Gospel Story Finder

During one of my most challenging transfers as a missionary in Rwanda, I remember I recorded everything I was feeling at the time in my journal and I concluded my entry with this statement, “I did not come this far to only come this far”—Tom Brady.1
As I have remembered this distant and seemingly small memory of my mission, I have realised that I have actually unknowingly continued the application of that statement in many aspects of my life.
For instance, when I have come as far as being enrolled to study the degree of my choice only to feel that maybe I do not have what it takes to make it, I am reminded to keep working. When I have come as far as accepting a calling in the ward and being set apart only later to feel that I actually have a lot on my plate, I am reminded to keep my word and render that service anyway. When I have come as far as feeling a fraction of the redeeming power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ only to make mistakes that bring me great sorrow, I am reminded to repent regardless of how hopeless I feel.
It is always at these crucial moments when I have forgotten how far the Lord has brought me because I am overwhelmed at how far I still have to go, the account in John 6 becomes extremely relevant to me. The Saviour had just finished teaching about Him being the true bread from heaven which was an uncomfortable teaching to many because “from that time many of his disciples went back, and walked no more with him.
“Then said Jesus unto the twelve, Will ye also go away?
“Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life.
“And we believe and are sure that thou are that Christ, the Son of the living God.”2
To imagine the Saviour asking me this question causes me to consider my ways and to desire to push forward. Even Peter understood that he could not have walked that far with Jesus Christ only to walk away at a moment of personal inconvenience or due to a lack of understanding.
Looking back, I wonder if I would have learned this important principle of endurance had I not been a missionary fighting to rise above her challenges and somehow something tells me, probably not. I doubt that statement in my journal would have affected me the way that it did had I read and written it under different circumstances. The prophet Joseph Smith felt the words in James 1:5 piercing him in his heart because at that time, he was going through something that prepared him to receive eternal truths. I have come to understand that there are eternal truths to be found and learned when we strive to do the will of the Lord no matter how hard it is. Serving a mission for me was not a sacrifice because I lost nothing, and I gained everything. I thought leaving my family for 18 months was a huge deal, but I came back and personally, I think my grandmother loves me more because she realised how boring the house is without my constant talking and occasional drama. My education, my friends, my hobbies, my social media etc. all these things have been restored to me but have been doubled because now they come with sanctifying mission experiences that help me to discern the attacks of the adversary hidden within them.
The adversary, the enemy of truth, seeks to discredit the blessings of serving a mission to prospective, current and returned missionaries because he knows that those experiences carry the children of God further than where they are now. I testify that we did not come as far as we have in the plan of salvation to only come this far. The Saviour Jesus Christ is willing to carry us from this telestial world to the celestial. But His scope of interest is not limited to those of us that are here. Collectively it extends to those that do not know of His restored gospel and individually it extends to our eternal families. I pray and hope that none of us will walk away from the promises we have made to our Saviour Jesus Christ. I love Him, I love His gospel and I am grateful that priesthood authority has been restored in our time.

When the city of St. George, Utah, decided to designate historic sites with white picket fences, it called for volunteers from the community to help. The young women from the St. George Third Ward were quick to lend a hand to a young Boy Scout who needed help with his Eagle project by painting fences—and each other!
The project gave the girls a chance to get to know each other while they provided a service to their town.

Recently, for Thanksgiving, I drove to my sister’s house, where the family was visiting for a few days. Opening the front door, I found Grandpa in the middle of the room, seated in a wheelchair, a yardstick on the floor beside him. He was wearing a yellow cardigan and a pair of brown pants like his old work pants, except these weren’t faded or stained. I instinctively looked for his cane but didn’t find it. When I bent down to hug him, I felt his bony shoulders and his whiskery face.
He asked me how my studies were, would I get straight A’s? Did I ever see my cousin who just got married? We were talking like that when my sister Kris came into the room from downstairs; Tony, her two-year-old son, trailed behind her. After a while she went into the kitchen to see about dinner while I played with Tony. Grandpa remained in the wheelchair, his hands in his lap, his head lolling forward in sleep. Finally I escaped for a few minutes to take my overnight bag downstairs. Above me I could hear Tony tumbling around on the floor, and I suddenly wanted him to know Grandpa by his walking sticks—the staff, the sceptor, the garden implement. Not Grandpa as a shrunken body in a wheelchair, who went only from the bed to the table to the bathroom.
In the kitchen I watched Kris slice vegetables, her fingers moving quickly. When I heard Tony’s laughter from the living room, quiet at first then louder, I went to the doorway to see what he was doing. Grandpa was in the middle of the room as I had left him, but instead of sleeping, he was leaning forward in his chair, his knobby hands wrapped around the wooden yardstick that had been on the floor. He kept the other end of the yardstick poised above Tony, who lay on his back a few feet away watching him.
When Grandpa lowered the yardstick toward Tony’s belly sticking out from his striped T shirt, Tony giggled and tossed his head; then, feeling the tickle of wood on his stomach, he rolled away, his shrill giggles filling the room. And I heard the deeper laughter of my grandfather. Looking into his gray eyes, I saw again the face I had known when I knelt next to the wooden giraffe.

