Gospel Story Finder

My mind tuned in and out as the teacher explained the finer points of perspective drawing. I tried to concentrate, but to no avail. My mind kept wandering.
My thoughts were interrupted by the girl sitting next to me. She was tapping my shoulder, wanting to borrow an eraser. I complied and watched my eraser terminate an entire line of notes from her drawing pad.
As she handed it back, I noticed the eraser. It was gray, made of kneaded rubber, malleable and stretchy. These erasers seem to be a bit of magic. They never wear out; they just keep cleaning up your mistakes, no matter how dark. They’re better than any kind of eraser I’ve ever used.
Then a forceful thought came to me: how this small, gray eraser paralleled repentance. I recalled the words to a scripture in Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Perhaps Isaiah’s plea for repentance would have been more easily understood if it went, “Though your sins be as graphite …”
Well, maybe not, yet I imagined the pre-earth life; all of us going to earth at our appointed times, to the college of life to become artists. All of us needed to create some wonderful work of art. But upon arriving at the college of life, none of us knew the first thing about art. We had to learn to draw, and while learning we would all inevitably make mistakes. This is where the Savior came in; he made it possible for each of us to have our own eraser to correct our mistakes.
Suddenly I heard people moving around me. I came out of my meditation. Class was finally over. As I gathered my materials, I heard the teacher say: “The best artist is the one who can see his mistakes and correct them.”
The day’s lesson was well learned.

Some years ago while visiting the Australia Mission, I accompanied the mission president on a flight to Darwin to break ground for that city’s first Latter-day Saint chapel. We stopped for refueling at the small mining community of Mt. Isa. There we were met at the terminal by a mother and her two children of Primary age. She introduced herself as Judith Louden and mentioned that she and her two children were the only members of the Church in the town. Her husband, Richard, was not a member. We held a brief meeting, where I discussed the importance of holding a home Primary session each week. I promised to send from Church headquarters the home Primary materials to assist them. There was a commitment to pray, to meet, to persevere in faith.

Upon returning to Salt Lake City, I enlisted the help of then-President LaVern Parmley, and the home Primary materials were sent, along with a subscription to the Children’s Friend.

Years later, while attending the stake conference of the Brisbane Australia Stake, I happened to mention in a priesthood session the plight of this faithful woman and her children. I said, “Someday I hope to learn if that home Primary succeeded and meet the nonmember husband and father of that choice family.” One of the brethren in the meeting stood and said, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden, the husband of that good woman and the father of those precious children. Prayer and Primary brought me into the Church.”

My husband’s only sister, Eveline, was not a member of the Church and had been writing to us about serious family problems. We worried about her depression and about our helplessness in coming to her aid.
I began to pray for her, and Peter and I went to the temple, seeking inspiration. My heart sought direction: How could I help my sister-in-law? The answer came from the Spirit: Write to Eveline about the Book of Mormon, bear your testimony, and send the missionaries to her house.
Peter remained hesitant about sending the missionaries, but I knew that it was what the Lord wanted me to do. I composed my letter the next morning and mailed it.
A few days went by with no response from Eveline. I began worrying and fretting. She had been offended, I told myself; she had hated the letter. I became so afraid of her response that I asked Peter to call her. She shared her story over the phone.
The day my letter arrived had been an especially bad one for Eveline. The problems weighing her down had seemed overwhelming, and a television show she was watching about depression and suicide didn’t ease her turmoil. She finally found relief when her son came home from school for lunch. He brought in the mail, which included my letter.
As Eveline began to read, the Spirit touched her soul. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She had been praying for someone or something to help her in these hard times, but she hadn’t known whether her prayers were being heard. Now, through this letter, she knew that her Heavenly Father really cared about her. She was overjoyed.
She told me that the peace she felt from the Spirit was so overwhelming that she didn’t know what to do or how to respond to my letter. I then challenged her to begin a daily study of the Book of Mormon, which she proceeded to do. One week later I telephoned Church leaders in the city where she lived and asked that missionaries be sent to her home.
Through her study of the Book of Mormon, and with the help of a wonderful missionary couple, Eveline found her life changing. She absorbed the missionary discussions, began living the Word of Wisdom, and noticed her marriage improve. She began to feel at peace with herself.
That happiness spilled over and affected the lives of her family. Of course, Eveline’s daily problems hadn’t disappeared. But her perspective had changed. With Christ at the center of her life, she became a new woman.
Peter never thought he would see the day when he would have the opportunity to baptize and confirm his only sister. Giving such a priceless gift to one we love so much has brought us joy beyond our expectations. The Book of Mormon was the answer.

