Gospel Story Finder

On a crisp autumn Saturday, I went to spend a day with my grandfather. He lives in a small town, in a small house on Sixth Street.
There are a lot of things I like about Grandfather, especially his twinkly eyes and merry laugh. He has an interesting house, and he tells the best stories. I like to have him all to myself sometimes. I was really happy to spend that day with him all alone.
He had called on the telephone and asked if I could come help him do something special. Mom and Dad said I could. They always let me go to Grandfather’s when he has something special to do. I get to help him with all sorts of things. I like to help out!
On this particular Saturday, my mom dropped me off at his house in the morning. He welcomed me, and we waved good-bye to Mom. Then he told me in a cheerful voice, "Grandson, today you are going to help me build a bridge—one that’s been wanted on both sides of it for a long time. Does that sound OK to you?"
"Oh yes! I like to build things!"
"Good!" he said, and we went into his house.
Well, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became! I imagined myself erecting a great bridge that would span a raging river or a gorge of great depths. Then the thought popped into my mind that there were no rivers around. In fact, there weren’t any gorges or even ravines around. So I asked, "Where are we going to build our bridge, Grandfather?"
"Not very far away."
"But there isn’t any place to put a bridge, is there?"
He just looked at me and said, "You’d be surprised, Grandson!"
Sometimes he says things like that, and I don’t understand what he means. But Grandfather is wise, and I believe him when he tells me things.
"Will we need tools, Grandfather?"
"Indeed we will! I think we should go get them right away. Follow me!"
He led me to a tiny shed behind his house. He took a key out of a pocket in his overalls and unlocked the door. We stepped inside, and it was very dark. When he turned on a single light bulb, the shed seemed sort of yellow and gray and fuzzy combined.
"Now, let’s see." Grandfather began rummaging through the clutter. "Here, Grandson, hold these!" He handed me two pairs of gloves.
Yes, I thought, we will certainly need gloves when we are building our bridge!
"And, of course, we will need these." Grandfather handed me two big metal buckets.
As he handed them to me, I accidentally dropped them. Clang! Clang! Clong! Oh, they made a dreadfully loud noise! I picked them up and tried to be more careful when Grandfather handed me a garden rake.
"What will we need this for?" I asked him.
"Oh, that’s a most important tool!" he exclaimed. He smiled at me and said, "Come, my wondering grandson. Let’s go build our bridge."
"But we don’t have any wood!"
"We won’t need any," he said.
"We don’t have a hammer and nails, either."
"We’ll not be needing any of those things. Come, young man. Let’s go build that bridge."
Grandfather walked out of the shed and into the cool, clean morning air. I followed him, still wondering how on earth we were going to build a bridge without supplies.
Soon I discovered that we were in the neighbor’s yard. I remembered the yard well, and I did not want to be there one bit! It was old Mr. Jenkins’s yard. I thought back to last year at Thanksgiving time. My whole family was at Grandfather’s, and after the meal, we children played behind the house.
During an exciting game of hide-and-seek, some of us had gone into Mr. Jenkins’s yard to hide. His house looked empty and lonesome, and we were sure that nobody was home. But he came out, waving his cane in the air and shouting for us to leave! He even called me a scalawag!
"Grandfather," I asked now, "why are we in this yard?"
"Why, this is where we will build our bridge!" When I looked at him with questioning eyes, he said, "Do you trust me, Grandson?"
"Yes," I answered.
"And if I ask you to do something, will you do it?"
"I will, Grandfather."
"Good!" He handed me a pair of gloves and asked me to go down to Mr. Jenkins’s big garden. "Do you see those pumpkins?"
Of course I saw them! There were lots of bright orange pumpkins scattered all over the ground, surrounded by their withered vines from the last frost.
"I would like you to pick them and put them in a pile over by the house. Be very careful, and don’t carry them by the stems!"
"OK, Grandfather." I went to the task. I had never seen so many pumpkins! Some of them were skinny and tall. Others were round and fat. They were all heavy! I worked very hard for a long time. After I got that done, Grandfather asked me to rake the fallen leaves in the yard.
I told him I would, but when I looked around, I was stunned! There must have been thousands of leaves surrounding me! The huge cottonwood trees in the backyard had certainly had a lot of leaves that year! It took me two hours to rake them. All the while, I kept thinking, Maybe when I’m done with this, we will build a bridge.
Grandfather was busy too. He had brought a shovel, and he dug up all the potatoes in the garden, put them into the buckets, and carried them to the porch. When he noticed that one of the stairs leading to the porch was sagging, he set to fixing it. Then he helped me bag the leaves.
Well, when we were finished with Mr. Jenkins’s yard and garden, it looked great! It felt nice to look at it and see what a good job we had done. I knew Mr. Jenkins saw what a good job we had done, too, because once I saw him peeking through a window—and he wasn’t scowling!
By this time, I felt hungry. I was glad when Grandfather said, "How would you like it if we went home now and made some of my famous potato soup?"
"Hurrah! I love your potato soup!"
We went into the house and made a great big batch of it. And as we were cooking it, I thought that maybe after lunch we would start building that bridge.
The soup was delicious, and we had a fun time eating and talking. Grandfather told me interesting stories that made me laugh. When we were all done, there was a lot of soup left. Grandfather put it in a big bowl and said, "Now, Grandson, I want you to take this over to Mr. Jenkins."
"What?" I exclaimed. "I can’t do that! He’s mean, and he doesn’t like me."
Grandfather just looked me in the eyes and said, "Please."
So I got all my courage together and walked over to Mr. Jenkins’s front door with a bowl of warm soup in my hands. I rang the doorbell and waited a long time. Finally he came to the door. He had a broken leg and was on crutches!
"Hello, young man," he said. He didn’t look mean at all—in fact, he even smiled at me!
"My grandfather asked me to bring this over to you."
"I thank you for it. Tell me, could you carry it just a wee bit farther and put it on my table?"
"Sure." As I walked through the house, I noticed that it was very messy. I suspected that he couldn’t get around well enough to take care of it. I put the soup on the table and told him I had to go. As I was leaving, I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
"Young man, you don’t know what you and your grandfather did today means to me! Thank you, from the bottom of a cranky old man’s heart!"
I smiled big and said, "You’re welcome!" Then I went back to Grandfather’s house. When I told him what had happened, he seemed very pleased. Then I asked him if we could build our bridge.
"Why, Grandson, we have already built it!"
"We have? Really?"
"Yes indeed! We built a very wonderful bridge today: the bridge of friendship, my boy. Mr. Jenkins may be a cranky old fellow sometimes, but as you could see, he needed some help. And he was glad to get it. All it took to warm his old heart was just being a good neighbor and friend. Our helping him showed him that we were his friends. Building bridges between people and making friends is one of the strongest bridges we could ever build!"
Well, it took me a minute to understand what Grandfather had said. But once I realized that we actually had built a bridge, I couldn’t help but smile. Then I remembered how Mr. Jenkins’s house was so messy, and it gave me a great idea. "Grandfather? Do you think we could add a little bit to that bridge today?"
Grandfather smiled, winked at me, and said, "Yes, Grandson, I believe we could!"