Crocodiles, sharks, and sea snakes may seem to be strange things to mention as memories from childhood. But when Domingos Liao was growing up in Darwin, Australia, they were an everyday part of his life.
Domingos and his friends would ride their bikes to the mouth of Rapid Creek, where fresh water and sea water mix.
While wading across, dodging jellyfish adrift in the current, they would watch for sharks that had wandered in from the sea, crocodiles buried in the mud, poisonous sea snakes, and stonefish with their venomous spikes. Despite the perils, they crossed the river again and again, lured by what they knew was on the other side.
“It was a land of promise,” Domingos remembers. “We could catch buckets of fish. The beaches were untouched and clean. There were green fields where nobody had been before.”
Today a bridge crosses the river. The open spaces have become a park, crisscrossed with jogging paths and frequented by university students. Still, Domingos likes to visit the river, to remember and to think.

Lyle says he is not the kind of person who accepts things on faith very easily. “It took me a while to realize that the Spirit of the Lord is a substantial, real thing, not just a belief.”

When Lyle’s younger brother Skyler was being ordained a deacon, Lyle was gathered with his father, uncles, and cousins in a circle to help with the ordination. “I thought, What could be better than to spend eternity with these people? I would do anything for anybody in this circle. The Spirit was very strong. That’s when I started thinking, It’s real, it’s substantial, it’s God’s power, and it’s been here all along. The thing I see happening in the family, the spirit that can be there, is the most important thing to me. I’d drop robots right now if the choice was between them and my family. I’m playing with little toys that pale in comparison to that.”

John and Tess found they enjoyed the extra effort they put into visiting their neighbors so much, they decided to expand the assignment into a week.
“As soon as we received the assignment from the bishop we came home and began talking about it. We planned. We prayed. And then we planned and prayed some more,” John reflected.
“From Sunday until Thursday I just kept thinking the day was coming closer and closer. I knew that I had enough time to prepare, and on Thursday I’d better live the best I could. I couldn’t really offer any excuses,” says Tess.
They decided to fill their day visiting their neighbors, taking some fruit or a gift to those who were ill, expressing their thanks to people who had helped them. “So many people are lonely and just want to talk,” says John who serves on the fellowshipping committee in the ward. “We wanted to just go and let them know we cared. And it was wonderful to see how they opened up to us. One sister asked us if the high priests could come and administer the sacrament in her home once in a while since she couldn’t go to the meetings. So I talked with the bishop about it, and the next week a couple of us administered the sacrament to her.”
Was their day a success? “Oh, yes! Most days we think about what we should do, but we just don’t make the effort to do it. And when you finally do it, you have such a good feeling,” Tess said.

Illustrations by Elise Black
The front door closed behind Thomas with a swoosh and a click as he hurried to check the family calendar.
“I was right!” he called loudly. “It is my turn to teach the lesson in family home evening.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “Honey, I’m so sorry we didn’t plan your lesson last night! I thought it was my turn to teach.”
Thomas shook his head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I know what to do.” Normally she helped him prepare the day before. But he was 10 years old now. He could plan a lesson by himself.
Mom smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure? You don’t need any help?”
“Yup, I’ve got this.”
Later that night Thomas pulled out his copy of the Friend. He opened it to an article he’d read called “The Ten Commandments Teach Me to Love God and His Children” (Sept. 2012). As Thomas read it out loud to his family, he noticed Mom looking very proud of him.
After the lesson it was time for the activity on the next page. Thomas had already cut out the labels that read, “Honoring God,” “Respecting Parents and Family,” and “Respecting Others.”
As part of the activity, they took turns sharing examples of how they’d kept commandments the past week.
“I said my prayers last night,” said his big sister Ella.
“What group do we think that falls in?” asked Thomas. After discussing, they picked “Honoring God.”
After the lesson Ella served some tasty cookies she’d baked. Then they delivered some of the extras to friends.
Thomas felt so happy he could help out. That was one of his favorite family home evenings ever!