In the summer of 1994 I took a break from school in Taipei, Taiwan, to return to my hometown of Miao-li to spend my vacation. While home I took a job at a floral shop. My heart is full of gratitude when I recall what followed.
As I was watering plants one day, a man in a motorized wheelchair stopped by to look at the flowers. He bashfully declined my invitation to come inside the store, but something about him left a deep impression on my mind. Afterward I ran into him several times on the street, and we would exchange a nod and a friendly smile.
One hot day as I was sitting in a restaurant enjoying a bowl of shaved ice, someone patted me on the shoulder. It was the man in the wheelchair. He was dressed up nicely and had a big smile on his face. He bravely asked for my name and phone number and left.
A few days later, he called to invite me to attend a Church dinner. Encouraged by a friend, I hesitantly went. The dinner was delicious, and the reception the members gave me made me feel welcome from the moment I entered. Later that evening another Church member asked for my address and phone number in Taipei and sent my information to the missionaries there. Thus began my eternal tie with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I was baptized and confirmed in the fall of 1994 and served a full-time mission in 1997. Two years after I returned home, I married a returned missionary, and we began our family.
All of these blessings came to pass because a member of the Church had the courage to ask a question. At the time, he was a total stranger, but eventually he helped lead me to the Savior’s gospel. He reminds me of a scripture I came to know in the Book of Mormon: “I have none other object save it be the everlasting welfare of your souls” (2 Nephi 2:30).

Fan Hsieh was born 23 August 1922 in Tayeh, China, an isolated farming community. He did not begin formal education until he was ten years old. After four years in a private school, he enrolled in a Catholic school, began to learn about Jesus Christ, and was baptized a Catholic. “I saw the example of many good Catholic missionaries,” he says, “and I thought maybe China needed more of them to teach the people about Jesus Christ. I decided to become a priest.”

I feel ashamed whenever I see Earl. I didn’t like him when we first met. He was overweight and wore a plaid, polyester leisure suit that I thought looked tacky. His plump hand was moist when I shook it, and he chuckled senselessly after every sentence he spoke: “Hi, Sharon.” Chuckle. “I’m Earl.” Chuckle. “It’s good to know you.” Chuckle, chuckle.
Earl and I had been assigned to organize and execute a branch service project for the college branch we attended. Upon receiving the assignment, I’d immediately put my creativity to work. Perhaps, I thought, we could take a group of under-privileged children on a weekend camping trip in the mountains. What could be better for them than exercise, camaraderie, and clean air, I reasoned, overlooking the facts that it had snowed there last weekend, most of the branch members owned little, if any, camping equipment, and the children would surely possess none at all. It irritated me when Earl, chuckling good-naturedly, brought these details to my attention and suggested a Halloween party at the local rest home instead. How unoriginal, I thought, as I smiled and nodded approvingly at his plan.
We met several nights in succession to form our plans. The meetings were unpleasant to me, his ideas so dull that even compromises sounded boring. I wanted horror melodramas for entertainment, complete with shrieks of terror and handsome heroes with their ladies. He wanted ghost stories, all of which would surely begin, “It was a dark and stormy night …”
For refreshments I’d dreamed up whole-wheat pumpkin cakes and apples on a stick dipped in hot, cinnamoned honey and cooled. “What about their dentures?” he’d asked, again chuckling. In turn, he suggested sugar cookies and cider.
As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