So do the Willeys lug their violins, violas, and basses from door to door playing inspirational music for people? Not exactly. If you’ve ever seen a Church music broadcast or attended one on Temple Square, you’ve probably seen how Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina share the gospel through music. They are some of the youngest members of the Orchestra at Temple Square.
Being so young compared to the other members of the orchestra doesn’t bother these teens a bit. They actually love it. Elizabeth says, “Even though there are only a few members under 20 in the orchestra, I feel like I fit in. I think it’s great because there isn’t any goofing off. Everyone had to work so hard to get here.”
How did they get to be in such a prestigious orchestra at such a young age? “Lots and lots of practice,” Anthony says.
To be in the Orchestra at Temple Square you have to be one of the top musicians in the Church, able to play whatever difficult piece might be put in front of you. And it’s a huge time commitment.
Kristina says, “Being a part of the Orchestra at Temple Square is my favorite thing I’ve ever done, but it’s been a sacrifice. It’s hard to find time for homework and friends because we have to practice every day and rehearse several times a week.”
But Anthony, Elizabeth, and Kristina all say the hard work is worth it.
“It’s neat to be able to see the audience’s reaction when we perform,” Elizabeth says. “The Spirit is always there. It makes me feel like all my hard work has paid off.”
The teens’ mom and dad go to their concerts and sit up in the balcony where they can see all their children. Their mother, Denise, says, “When the music gets going, the Spirit sweeps over me and over the whole audience.”
The beautiful music the orchestra plays on Temple Square helps many people feel the Spirit. After the concerts are over, members of the audience can learn more about the Church from the full-time and Church service missionaries standing at the doors.
Anthony loves the missionary opportunities that being a member of the Orchestra at Temple Square has given him. “Being a member of the orchestra has made me want to be a better person,” he says, “and it has prepared me to be a better full-time missionary.”

On October 26, 1964, the city of Kingston, Jamaica, officially recorded the birth of twins. This was the beginning for me. I never knew my parents. I was raised by my grandmother. The first home I knew was a one-room wooden shack in the ghetto.
While growing up in the severe poverty of the ghetto, I realized how hard my grandmother worked for us. She would rise at 5:00 every morning from the tattered old bed she shared with five other family members. After waking us kids, she would take us to the gully to search for bricks. With the bricks we collected, Grandma built an oven to bake bread that would be sold to neighbors. Grandma struggled every day, yet she always had a smile on her face and seemed happy.
We didn’t have running water in our shack that combined with many others to form a compound. There was one main pipe. Everyone caught their water there in buckets. We had to take the water on our heads to our homes. The water pipe was surrounded by a green muddy area; the children used it for a playground. Ghetto children didn’t always wear clothes. Usually they were just covered with mud and dirt. The toilets and bath places were placed in the center of the compound so everyone could use them.
Low self-esteem and lack of money in the neighborhood caused many there to turn to immorality as an escape. This leads to higher population and congestion in the ghetto. Most people didn’t work, and depended on the government for food. To obtain nice clothes and other material possessions they would often steal.
My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only 14. Following in her mother’s footsteps, she conceived her first child at the age of 13, making her mother a grandmother at age 27. She had her third child by the age of 19. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I was in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, which, I was told, belonged to God, and they were all one.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

“For me, an eating disorder is as physical as it is mental. When I was in the middle of my eating disorder, food seemed to have lost its savor. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat, but I physically couldn’t get myself to eat. There was a constant lump in my throat that prevented me from indulging in anything.
“I felt alone and trapped, like nobody could possibly understand why I couldn’t eat an adequate amount of food—it was just me and my eating disorder. In the end, I realized that this was how I was coping with various things in my life. I felt the only thing I was able to control in my life was what I did (or in this case didn’t) put in my body.”