Teo Thiam Chye, a young missionary from Singapore, says, “I noticed the good change in my sister’s life when she followed her Christian friends to church. I didn’t have the courage then to ask my parents for permission to follow my sister and her friends, but now I know that faith without works is dead. As years passed and I began going to Christian churches, my father drove me from the house. I went to live with my second eldest sister’s family and assisted them in any way I could. God sent two of his faithful servants to us and the light, life, and truth was revealed to me. I was baptized, and a short time later I received the priesthood. Since then I have served as branch clerk. How kind and loving our Father in heaven can be to his children if they will exercise their faith in him. I am most grateful to our Lord for preparing the way for my mission.” Elder Teo Thiam Chye was called to the Southeast Asian Mission.

When I was a student at Brigham Young University, I lived in a house with several young men. My roommate, Bruce, was the most optimistic person I have ever known. We never once heard him say anything negative about any person or any circumstance, and it was impossible not to feel buoyed up in his presence. His good cheer flowed from an abiding trust in the Savior and in His gospel.

One cold, wintry day, another friend of mine, Tom, was walking across the university campus. It was only 7:00 in the morning, and the campus was deserted and dark. Heavy snow was falling, with a brisk wind. “What miserable weather,” Tom thought. He walked farther, and out in the darkness and snow, he heard someone singing.

Sure enough, through the driving snow came our ever-optimistic friend, Bruce. With his arms outstretched to the sky, he was singing a number from the Broadway musical Oklahoma: “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day! I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way” (see Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” [1943]).

In the intervening years, that bright voice in a dark storm has become for me a symbol of what faith and hope are all about. Even in a darkening world, we as Latter-day Saints may sing with joy, knowing that the powers of heaven are with God’s Church and people. We may rejoice in the knowledge that a beautiful morning lies ahead—the dawn of the millennial day, when the Son of God shall rise in the East and reign again on the earth.