Not everyone agreed with him about the valley. Despite its streams and grassy fields, the new settlement was drier and more desolate than any place the Saints had ever gathered. From the moment he arrived, Sam Brannan had pleaded with Brigham to continue on to the green fields and fertile soil of the California coast.16
“I am going to stop right here,” Brigham had told Sam. “I am going to build a city here. I am going to build a temple here.” He knew the Lord wanted the Saints to settle in the Salt Lake Valley, far from other western U.S. settlements, where he was sure other emigrants would soon take up residence. Brigham appointed Sam to serve as president over the Church in California, however, and sent him back to San Francisco Bay with a letter for the Saints.17
“If you choose to tarry where you are, you are at liberty to do so,” Brigham noted in his letter. Yet he invited them to join the Saints in the mountains. “We wish to make this a stronghold, a rallying point, a more immediate gathering place than any other,” he told them. California, on the other hand, was to be a way station for Saints headed to the valley.18

Amaru Anderson, 16, often reads the scriptures with her 8-year-old brother, Sebastian. She also takes time to answer his questions, and prays with him regularly.

“We’ve been reading Joseph Smith—History once or twice a week,” she says. “It’s mind-blowing how many questions he has at eight years old, and I love answering them. I feel like I know him so much better.”

For example, one time Sebastian asked Amaru: “How do you think Joseph Smith kept going if all these people were doing all these bad things to him and to his family? All those things were going wrong, and if he was so good, why were so many bad things happening to him?”

“It really touched me,” she says. “I know that adversity strengthens you, but here’s a little boy asking me this hard question. We always read before he goes to bed, and I stay up a little later to get ready for the next day. I thought about our conversation and realized that I understood more about adversity from answering his questions.”

A few weeks ago, just before 6:00 a.m., my wife and I boarded a taxi to begin the last lap of our trip to Salt Lake City from Australia. Our driver, who had been on duty since 3:00 a.m., was anxious to talk with us, his first passengers of the day. We learned his parents were born just outside of Mexico City. They moved to Chicago, where he was born, and then moved to New Mexico. Twenty years earlier our friend had come for a short visit to San Francisco and had never left. During our trip to the airport, this man related a few incidents from which some great truths were reemphasized.
His parents, he told us, had remained in New Mexico, but liked to visit him and his brother whenever they could afford it because they loved being with their children and grandchildren. In New Mexico his mother’s health was rather poor, but whenever she was in San Francisco, she seemed to feel much better. This discerning son had said to his brother, “I know just exactly what mother needs.”
He said, “I found a large truck. My brother and I drove to New Mexico, loaded our parents and all their possessions into the truck, and brought them to live near those who loved them most. Mother’s health improved noticeably.” Then he added, “You know, love is very important if it is done right.”

In Mbuji-Mayi, Democratic Republic of the Congo, initially some were critical of the Church, not understanding our beliefs or knowing our members.
Some time ago, Kathy and I attended a very special Church service in Mbuji-Mayi. The children were dressed immaculately, with bright eyes and big smiles. I had hoped to speak to them about their education but learned that many were not attending school. Our leaders, with very nominal humanitarian funds, found a way to help. Now, more than 400 students—girls and boys, members as well as those not of our faith—are welcomed and taught by 16 teachers who are members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
Fourteen-year-old Kalanga Muya said, “[Having little money,] I spent four years without attending school. … I am so grateful for what the Church has done. … I can now read, write, and speak French.” Speaking of this initiative, the mayor of Mbuji-Mayi said, “I am inspired by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints because while [other] churches are being divided each one in his corner … [you are working] with [others] to help the community in need.”

Christ is our best example of service. He served others throughout His life. When I serve others, it makes me feel good. The other day we were going to give a rocking horse to a boy in our ward, but it had to be put together. I was excited to do this because I could picture the joy on the boy’s face when he got on the horse. When the horse was assembled, I helped Mom put it in the car to take to the boy’s house. Sometimes I complain about doing things like this, but when they are over I’m glad that I did them, and I’m happy.