“I had a friend who must have been moved by the Spirit to talk to me. One day as we were chatting, she told me that she had noticed my peculiar eating habits—small bites, skipping meals, etc. Even though that conversation didn’t cause me at that moment to get the help I needed, it opened a door that allowed me to finally accept the fact that I had an eating disorder and needed to get help.
“I started exercising regularly and praying more intently, and I told my closest family members about my eating disorder. The exercise helped me clear my head, and the honest conversations I was having helped me address the underlying issues. It was a process, but I can finally say my favorite food is pizza again!”

Sometimes when I go to bed at night, I am afraid. I pray to go to sleep quickly and to not have bad dreams. One day when my sister Courtney gave a family home evening lesson, she used the scripture Joshua 1:9. It says, “Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
When I go to bed now, I think of “Be not afraid, … God is with thee.” This helps me go to sleep without being afraid.Cassie Fernelius, age 8Shippensburg, Pennsylvania

Thanks for volunteering at our animal shelter! Are you ready to help some animals?
Yes!
This is going to be fun. Great idea, Margo!
Thanks! Helping animals makes me happy.
I’m glad! Jesus Christ made all living things. We need to take care of His creations.
That’s why I want to be a veterinarian when I grow up!
Now it’s time to go home and take care of our pet.
Kiwi must be hungry!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

What produces light? A candle, a flashlight, a lightbulb, the stars. What is the greatest source of light for us? No, it isn’t the sun. It is Jesus Christ. He said, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12).
This light “is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:16). Each of us has the Light of Christ to help us choose the right.
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us how we can have spiritual light: “When I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle home from basketball practice at night. I would connect a small pear-shaped generator to my bicycle tire. Then as I pedaled, the tire would turn a tiny rotor, which produced … a single, welcome beam of light. … I learned quickly that if I stopped pedaling my bicycle, the light would go out. I also learned that when I was ‘anxiously engaged’ in pedaling, the light would become brighter and the darkness in front of me would be [forced away].”
Elder Hales explains that “spiritual light comes from daily spiritual pedaling. It comes from praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and serving—from living the gospel and obeying the commandments” (“Out of Darkness into His Marvelous Light,” Liahona, July 2002, 78).
When we live the gospel and keep the commandments, we can have the Light of Christ with us always.
Trace the picture on page 6 onto plain white paper, and color the traced picture. Brush your picture very lightly with salad oil, and blot it with a towel. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of Presidency of the Seventy said that when he was growing up, his “chapel had a stained-glass window of Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. Whenever the sun shone on it, I felt that the story it illustrated and what I had learned in Primary about the First Vision were true” (Liahona, Apr. 1999, F3). Place your picture in a window to remind you of the light the Savior provides in your life.

One night a grandfather was reading a story to his four-year-old granddaughter when she looked up and said, “Grandpa, look at the stars!” The older man smiled kindly and said, “We’re indoors, honey. There are no stars here.” But the child insisted, “You have stars in your room! Look!”
The grandfather looked up and, to his surprise, noticed that the ceiling was peppered with a metallic glitter. It was invisible most of the time, but when the light struck the glitter a certain way, it did indeed look like a field of stars. It took the eyes of a child to see them, but there they were. And from that moment on, when the grandfather walked into this room and looked up, he could see what he had not been able to see before.

It was a blistering 115 degrees F (46?C) outside, typical for a summer day out on the farm in Brawley, California. I kicked the tire of the huge water truck that had broken down for the third time in four days. I relied on my summer job to pay for entertainment, school clothes, and eventually college. Despite the heat, I hated having to cut a day’s work short, but it looked like I was going to have to do so again.
David, a member of our ward and a family friend, walked over from the mill to take a look at the truck. Venting my frustrations to him, I was tempted to say a word I had heard others use when they were annoyed. The moment before I actually said it, the thought crossed my mind that I shouldn’t because I knew it was a bad word. But in an instant, I brushed it off, thinking no one would ever find out. I said the word, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Looking up, David told me he and Dad would fix the truck when they could. In the meantime, I found other work to do for the rest of the day.
Hopping into Dad’s truck at the end of the day, we began the drive home. Not too long after getting on the road, Dad looked over at me and mentioned that David had told him about my reaction to the truck breaking down, swear word and all. “David said he never expected to hear something like that come out of my daughter’s mouth,” Dad said. “He respects you too much, honey.”
I hung my head, and the tears came quickly. I had lowered myself in the eyes of people whose opinions I cared about. But most of all, I felt disappointed in myself and knew God did too. I realized that was why saying the word hadn’t made me feel any better.
I made a promise never to say that word again or anything else that would not please God, not because I didn’t want to make my dad and David ashamed of me but because it was the right thing to do. Integrity, I learned, is the way you act when you think no one is looking.

