Air Force was transferring him to Germany, he decided to be baptized before he left. Alexandria, however, was struggling to know whether Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Some time later, after the family had moved to Germany, her husband said, “If you really want to know, go to Heavenly Father and ask him.” That night Alexandria did just that. “I don’t know what happened,” she explains, “but the next morning I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet.” Alexandria and the two children were baptized a short time later in Kerlsrue, West Germany, in June 1960.
“I just felt wonderful,” Sister Graybeal says, remembering her baptism. “My testimony was strengthened after that, and I couldn’t get enough of the gospel. I studied and studied. It was like walking through a door and finding that the light was shining. It was beautiful.”

I joined the Church at age 15, and four years later I submitted my missionary application. At the interview with my stake president, he complimented me for deciding to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary. Then that inspired leader said something that made a profound impression on me: “Brother, from now on, strange things will happen in your life to try to get you to change your mind about your decision to serve the Lord.”
While waiting for my mission call, I was working as a trainee at Xerox. This work made it possible for me to obtain some of the things that I would need for the mission field and to help my mother with expenses at home. Things were going very well.
Unfortunately, “strange things” did begin to happen. First, my mother was assaulted and almost died from her injuries, but a kind Heavenly Father miraculously spared her life.
At that time, my mother, two younger sisters, and I were living in a rented house. We lived off my income and a small benefit that my mother received because of my father’s death years before.
Some people, including Church members, would ask, “Are you going to have the courage to leave your mother like this and go on a mission?” Hearing this question over and over began to cause doubts in my heart.
One day my stake president called and told me that my mission call had arrived and asked me to come to his office that evening so he could give me the much-awaited envelope from Church headquarters. I was both nervous and happy at the news.
On the same day, my manager at work asked to talk to me before lunch. When I entered his office, I was greeted in a friendly manner, and we talked for a few minutes about my training and what I had learned at the company. Then, that powerful man in the organization said something that was the dream of most of the people in the city: “You have done a good job here as a trainee, and we want to hire you and keep you on the team. What do you think?”
This was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. The seconds felt like eternity. It seemed that I could hear people asking me if I was going to abandon my mother without my financial support and go to the mission field.
Nevertheless, I remembered the things I had learned from the scriptures and my Church leaders, and in a very sacred way, I knew with an unshakable certainty that God wanted me to serve as a full-time missionary of His Church. I knew that He would take care of my family, that I could trust Him, and that everything would be fine.
I explained the situation to my manager, and his reply still echoes in my mind: “I thought that you were such a level-headed young man, and here you are throwing away the opportunity of your life.”
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for his offer, and 28 days later I reported to the missionary training center in São Paulo, Brazil.
During my mission, the Lord provided for my family’s needs through Church friends and in miraculous ways. My mother’s health was restored and new job opportunities arose for my sisters and her.
“Strange things” really do happen when we decide to serve the Lord. Yet I would humbly add my testimony to the testimonies of thousands of others who have embarked in the service of God that missionary service has profoundly affected my life.

9:28 A.M.
Elder Darren Majeran and Elder Josh Graham say a prayer, grab their bike helmets, and head out the door. No car for them. They need to get to Bonnie Brae Street for an appointment with an investigator, but they have a little time before that so they go on two callbacks to people they’d met last week. They pedal down the driveway and onto the street.

9:55 A.M.
There is no answer at either home, so back on the bikes they go. Their investigator on Bonnie Brae likes what he has heard about the Church, but he is having a problem understanding the concept of the priesthood and authority. They’re prepared to try to answer his questions.

10:07 A.M.
The investigator seems happy to see the missionaries. He has read two of the pamphlets the elders left with him on their last visit, and he’s prepared to discuss them. He seems very earnest in his desire to learn. He’s just not sure he can accept what they are teaching.

11:20 A.M.
“I thought it went okay,” Elder Majeran says after the meeting. “It’s just going to take some time.”
Next stop: the corner of Harvard Street and Ramona Avenue. The missionaries lock their bikes to a stop sign and begin going door to door. Elder Majeran and Elder Graham go to 19 houses, but very few people are home, and nobody invites them in.

12:15 P.M.
The missionaries break for lunch and talk about what just happened and what’s ahead. Elder Graham has been a missionary for about seven months, and he’s settled into a daily routine. “I guess the work has been the way I expected it to be. I haven’t done quite as much teaching as I thought we would,” he says. “But when you do, and you see people make changes in their lives and know you’ve been a part of that, it’s great.”
He continues: “If we tracted for a whole day and did nothing else, we’d probably get in maybe two or three doors.”
“We do a lot of talking through screens,” Elder Majeran adds. “But we usually have pretty good success once we get in.”
Today won’t be one of those days, however.