Several British men returning from armed service developed health complications and died during the pandemic. George Bradley was baptised a Latter-day Saint at age eight and had been valiant in his Church service throughout his youth, as well as during his military service. While returning from active duty in France, he became ill and passed away on 2 February 1918.12 A well-attended military funeral was held for the twenty-eight-year-old, who had been serving as the president of the Derby branch at the time of his death.13 George had enlisted in the Royal Garrison Artillery (RGA) in 1916 and left his young widow, family, and friends behind. Many people followed his elm casket, covered with the Union Jack, as he was carried by fellow soldiers from the RGA. In addition to his local congregation, friends from the Nottingham branch and other member friends sent flowers to his family as a token of respect and sympathy.14

Perhaps this is more easily illustrated than defined. Our pioneer forefathers are good examples. They sang, “Gird up your loins; fresh courage take” (“Come, Come, Ye Saints,” Hymns, 1985, no. 30). They feared no toil and no labor. Among them were Johan Andreas Jensen and his wife, Petra, who left their native Norway in 1863. Their family included six-week-old tiny twin daughters. As handcarts were pulled in their rugged journey, one of those little girls died along the way. The child who survived grew up to become my Grandmother Nelson!

“My parents were not active in the Church, but they were wonderful people. I remember my mother teaching me how to pray. I also remember her teaching me over and over the principle of obedience. When I received my first pair of roller skates, Mother cautioned me, ‘Now, don’t go down the hill, because it will be difficult for you. The hard, level surface on the east side of the house will be much easier for you.’ But I wanted the thrill of going down the hill, and it was probably only five minutes later that I came in crying, with both knees badly scraped. Mother pointed out that if I had been obedient, I would not have been hurt. I’ve thought about that a lot of times since then, and I think that if we obey our parents and learn to call on our Heavenly Father and obey His prompting, we will avoid many difficulties.”

Brad plays nervously with his key ring. He will go to his new ward for the first time tonight, and he feels less sure of himself than usual. He has been thinking about how he will get acquainted and has decided the best plan is to just keep as quiet as possible for awhile. That way he will see what others are like before they form opinions of him. Brad smiles as he turns the key in the ignition. He isn’t sure just why, but somehow getting Dad to let him take the car tonight was very important to him.
Brad doesn’t realize that his keeping quiet does not prevent people from forming opinions of him. He also doesn’t recognize that the car makes him feel more confident in a new situation.