Growing up, I didn’t believe there was a God. My life was full of turmoil, and in my darkest days I was depressed enough that I wanted to end my life. That was when the missionaries came knocking on my door. The gospel was exactly what I needed; I was drawn to it like a magnet.
My trials didn’t end after I joined the Church, but I was in a better position to resist the influence of the adversary. For the first time, I knew what happiness felt like.
However, depression didn’t loosen its grip easily. At one point I wanted to give up again. At that moment Sister Ting, the bishop’s wife, called. She told me she had a feeling she needed to call me. She asked how I was doing. I bore my soul to her. To me, she was an angel sent by God.
That incident empowered me. My faith was strengthened. I felt like I could conquer death. I felt delivered, like it says in Alma 36:2–3:
“They were in bondage, and none could deliver them except … God … .
“… Whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions, and shall be lifted up at the last day.”
I still have trials, but I will not be easily beaten again. God has supported me through all my trials and worries. He has saved me from spiritual prison and bondage, even death. He is my Savior.

“Go outside and play,” the hired girl said. “You know your mother needs to rest.” So Leta, Sina, Nilla, and Clyde followed the flagstone path out the back door and past the pretty tulips. The gate led to the field, and at one end of the field was a big root cellar. The parts of the cellar that were not filled with potatoes or other root crops were like a playhouse for the four children.

“Let’s get ready for dinner,” Leta said in a special voice that meant she was pretending to be Mother. “Sina, help me tie my apron.” She pretended to pull an apron out of a drawer and put her head through the part that went over the shoulders.

Sina pretended to make a bow in the back, hurrying to finish so she could play the part of big sister. “I will set the table,” she said, turning over a wooden crate and draping it with an old dish towel that they had used in their playhouse before.

“Nilla,” Leta ordered again, “you go back to the house and find us some food to eat.”

Nilla was happy to have an important part to play in this game. She was almost back to the house before she remembered that the hired girl had sent them away and might not let her go into the house again. She looked around carefully until she saw the girl talking to a boy who had ridden up on a horse.

Nilla went to the kitchen. The cupboard doors were open, but they smelled of cleaning soap and nothing was inside. Boxes and bottles of various sizes and shapes were on the table and chairs.

One bottle with a worn, red-and-white label caught Nilla’s eye. She did not know that the picture of the skull and crossbones on it meant “poison.” The label was loose, so she tore it off and threw it down on the floor. Then she proudly took the bottle back to her sisters and brother, who were waiting in the playhouse.

Leta opened the bottle and looked at the white crystals inside it. “Yes, this looks very good,” she said, closing it up again. “It will take a little while for dinner to be ready, so don’t sit up to the table yet.”

Leta pretended to be busy cooking over the stove, then sweeping the floor. She scolded the children from time to time when they were impatient waiting for their food. Finally she announced that it was time for dinner.

When the children took their places at the table, Leta poured a little pile of the crystals in front of each of them. Clyde licked his finger, ready to eat right away, but Leta stopped him. “No food until after the prayer. And I will say it.”

This time, she reminded everyone of their father as she prayed. “Our Father who art in heaven,” she began, “we thank Thee for this food, and for …” Her voice rose and fell as she prayed on and on, and her words were mumbled much of the time so that no one was quite sure what all she had said. The others did hear her say, “Bless this food to our use” and “Bless the missionaries in the field.” Just when Sina, Nilla, and Clyde thought that the prayer would end and the feast would start, Leta thought of the name of a ward member she could mention in the prayer and the prayer continued.

In the house, Mother, sick and weak, awoke with such a feeling of concern for her children that she found herself standing beside her bed even before she was fully awake. Making her way slowly out of the bedroom, she saw the hired girl asleep on the couch.

The kitchen was spotlessly clean, except for a faded red label that startled her as a breeze blew it across the floor. A picture of a skull and crossbones was on it, and the word strychnine. Mother hurried outside as fast as she was able. She saw no sign of her children in the yard, so she went straight to their playhouse in the cellar.

Leta had just said, “amen,” and each child was raising a freshly licked finger in the air over the “food” to pick up the powder and eat it, when Mother’s shadow appeared in the doorway.

Mother had found the children in time! In her heart, she said her own prayer of thanks for the lives of her little children. She did not doubt for a moment that the Spirit of the Lord had awakened her and led her to the children who were in danger.

That evening at suppertime, the children waited patiently through the rising and falling tones of their father’s long blessing on the food. It wasn’t hard to remember their own blessing on the play “food” they had almost eaten in the root cellar.

While they were eating, Nilla whispered to Leta, “Heavenly Father really does hear and understand each prayer, doesn’t He?”

“Yes, He really does,” Leta whispered back.

Normandie Luscher, 29, a Master of Fine Arts student in Maryland, USA, uses her artwork for good. “I’ve been focusing a lot over the last couple of years on the most important commandment, to love God and to love our neighbor,” she explains. “In my artwork I’ve been focusing on telling stories. We can really learn how to be compassionate and love our neighbors more by listening to them and hearing their stories.”
A self-proclaimed “idea person,” Normandie brings people together for good in many ways. A school project led her to put on a fundraiser for a local women’s shelter: a gallery show featuring paintings she created telling the story of Job through a woman’s perspective. “Other women came and shared their stories and their experiences,” she explains. “And I thought that was a really powerful thing.”
Another idea Normandie pursued was for a collaborate zine (a self-published or online magazine). She reached out to other artists, and together they told Book of Mormon stories through the lens of contemporary art.
Personally, Normandie has found that she can be an influence for good by opening up to others. “I’ve been working on developing the courage to be vulnerable and share my own experiences and perspectives. Art is about being honest and sharing ideas. So in terms of being a force for good, I’m just trying to embrace those ideas of being honest and courageous and reaching out to other people and communicating through visual art.”
She encourages other young adults to develop courage to do good too. “Don’t be afraid of not being able to do enough,” she says. “I think a lot of people get overwhelmed with, ‘There’s nothing that I can do,’ and falling into that fallacy prevents so much good from being done. Don’t be afraid. Be courageous to move forward and to act.”