My mom’s joyous sobs soaked into my shirt as she embraced me. I held her head, the feeling of her hair in my hands waking me to reality: She was really there at the airport to pick me up. And so was Dad. My once young and goofy sister was now a beautiful young woman. My younger brother hugged me, and I had the distinct realization that he was now taller than me. I tried to take everything in. But once the tearful hugs and reunions were over, awkward silence set in. I took a deep breath and asked my family, “So now what?”
Most returned missionaries probably experienced something similar when returning home. Nothing can describe the sweet joy of reuniting with loved ones. But after my initial excitement wore off—when I realized I was home and wasn’t going back to my mission, and when everyone returned to their daily lives—the shock set in. The hard realization that I had to be “normal” again crept in. Yet there was a question in my mind that I think arises in some shape or form for any returned missionary:
How do I be “normal”? And what does “normal” even look like?
I’ve been home from my mission for several years now, and looking back, it was a struggle for a good year. My family moved out of state, my long-term relationship ended, and all my friends seemed to be married and starting their eternal families—all of which contributed to a difficult time of transition for me. When I expressed that I wanted to make chicken and waffles (a Southern classic where I served), that I still wanted to study my scriptures early in the morning, that I wanted to share a pass-along card with the gas station employee, people told me I was awkward. “All returned missionaries are awkward at first,” they’d say. “But don’t worry. In a few months, you’ll be normal again.”
This was when I realized the great divide of normalcy between missionary life and regular life. For me, it was hard to hear that my life, my desires—the way I’d been changed by Jesus Christ and His Atonement and dedicated my heart to God over the last 18 months of my life—were considered awkward, that they weren’t “normal.”
I’ve witnessed this dangerous mindset in many returned missionaries. In a desperate effort to feel accepted upon returning home, missionaries might quickly abandon the very habits that would’ve helped their transition. Thankfully, several wonderful, wise people gave me the one piece of advice that helped me during this time of transition more than anything else: with the help of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, you have to find your new normal.
Returned missionaries from all around the world experience a wide range of challenges after a mission. Their previous life plan might have changed. They might have returned home early for whatever reason and feel judged for it. They might even feel a little weird not having a companion with them 24/7.
Every missionary returns home to a unique set of experiences. Each one will see some blessings and some challenges. For many, plans change, people change, and most of all, they themselves have changed. The plan that guided their life pre-mission may not be sufficient after spending years in the Lord’s service.
Working, doing homework, spending time with friends and family, and constantly getting set up on dates can seem to lack the eternal significance of missionary work. Though different, all these things are part of post-mission life back home. However, weaving things of eternal worth—such as prayer, scriptures, and service—into your new daily life is the best thing you can do to assure your transition keeps you close to Heavenly Father.
Another common struggle is the fear of returning to old bad habits, and let me tell you, it’s a slippery slope with entrances on all sides.
My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.
Over time, with all the busyness that is life, some returned missionaries can also experience guilt as mission habits begin to dwindle. The hour of personal study might slowly shrink to 10 minutes or less, or the goal of keeping in contact with those you were teaching on your mission might be forgotten.
Although you adapt your habits as your life changes, that doesn’t mean that you’re disobedient. The Lord doesn’t give a quota for how long to read the scriptures or how many copies of the Book of Mormon to share. All He asks us to do is to believe in Him and be “an example of the believers” (1 Timothy 4:12). As you seek and listen to the guidance of the Spirit, you’ll know what the Lord expects of you now.
There are many more struggles I’m sure other returned missionaries experience, but the lesson I learned in all of this was to find ways to deepen my conversion as I took on new roles—and found my new normal.
Our purpose as missionaries was to “invite others to come unto Christ.”1 What is our purpose after our missions? Alma taught that “this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors” (Alma 34:32). What labors are we to perform? Well, the Lord has taught that we are to live His gospel—to have faith, repent, live worthy of our covenants and the Holy Ghost, and endure to the end. We are to love and serve those around us. We are to continue to invite others to come unto Christ. And we will be continuously blessed and supported in every step of our journey as we do so.
It took me some time before I found my new normal. But as I stayed busy doing good things and waited patiently on the Lord to help me feel more settled and confident, I grew in remarkable ways. I learned patience and trust. My faith was tried and strengthened. But I got there. I never lost my purpose. I found my new normal. And I still love chicken and waffles.

Jenny went to the movies with friends she’d long wanted to impress. It was fun until the movie was well under way, and then there flashed across the screen some scenes inappropriate for public sharing. She winced and felt sick inside, but she wanted to keep in the good graces of the group. What to do? Besides, she needed a ride home. Finally, she excused herself and determined to wait in the lobby until the show was over. Soon her boyfriend went to find her. He admitted he’d been embarrassed, too. Together they waited for the rest of the group. One by one the others came out, curious and concerned. Because one girl dared to take a stand on her own, others had the courage to follow.

“How is your letter coming along, Ryan?” Sister Woodland asked.
“Not great,” I said.
For our Cub Scout activity, we were writing letters to Easton and Aiden. They were brothers who used to come to church, but they had stopped coming for some reason. Their whole family had stopped coming.
“It’s been a long time since they’ve come to church,” one of the Cub Scouts said.
I had never seen them because I had just moved into the ward. I felt weird writing them a letter since they didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them. I had no idea what to say. Besides, I wasn’t very good at writing letters.
“Just let them know we’d love to see them at our activities,” Sister Woodland said. “Make them feel welcome.”
“OK,” I muttered. But I didn’t understand how my letter would make a difference. “If they have stopped coming to Scouts and church, an invitation from a total stranger won’t help,” I thought.
I slumped down in my chair and tried to think of something to say—anything to say.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” I wrote. “I’m new.”
That didn’t seem like a great thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything better, so I left it.
I slumped further down in my chair and thought harder about what I could write. Finally I added, “We have fun at Cub Scouts, but there are only four boys in our den. I really wish you guys would come.” It was the truth.
The paper was still almost blank, so I added, “We are going to build birdhouses next week. You should come.”
While I tried to think of something else to say, I started drawing on the letter. Though I am not great at writing, I am good at drawing. I drew a birdhouse. It looked pretty good. Then I started drawing lots of birds around the birdhouse. I drew many different kinds of birds until the paper wasn’t blank anymore.
I looked at the paper. There was no way that it was going to help Easton and Aiden come to church again. I was a stranger. I wasn’t a missionary or an adult. I couldn’t get someone to come to church. I was a little embarrassed as I handed the letter to Sister Woodland.
The next week was our activity to build birdhouses. And guess what? Easton and Aiden were there! I was shocked.
“Hey, I really liked your letter,” Easton told me. “I like to draw too.”
“Yeah,” Aiden said, “and I’ve always wanted to build a birdhouse.”
I couldn’t believe it. They actually came—because of our letters! I became good friends with Easton and Aiden, and they started coming to Scout activities every week. Then they started coming to church too. Sometimes their family came to church with them. Now, years later, they still come to church every week.
So, I guess you really can make a difference in someone’s life—even if you are a stranger, even if you are just a kid, and even if you aren’t very good at writing letters.