My dad always stopped at the same convenience store near our house to buy gas. After filling up the car, Dad went in to pay. I followed him and was through the door before I heard Cort’s voice. He was working behind the counter.
Suddenly a wave of embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to sneak out, but the store wasn’t that big. In only a second, he would see that I was there.
Cort looked up from the cash register and said, “Hi.”
Dad glanced from Cort to me then back to Cort. “Oh, do you know my daughter Jill?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He thinks so! my mind was screaming. Didn’t he remember how we were almost friends?
I was tongue tied. I wanted, more than anything, to say something clever and casual to cover up for the fact that I was blushing, but nothing would come out.
“That will be $15.75,” said Cort to my dad.
As Dad pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, he said, “I sure would like Jill to run the car down here and fill it up. She got her driver’s license three weeks ago, but she’s scared to drive the car. It’s a stick shift, and she panics every time she tries to drive it.”
I was mortified. I was standing there listening to my dad humiliate me.
“It’s not too hard to learn,” Cort said, looking at me. “I taught my sister and my girlfriend.”
“I’ve tried to teach her, but I guess there are some things you just can’t teach your own children,” my dad said, collecting his change.
“I’ll teach you,” Cort said. “I get off work at five tomorrow. Meet me here. It really isn’t that big a deal.”
Not a big deal, not a big deal! It was an incredibly big deal. Just wait until Laney heard about this.
“Okay,” I blurted out. Dad was halfway to the door before I made a move to follow him.
The next afternoon, I had changed my clothes three times and was working on my hair. I desperately wanted thick, smooth, straight blonde hair that would swing away from my face when I moved. What I had was no-color brown that kinked and twisted no matter how long I spent with the blow dryer. I was at the point of giving up when my mom stood in the door of the bathroom.
“What in the world are you doing, Jill?”
“Cort Tyler told Dad that he would help me learn to drive a stick shift this afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mom said, distracted by the screams coming from the bedroom where my two little brothers were fighting over a video game. Then she suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
“Why are you getting all dressed up? This isn’t a date, is it?”
“No, this isn’t a date,” I said, on the verge of getting sarcastic. But actually I halfway thought it was. I had even told Laney at school that day that I had to get home because I had to meet Cort at five. I said meet but I knew she would think date, and that was just fine with me.
I walked the couple of blocks to the store. Cort was still behind the counter. He saw me coming and said something to the guy beside him and was out in front by the time I walked up.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
“It’s home,” I had to admit. “I can’t get it into reverse.”
We walked to my house in virtual silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and Cort didn’t seem to notice.
“You drive,” he said abruptly as we walked up to the car.
“But I can’t get it into reverse.”
“Yeah, well, let’s fix that,” he said, opening the passenger door and getting in. I walked around and got into the driver’s seat.
I started the car, pushed in the clutch, and tried to slide the gear shift into reverse. It made a horrible sound.
“Okay, stop,” Cort didn’t seem greatly concerned. “Let up on the clutch. Push it in again, then slide the gear shift over and down. Here, like this.”
He put his hand over mine on the gear shift. I think I remembered to do what he instructed, but I was paying a lot of attention to the feel of his hand on mine.
It took five minutes for me to get out of the driveway and into first gear. I kept letting the clutch out too far and killing the engine. I was afraid Cort was going to get upset, but he stayed remarkably calm. I found that after the car got going in first gear, shifting was a lot easier. I had second down cold.
At the end of the neighborhood, I had to turn onto a busy street.
“Take a left here,” Cort said.
“I can’t. I’ll get stuck in the middle of the intersection.”
“But we need to go left.”
“I’ll get us there,” I said. Desperation made my mind work overtime.
I pulled straight through the intersection and made a right at the next corner. I made another right turn, and another. This time I was at the light again, ready to go straight through. I had skipped making a left turn by making three right-hand turns.
Cort started laughing. “Give me a break. You can’t drive like this. You have to learn to turn left.”
“I can’t,” I said, tears starting to form.
“Sure you can. If the car dies in the middle, I’ll trade you places and get us out of there.”
I took a deep breath, signaled to turn left. But I was done in by self- fulfilling prophecy. As soon as I tried to pull forward in first gear, the car got to the middle of the intersection, jerked, and died. I panicked.
“I can’t do this. I can’t. You do it.”
Cort didn’t move. “Just start the car. Put it in first, and give it a little more gas.”
“You promised. You said you’d drive.”
“You can do it. You have to learn how to get yourself out of this situation. Just try.”
It took me three tries to get the car started and moving forward. I just made the turn before the light changed.
“I knew you could do it,” Cort said. “Now drive me back to work. You’re okay now.”
Secretly, I was pleased with myself. I drove Cort back to work and made a left turn back onto the street. This time I didn’t kill the engine.

I Want to Be a Part of This!
By Lauren Soqui Bohman
Living in Oman, my husband and I rushed to get our kids to bed so we could watch the morning session of conference on the other side of the world. We had been counting down the days until conference, yearning for that guidance and peace we knew would come from Heavenly Father through His prophets and disciples.
Sister Joy D. Jones told us the Lord loves effort, so how much effort am I willing to exert to follow His example?
President Henry B. Eyring asked what role we will play in this hinge point in history.
Sister Bonnie H. Cordon and Elder Jeffrey R. Holland asked us to consider how we will purposely shine our light.
I felt how much I want to be part of the goodness that the Lord is rapidly moving forward. Conference inspired me to renew my efforts to help my children with their personal development, to seek to be a more thoughtful and spiritually authentic friend, to perform family history tasks like data entry, and to look for creative new opportunities to serve God by serving His children.