“I had a friend who began to encourage me to disregard my standards, and for a while I listened. I finally decided that enough was enough and I wasn’t going to let her influence me anymore. I prayed for strength and guidance, and because I was again living the way I know I should, I received the guidance I asked for. I eventually stopped hanging out with her, and in the months that have passed, my testimony has grown so much. Who you are friends with definitely makes a difference in your ability to live the way the gospel teaches.”
Margaret Denise K., 17, Utah, USA

I relearned something else. Once before I had painted a picture inspired by comments that I heard when I was a boy. It depicted the Willard Peaks. I had heard the older folks refer to them as The Presidency. These three gigantic, solid peaks standing against the sky typified the leaders of the Church.
That was nine years ago. My son had taken me to Willard and photographed the peaks. We went back a second time when there would be more shadow and contrast.
After those years I had to awaken that which I had let go dormant. At first it was a terrible struggle. I threatened to quit several times. One of my friends urged me on by saying, “Go ahead! There’s always plenty of room at the bottom.”
I did not quit, simply because my wife would not give me permission to do so. I am glad I didn’t now. Perhaps, now that I am into it again, I’ll do another painting sometime—who knows.
I suppose trying to get back into painting is not unlike someone who has been inactive in the Church for many years and decides to return to the fold. There is that period of struggle in getting the feel for what has lain dormant but is not really lost. And it helps to have a friend or two.
That is another principle of learning—drawing lessons from ordinary experience in life.

Once upon a time a husband and wife who loved each other very much wanted to have a child of their very own to hold and to cuddle and to love. As time passed and they had no children, they prayed to their Heavenly Father to send them a special child. Heavenly Father heard their prayers.
One day this husband and wife received a telephone call to go to a distant city to meet with some people who said they had a tiny baby that this man and his wife could adopt. Excited and filled with anticipation, they made the journey in their car. When they arrived at the city, they went to a certain home and there they were taken into a room where they saw a tiny baby lying in the middle of a big bed waiting for them. There really is such a thing as love at first sight, for when this husband and wife saw that little boy lying there all alone, they immediately loved him. They took him home with them and loved the baby so much that they talked about him as their own beloved son.
Yet in spite of great love for that little baby, they had a fear in their hearts that they might not be able to keep him as their very own child. They first had to see a judge and ask him if they could adopt this baby according to law. Because the judge wanted to make sure the little boy would be properly cared for, he first had to find out if the husband and his wife loved each other, if they had a good and happy home, and if they had enough money to feed and clothe the baby.
It took time for the judge to decide all these questions and all the while the love of the husband and his wife for the baby grew and grew. Finally, the judge gave legal consent for the couple to adopt the baby and this was done. Now the baby was their very own special child and their fear was gone that he would be taken away from them. Still, the judge could only give them permission to have the child during their lifetime on this earth. But they loved that baby more than that! They believed in Jesus and knew that Jesus had more power than the judge. Jesus could give them the child forever and ever and not just for this life only.
After the adoption papers had been signed and the baby had been given a name, the couple took their son with them to a temple of God. There they dressed in white clothes and dressed the little boy in white clothes too. Then they all knelt down at an altar in the temple. A man who held a special priesthood sealed that little boy to his new father and mother so that the family could be together forever. Now this boy really was their own special child, not only during this life, but even after death. If they all did what was right and loved one another, they could all live together with Jesus in heaven. Now that baby really was their special child!
I know that this story is true, because I am that father who loves his very own special child more every day and, as mothers do, my wife loves him even more. Every child who lives in such a family where love is can also feel he or she is a very special child.

Augustina, Molly, and Eva were ancestors of Imro Wehl, who lives in Suriname. Imro, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is an enthusiast of family history and spends hours finding names to add to his family tree. He started to have dreams of his great-grandmother, Augustina, who appeared to be asking for help. He remembered that his mother, Sieglien Wehl-Biezen, had also dreamed of her mother, Augustina, years before requesting her to free her but didn’t understand what the dream meant. Imro realized he was the answer to his great-grandmother’s plea for help. As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, through the sealing power of the temple covenants for the dead, he could help her find the peace she had been waiting to receive.
Imro worked for years, gathering names of family members to add to his family tree. He strongly felt he was receiving help from ancestors on the other side of the veil. He received impressions that helped him eventually find over 90 individuals. Imro said it felt like miracles were happening repeatedly as he continued to find additional family members. Surprisingly, he even felt impressed to include the names of Augustina, Sieglien, Molly, and Eva’s former slave master, Edmund Desse, and his family. Imro said this showed him how deeply Augustina had forgiven him despite the suffering her family endured.
In September 2024, Imro and the Paramaribo Suriname District planned a 10-day temple trip to the Belém Brazil Temple. Over 20 members flew from their home country to Brazil with the names of family members ready to have their temple work done. They worked in the temple every day, all day long, except Sunday and Monday, to complete their work. They started with baptisms for the dead and finished by invoking the power of the sealing of couples to one another and the sealing of the sons and daughters to their parents. Imro enlisted the help of his fellow district members to complete the temple work for his family. Even the temple workers stayed late, after 10:00 p.m. at night, to help Imro and the group complete his work.
On September 21, 2024, Imro, Lusanne, and others from the Paramaribo Suriname District returned home with gratitude for the opportunity to attend the temple and for their shared memories. Imro witnessed ordinances completed for over 90 family members, including his great-grandmother, Augustina, his grandmother, Molly, his mother, Sieglien, and his great-aunt, Eva, as well as his father, brother, and son. It was a deeply emotional experience that strengthened his bond with his family, both past and present. In his testimony, Imro said, “The best time we can spend here on earth is in the temple with our Heavenly Father.”