1:22 P.M.
It’s more of the same in the afternoon, although there is something to look forward to tonight. A family committed to receive baptism is scheduled for a sixth discussion, and another family in the ward has invited the missionaries to dinner.

7:03 P.M.
With dinner concluded (“The chicken was really good. Sister Wilson is a great cook,” Elder Graham says), the missionaries end up teaching a discussion to a person referred to them by a member. That is followed by the discussion to the family scheduled to be baptized.

9:35 P.M.
Another day is complete. Elder Majeran is tired but happy. “Not bad. We got a lot done today,” he says. As they change from their proselyting clothes and get ready for bed, they make phone calls to the zone leaders and the ward mission leader.

Guy de Maupassant, the French writer, tells the story of a peasant named Hauchecome who came on market day to the village. While walking through the public square, his eye caught sight of a piece of string lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His actions were observed by the village harness maker with whom he had previously had a dispute.
Later in the day the loss of a purse was reported. Hauchecome was arrested on the accusation of the harness maker. He was taken before the mayor, to whom he protested his innocence, showing the piece of string that he had picked up. But he was not believed and was laughed at.
The next day the purse was found, and Hauchecome was absolved of any wrongdoing. But, resentful of the indignity he had suffered because of a false accusation, he became embittered and would not let the matter die. Unwilling to forgive and forget, he thought and talked of little else. He neglected his farm. Everywhere he went, everyone he met had to be told of the injustice. By day and by night he brooded over it. Obsessed with his grievance, he became desperately ill and died. In the delirium of his death struggles, he repeatedly murmured, “A piece of string, a piece of string.” (The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Black’s Reader Service: Roslyn, New York, pp. 34–38.)

As LuAnn Spidel greeted friend after friend during the opening moments of the Gettysburg Pennsylvania Stake youth conference, she felt warm and happy. “How very lucky we are to have been born now, in this dispensation,” she thought to herself. She and the 400 other youths and counselors who had gathered at Gettysburg College were eagerly anticipating the weekend ahead—three days planned around the theme “Ye Chosen Generation.”
The youth conference was filled with variety from start to finish—beginning with a giant-banana-split-making contest. Four groups of ten each were given three gallons of vanilla ice cream, bananas, nuts, cherries, chocolate syrup, and a set of instructions. Within about three minutes the winning team had completed its construction! Pictures were then taken, after which the yummy banana and ice cream concoctions were devoured by their creators—truly a contest where no one could lose!
Sixty-seven seminars and workshops on a wide range of topics—the millennium, leadership, quilting, dancing, exercising, and communication skills (to name a few)—followed the opening social. Ping-Pong and chess tournaments, volleyball and basketball games, and a swim meet offered some diversion during the afternoon. That afternoon a casual dance was held in the ballroom, with juggler-ventriloquist Barry Jones of York Ward entertaining during intermission.
Friday’s activities included a bowling tournament, track meet, tour of the Gettysburg Battlefield, a special event patterned after the Truth or Consequences game show, and a formal dance.
Seminars on gospel-related subjects were presented Saturday morning, setting a spiritual tone for the testimony meeting and the tearful good-byes that followed. As the young men and women piled into buses and headed for home, they felt happy and fulfilled, realizing that although the conference had come to its close, the memories they had made would last forever.