My father especially encouraged me to pay my tithing, so one day I asked him about his testimony of this principle. “When did you really know the importance of paying your tithes?” I asked. In response to my question, my father told me a story about his parents paying their tithing.
When my father was growing up in Utah, his family was poor. His shoes were so worn out that the soles had holes in them and were barely attached to his shoes.
One day his father gave him an envelope full of money and said, “Take this to the bishop. This represents our tithing to the Lord.”
So my father started walking through the fields to the bishop’s house. It was winter, and there was snow on the ground. As my father walked, his feet were very cold. He felt the money in his hand and thought how much he could use a new pair of shoes.
But my father kept walking, and he thought to himself, “I guess this has to be a very important thing, so important that my father would take this money and give it to the bishop even when we need it so badly.”
Walking through the snow that day, my father realized the importance of tithing. He came to understand that tithing is more a matter of faith than of money.

Oh, no! That word seemed to jump off the page at me, and everything else in the classroom faded into insignificance. Our excellent, but strict, speech teacher had just assigned reading parts to the class and handed out the script. Quickly scanning the first page, my eyes stopped when I hit that word!
You see, I knew that Connie had been assigned to read that line in the script. With few exceptions, almost anyone in the class could have read that profane word without any personal concern. But I knew Connie. I knew of her high standards in every area of her life and of her integrity in maintaining those standards with no compromise. She just exemplified purity and freshness and happiness. Clean thoughts and language were carefully guarded. Now suddenly she was expected to violate that standard by a teacher who saw nothing wrong at all with such language. The script was already being read aloud, and I wondered what she would do. Then it was time for Connie’s part.
“Oh, PUMPKIN!” she exclaimed! The startled class suddenly broke out in good-natured laughter. Our teacher looked up quickly with a surprised expression on her face and momentarily studied Connie. Slowly she began to smile as she realized that Connie wasn’t just trying to attract attention or trying to be funny. But Connie simply continued reading her assigned part as though nothing unusual had happened.

Camping is not my thing.
Which is why everyone who knew me was surprised when I, along with a good friend, signed up for a weekend camping trip to Colorado, USA, with a bunch of strangers for no reason other than that I wanted to get out of my comfort zone and feel a little more adventurous.
It was about 3 a.m. the first night when it started pouring rain. I stared up at the paper-thin walls of my tent, mentally begging them to keep me dry and sincerely regretting my decision to come. I spent the rest of the trip enjoying the views but mostly trying not to embarrass myself; I was less outdoorsy than most of the people I was traveling with, and I worried constantly that I would look incompetent.
On the final night of the trip, my friend and I ventured outside to try to enjoy the nature that we’d traveled so far to see. As we stood outside our tent, my friend surprised me with her astronomy knowledge, pointing out Taurus, the Pleiades, and Cassiopeia, tracing her finger along the sky as she told me stories about the clusters of stars. It was a beautiful, peaceful moment.
The longer we stood there, heads tipped back, the more I forgot about my own discomfort. Looking up at the vast, starry sky was humbling. For probably the first time during that trip, I was able to fully appreciate something beautiful instead of worrying about myself and getting caught up in my own silly pride.
I felt the difference between these two feelings on that camping trip. For the majority of the trip, I was self-absorbed, worried about how I looked and smelled and how comfortable I was. But there was a brief moment, during that evening under the stars, when I was able to look outside myself and realize that there is so much more to living in this miraculously beautiful world than what I was experiencing.
That night, I learned to look up when I wanted to stop thinking about myself, and that’s proven to be a pretty effective antidote to pride. As the famed Christian writer C. S. Lewis explained: “In God you come up against something which is in every respect immeasurably superior to yourself. … As long as you are proud you cannot know God. A proud man is always looking down on things and people: and, of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you.”3
That trip didn’t change my mind about camping—it’s still not my thing. But I’m grateful that I learned an important lesson about “walk[ing] humbly” (Doctrine and Covenants 11:12) that night, because it taught me something that I not only needed on that trip but will need for the rest of my life. It’s normal to struggle with pride—it’s an inherent part of our mortal experience. But acknowledging it in ourselves and working to overcome it by seeking humility can bring us closer to Christ and help us live happier lives.