Kelly and the other fifth-graders had just come in from lunch when Mr. Aragon announced, “Our class is going to begin a special project tomorrow that I think you’ll find exciting. Are you all familiar with Victoria Benson School?”
Kelly nodded along with the rest of the students, but instead of feeling excited, she felt uneasy. Victoria Benson School was right next to their own school, Easton Elementary. The students at the two schools were approximately the same ages, but there was one big difference. Victoria Benson students all had mental disabilities.
“We’ll be visiting the school once a week,” Mr. Aragon continued. “You’ll be acting as tutors, helping the students one-on-one with the work they do in class.” As he explained some of the details of the special project, the students became more and more interested, until it seemed to Kelly that she was the only one who was still uneasy about the project.
She and her friends had sometimes watched the Victoria Benson students through the fence at recess. Some of their faces looked different around the eyes, and their speech was slow and slurred. They seemed awkward when they ran or threw a ball. As she knelt by her bed for prayer that night, she remembered the words to a Primary song her class had learned last year:
If you don’t walk as most people do,
Some people walk away from you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do,
Some people talk and laugh at you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.*
I know that Jesus loves the Victoria Benson students, Kelly thought as she turned out the light. Maybe I will, too.
When her class entered Victoria Benson School the next day, Kelly had the worst case of butterflies in her stomach she’d ever had. But the Primary song kept running through her mind: “I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you. That’s how I’ll show my love for you.”
Mr. Aragon led them into a sunny, brightly decorated classroom and introduced the class to Miss Donnelley, one of the teachers.
“We’re really glad to have you here,” Miss Donnelley said. “The students have been so excited this morning! They’re eager to meet you, so I’m going to assign you to areas and get you started right away.”
A few students were sent to the cafeteria to help four boys setting the tables for lunch. Several were sent to the math area of the classroom to help with counting objects, writing numbers, and matching shapes. Others were assigned to a writing table, where a few students were learning to print their names.
Maybe they’ll run out of assignments, Kelly thought, and I’ll be able to just watch today. But Miss Donnelley led her to what she called the dressing area and introduced her to Sandra, a girl with long dark hair. She gave Kelly a big smile.
“Sandra is learning to zip her jacket,” Miss Donnelley told Kelly. “I’d like you to help her.” Then the teacher left to give out another assignment.
By myself? Kelly thought. How do I do that?
Sandra was still smiling at her as Kelly took a deep breath, stuck her hands into her own jacket pockets, and introduced herself. “Hi.” She tried to put friendliness into her voice to hide her nervousness. “I’m supposed to help you zip your jacket.”
“Hi, Kewwy. I’m glad you’re helping me.”
Kelly smiled back. “Well, I guess we’d better get started. First you stick that straight metal part into the slot in the other part,” she began.
Sandra’s face took on a look of concentration. She held the two parts of the zipper in her hands and fumbled with them. Kelly waited a minute, then said, “Hold it at the top of the slot and then push it down.” Sandra tried again, but still couldn’t do it.
Kelly pulled her hands out of her pockets. “Look, Sandra—watch me. Do it like this.”
Sandra watched as Kelly zipped and unzipped her own jacket twice.
“Now you try again,” Kelly urged.
Sandra’s face looked even more determined as she tried again, but she just couldn’t fit the parts together. Now Kelly was the one frowning in concentration. What am I doing wrong? She wondered. Suddenly Kelly had an idea. Surprising them both, she reached out and grasped Sandra’s hands. “I’ll walk with—I mean, I’ll help you!”
With Kelly’s hands guiding hers, Sandra soon fit the parts together. As Sandra began breathing more quickly and nodding her head, Kelly let go and let her try it by herself. Kelly held her breath as Sandra fumbled a few times but finally fit the parts together. Kelly’s smile was as big as Sandra’s as Sandra slowly pulled the zipper all the way up.
“I did it! I did it!” Sandra grabbed Kelly in a big hug. Kelly was surprised, but she hugged right back. Then Sandra ran off to show Miss Donnelley, waving her hands in the air and still shouting, “I did it!”
As Kelly watched her go, she smiled and thought, I guess I did it, too!

I am convinced that families, even young children, can learn to love the scriptures. A few years ago when I was in Colorado Springs for a conference, I called on Mark McConkie, son of Elder and Sister Bruce R. McConkie, to address the question: “How did you develop a love for the scriptures?”