During my second college year on December 7, 1941, the United States was attacked at Pearl Harbor. The entire nation was aroused. Patriotism swelled to great heights. Every person was deeply affected. War was declared by Congress.
Many students at Weber State, myself included, elected to join the military service at once. I decided to join the Navy with the object of becoming a naval officer. An entire day was spent in the Naval Recruiting Office filling out forms for consideration. Little did I know that I would soon face one of the most serious character tests of my entire life. It pertained to my resolution to keep the Lord’s commandments, particularly that of being honest.
One of the last questions on the naval physical fitness questionnaire startled me. It simply asked whether I had ever had “hay fever.” I remember staring at this question for a long time. Why would hay fever be of any consequence at sea? How could pollen affect anyone on a ship? Why was I being asked such a question? It was evident that my answer could affect my being accepted or rejected as a candidate for officer consideration.
The simple truth was that I had experienced hay fever all of my life and sneezed very often. It would be so easy to mark no to this question since it would probably never come up again. However, marking no would be dishonest. It was a little thing, and yet a principle was at stake. With reluctance, I marked the space for yes and handed the paper back.
As suspected, the answer to that question became troublesome. The medical officer, upon seeing my answer, looked up and exclaimed, “Don’t you know that naval officers can’t have hay fever? You will have to take a special allergy test.”
When the results of my allergy test came back, the officer studied the form intently. The test showed that I suffered a considerable number of allergies. He then took my application forms, calmly tore them up, and threw them into a waste basket. I was astonished. I stuttered, stammered, and finally asked, “What shall I do now?” The officer calmly replied that the “draft” would take care of me and not to worry. Sick at heart, I went back to school, transferring to the University of Utah for the winter quarter. My sophomore preparation classes were completed while awaiting to be drafted into one of the services. That summer I began my junior year in the school of mechanical engineering. Then an announcement was released from Washington, D.C., indicating that all upper division engineering students were to be deferred from the draft until graduation. My graduation with a Bachelor of Science in mechanical engineering occurred in December of 1943, two years following Pearl Harbor.
The day following my graduation, I again presented myself to the naval procurement office in Salt Lake City and indicated that I had just graduated from the school of mechanical engineering at the University of Utah and showed them my degree. When they learned I was interested in becoming a naval officer, I experienced “red carpet” treatment. The officer in charge told me that there were naval ships in dry dock because of the lack of engineering officers and technically trained personnel. A direct commission as an ensign was offered that day. This would be followed by a two-month indoctrination school.
Before accepting this commission, I told the officer that something had to be made clear. He was surprised. He asked me what was on my mind. I flatly stated, “Sir, I suffer severe hay fever. What do you think of that?” The officer laughed. He said that at one time it was a consideration, but not anymore. He told me to forget it, and to please sign my acceptance of a commission as an ensign. This I did.
The ship to which I was later assigned with four other officers and 50 enlisted men was the USS LSM 558. It was our understanding that this ship was destined for the invasion of Japan. We prepared ourselves for departure, but orders never came. Instead, we were given orders to patrol on the Atlantic Coast from Boston to Florida. We later learned why. Two atomic bombs were dropped on cities in Japan. The war was soon over. I left the Navy in 1946 to pursue my career, first in engineering and then in architecture.

Grandma came to our house last Friday to make jelly. She gave Mom two big brown paper sacks full of plums. All morning Mom and Grandma filled jars with hot pink stuff that was jelly when it cooled. It is the best-tasting jelly in the whole world! I know because once Grandma gave me some when I was at her house.
Mom and Grandma were so busy that I helped by making my own sandwich for lunch. After all the jars were lined up on the kitchen counter to cool, Grandma went home.
The next day I counted fifteen jars of jelly when I helped Mom put them away. I thought she’d put them in our food storage, but she didn’t.
After lunch Mom asked me to take a jar of the jelly to Mrs. Conner. Mrs. Conner is a grouchy lady who lives next door to us. She always yells at me if I cut through her yard or if she thinks I am making too much noise. But she smiled and thanked me when I gave her the jelly.
Later Sister Moreno came to go visiting teaching with Mom. They took six more jars of plum jelly with them.
Sunday we took another jar of jelly to church for Brother Jones. He’s really nice. One time he came into Primary and showed us some wooden toys he’d made in his basement workshop. I like Brother Jones, and I was glad he got some of the jelly.
We gave a jar to each pair of missionaries too. I hope someone gives me some when I’m a missionary!
Dad took another jar with him on Monday. He gave it to the man he rides to work with. And when Aunt Julie stopped by on her way home from the store, Mom gave her a jar of jelly.
I looked up at the shelf and counted the jars again. It didn’t take very long. There were only three jars left. Mom was giving all the jelly away! I went into the living room where she was reading and asked, “Why are we giving all our jelly away?”
She looked at me for a moment. “That’s why we made it—to give away,” she said. “Grandma and I made it to give to people we love, to let them know that we care about them. I think Grandma may have some more plums, Danny. If she does, would you like to help me make some more jelly?”
“Jelly to keep?” I asked her.
“You bet,” she said. “And maybe there will be enough for you to give to some of your friends too.”
The next morning when I looked at the shelf, there were only two jars of jelly left. The third jar was in front of my plate. Taped to the front of the jar was a note that said: Danny’s jelly to keep (because we love him)