As I recall, he said: “I first developed a love for the scriptures from my mother. I remember she would teach me while she did her ironing. I felt how she loved the scriptures by the way she would speak about the prophets. How much she loved them! As I grew older, I would listen to the recordings of the scriptures. I wanted to know the scriptures like my father. Sometimes he would enter the room while I was listening and it would take him just a moment to identify the exact scripture I was listening to. I wanted to be able to do that.”

“It’s my life! I’m not hurting anybody else.”
What most amazed everyone was that John* seemed so sincere when he said it. He really didn’t seem to realize that he was hurting people all around him. He obviously loved his family. He was, in fact, remarkably sensitive and thoughtful. He saved his money to buy his mother a figurine she admired. He cleaned the garage for his dad when he hurt his back. He was consistently kind to his brothers and sisters, especially Becky, who was two years younger.
John had walked Becky to school when she started kindergarten, let her wear his baseball caps, and listened to her talk about which boys were really cute. The day she registered for junior high school, he showed her how to open her locker.
John’s problems had started in the seventh grade when he had tried marijuana. He soon moved on to a variety of drugs. Despite prayers and counseling from both the bishop and professional therapists, he continued his drug use. He also began a life of flamboyant immorality. “Hey, I’m not hurting you. And I’m not hurting them. Every one of those girls knows what she’s doing. What we do doesn’t hurt anybody else. Besides, we’re careful.”
His whole family continued to love John and looked for ways to help him. Becky especially stuck by him, and he stuck by her. When Becky married Hal, John immediately put his arm around his new brother-in-law and said he’d always be available if they needed help. And he always was. He drove out into the rain to help pull a stalled car off the freeway. He helped clean the house when Becky was pregnant. He brought wonderful little surprises to his nephews as they came along. Sometimes he simply showed up with a bag of groceries and offered to fix dinner.
Then, suddenly, Becky needed a lot of help. When Becky became sick that summer, the doctors found that her constant cough stemmed, not from flu or pneumonia, but from cancer. Chemotherapy had very little effect; radiation helped but did not stop the tumor.
The cancer continued to spread so rapidly that the doctors said Becky’s only chance would be to have massive radiation. The problem was that radiation strong enough to kill all the malignant cells would also kill the healthy cells in her blood. They could be replaced by a bone marrow transplant, but the donor needed to be a person genetically similar to the patient, usually a brother or sister. When Becky explained the need, each of her brothers and sisters hurried to the hospital to give tissue samples.
A few days later, the entire family went with Becky to the hospital to learn the results. They sat together in the waiting room, watching anxiously as the doctor came toward them carrying a file folder and one of the little blue cards the lab technician had made for each of them.
When Hal asked if there was a match, the doctor said, “Possibly.” Then he asked which one of them was John. John stood, and the doctor asked if he would come with him for a moment. They disappeared into a small office. When they returned, John sat down dejectedly at the end of a long couch. The doctor explained that John was the only member of the family whose genetic pattern was a close match to Becky’s. He was, in fact, an excellent match, but he couldn’t be a donor, at least not for six months.
John’s blood test showed no infections, but his history of sexual activity and IV drug use put him at high risk for AIDS. If he were infected, he could pass that infection along to his sister. The doctor explained that there is no test for the AIDS virus itself. All that can be detected are the antibodies produced to fight the disease, and those take six months to develop. The hospital continued to look for a good match.
It turned out that Becky didn’t have much time, certainly not six months. Within a few weeks the cancer was so widespread that even massive radiation couldn’t stop it, and Becky was gasping for every breath she took. A friend, watching her labor to breathe, expressed his anger with John, but Becky simply said, “I knew when the doctor first told me about the tests that John’s lifestyle would make it impossible for him to help me. I forgave him then.”
Hal made arrangements for a burial plot and tried to explain to their children why Mommy couldn’t play with them anymore. Becky’s parents cared for their daughter and their grieving son.
And John? In some ways, his life changed. Yet his addictions and patterns of behavior are so strong that he has been unable to change them right away. But it’s been a long time since anyone has heard him say, “I’m not hurting anybody.”

In October 2008, as I was listening to the broadcast of the priesthood session of general conference, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, began speaking about serving in the Church. He related a story about how he and some other brethren had tried to move a heavy piano. When all efforts failed, one man urged them to simply stand close together and “lift where you stand.”1
President Uchtdorf went on to talk about serving in the Church wherever you are called to serve. Some people feel they could serve better if only they were called to do something befitting their considerable talents. He said, “No calling is beneath us. Every calling provides an opportunity to serve and to grow.”2
As President Uchtdorf spoke, my mind drifted to a time I met an unassuming member of the Church who was willing to lift wherever he was standing.
In 1985, I was stationed as a U.S. Army officer in a small town in Germany. I had served a mission in Germany 10 years previously. Upon arriving in 1983 as a soldier with my wife, Debra, and two young daughters, we began attending a serviceman’s branch of about 100 members strong. After two years, we decided to immerse ourselves fully into the German culture and began attending the small Bad Kreuznach Branch, which had about 12 members.
About the second week after we began attending, we noticed a new man there. He was in his mid-40s, and we learned that he was the high councilor assigned to our branch. He wasn’t there to conduct stake business, just to visit. We spoke for some time after church, and when we said goodbye, I figured we would next see him again in perhaps six months.
The next week, the high councilor was there again. I learned he lived about an hour away from our small town. During the remainder of his calling as a high councilor, he came to our branch two or three times a month. He was friendly, low-keyed, and encouraging. He always spoke with each member of the branch. And, with a branch that small, he was often asked to speak from the pulpit. Impressed with his dedication, in my mind I nicknamed him “the Faithful High Councilor.”
One Sunday he came to the branch services in the morning and then returned at 6:00 p.m. to attend a baptism. In between, he had gone to another branch. I have to admit that the thought actually crossed my mind, “What did he do to upset the stake president? Why else would he have been assigned to the smallest and most remote branch in the stake?” Maybe he wasn’t really the intelligent, humble, and likeable man I thought him to be. Maybe he didn’t like his home ward and used this assignment to get away. I couldn’t figure it out, so I just accepted it.
Several weeks after this baptism, I returned home after midnight on a Sunday morning. I had been training near the border between East and West Germany, and it had taken me three and a half hours to get home. I was exhausted when I walked in the door. My wife, Debra, was still up. She told me that “the Faithful High Councilor” had called. He wanted to meet with me. I asked, “Before or after church?” Church started at 10:00 a.m. I was hoping it was after church so I could sleep until 8:30.
“Before,” she said.
“9:30?”
“No. He has to go somewhere else on stake business. He wants you to meet him at his office in Frankfurt. He said to go to Gate 5.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six,” she responded.
Now I was upset. It was already 12:30 a.m. In order to make the appointment at 6:00, I would have to get up at 4:30. That meant less than four hours of sleep. What was I going to do? I didn’t even have a phone number to call him the next morning to tell him I wouldn’t be meeting him. I dropped my clothes next to the bed and lay down without setting the alarm clock. As I lay there, these thoughts went through my mind:
If I didn’t meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” what would happen? If I didn’t show up at his office, I was sure he would make productive use of his time. The next time I spoke to him and explained why I hadn’t met him, he would respond, “Of course you made the right decision. I would never have asked you to come if I had known you were getting home so late. We can take care of that business now.” And besides, I wasn’t really a member of the branch. Sure, our records were there and we attended every week, but we were foreigners, spoke some pretty atrocious German, and would be moving in five or six months.
My conscience was almost clear. A few more minutes and I could drift off to sleep. Then I remembered the nickname I had given him and all the times “the Faithful High Councilor” had come to the branch since we had been attending. He came to that baptism late on a Sunday night. He came to a branch activity in the middle of the week. He always spoke to all the members and encouraged and inspired them. He never seemed judgmental or indifferent. He was respectful of the branch president and of his efforts. If he was disappointed in being assigned to this little branch, he certainly never showed it.
I got up and walked over to the dresser where my alarm clock sat. I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. In deciding to meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” I was not concerned about what he would say or think if I did not. After all, I would probably never see or hear of him again after we moved. I decided to get up in less than four hours and drive 50 miles (80 km) to his office because I truly respected him for what he was, “the Faithful High Councilor.” I decided to follow his example.
I pulled my car up to Gate 5 at 6:00 a.m. that Sunday morning to be greeted by a security guard with a machine gun. He eyed my American Armed Forces license plate. He may have wondered if I was lost. Had “the Faithful High Councilor” decided not to show up? Not more than two minutes later, though, his car pulled up next to mine. He said, “Good morning, Don. Let’s go into my office.” The guard opened the gate and let us pass.
After some small talk and showing me around his office building, he came to the point of the meeting. He said he was calling me to serve as the councilor to the branch president. Not the first or second counselor—the only counselor. Before my arrival, there had been only two priesthood holders in the branch, and they had traded off every few years between being branch president and elders quorum president.
I accepted the call and served until I left three months later to attend a two-month training in the United States.
During my absence, my wife and young son both became ill. His medical issues took him to a hospital about 60 miles (97 km) from our base. Being a strong army wife, Debra never complained or asked me to return to Germany. In fact, I didn’t learn of the true nature of her illness until after I got home. After one visit to the local clinic, the doctor had driven her home because he didn’t think she was well enough to drive herself. The branch president and Relief Society president both offered to help, but she politely refused. In addition to language and cultural difficulties, Debra didn’t want to put anyone out.
One day “the Faithful High Councilor” called her. He had recently been called to be the stake president. He gently inquired about her health and refused to take “I’m doing all right” for an answer. Every assurance from Debra was met with a gentle but effective inquiry into the actual condition of the family. Finally he explained, “Debra, you need to let the branch help you. They really want to help, and it will bring the branch closer together to be able to assist you.” She gratefully accepted their assistance.
Upon my return from the United States, we stayed in the branch for another two months before finally moving to a larger city.
My memories of that time in my life faded as I leaned forward in my seat and refocused my attention on President Uchtdorf’s voice coming over the speaker system. I was truly impressed by the implications of his message. Unlike other times when I’ve wondered about the correlation between a speaker’s words and the speaker’s personal actions (in business, in the military, and, yes, even some talks I have heard in church), I had no doubt about President Uchtdorf‘s message. It wasn’t just the fact that President Uchtdorf’s accent reminded me of Germany and my experience with “the Faithful High Councilor.” It was the fact that President Uchtdorf was “the Faithful High Councilor.” The industrial complex we met at that early Sunday morning was the Frankfurt International Airport, where he was Chief Pilot for Lufthansa German Airlines.
I can honestly say I have never known a man more humble and more faithful in practicing what he preached. I was grateful to have learned a valuable lesson of what it means to “lift where you stand.”