Some years ago in the early spring, I took my little niece Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along a creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating, as we would take a step, hesitate, reach, step forward, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthly floor, and we saw the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his great love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close.

Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go of Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands stuck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included gratitude for the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for the same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up, placing both arms around my neck, and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean, if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense security in our eternal relationship if I could somehow awaken within her a great eternal truth.

“Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us members of one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our brother, too, our elder brother.”

“Then what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by linking my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear! We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked. Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain: “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use His name.”

I pondered the answer to her simple questions. I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears so often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul: “… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them …” (D&C 20:77).

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon ourselves that sacred name and committing to try always to remember Him and keep His commandments?

While Shelly seemed secure and satisfied with the explanation given her at that time, over the years I have searched for deeper understanding of this sacred ordinance in which we renew our covenant each week to take upon ourselves His name. And while that usually occurs on Sunday, what does it mean on weekdays, and what difference does it make to a child, a youth, or an adult? Does it affect how we live our lives in the summer, winter, or fall? Should it? Can we afford to consider this sacred ordinance passively and allow it to become routine in nature?

I would now say to Shelly, “Yes, my dear, put my name with the Savior’s.” He said we could. He wants us to. He wants us to feel comfortable carrying his name.

As I held Shelly’s little hand in mine for one last squeeze before tiptoeing from her room that evening some years ago, a feeling of gratitude and reverence came flooding forth as I realized that while her hand had been in mine for most of the afternoon as I helped her through the creek, across the rocks, and over the tree and lifted her up to see the miracle of life unfolding in a robin’s nest, this child led me to begin a search that would lead me to a better understanding of a great eternal truth. King Benjamin explained it for us: “And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).

We can all be members of the same family. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t, consider Shelly’s question to me: Why don’t you stop? It may not always be easy, but with his help we can overcome.

The youth of the Tampa Florida Stake had a great idea. They decided that every youth in the stake should have a subscription to the New Era. So they went to stake members asking for contributions to pay for the subscriptions. In return for the contributions, they pledged to finish landscaping the front of the recently completed stake center. The response from stake members was excellent, and the young men and women soon raised enough money to meet their goal. The orders were sent in, and soon every home in the stake in which a youth resided was receiving a copy of the magazine.
One day shortly before a stake conference, the young men and women of the stake showed up at the stake center and went to work landscaping. They put in turf and shrubs and soon had the place looking great. One young nonmember bicycling past thought it looked like so much fun that he stopped and joined in. As a little extra incentive, there were barbecued hot dogs for all the laborers. Because of the industry of the stake youth and the generosity of the stake membership, the stake center looks a lot better, and every youth was exposed to a potentially life-changing influence.
In the meantime, there are some benefits he does know about—increased enthusiasm on the part of the youth of the stake and sincere gratitude from the active youth who had not been able to receive the magazine because of financial or other reasons.
And of course the stake center’s looking better than ever. The results have been exciting. But of course that’s what happens when some great young men and women get a great idea and make it happen.

Our brother serves in the U.S. Air Force on a flight crew that occasionally transports wounded soldiers from war zones to a military hospital in Germany. We learned of a charity organization that collects needed items for wounded soldiers at this hospital and in the medical units in Afghanistan. The handmade items in greatest demand are comfort pillows, and the charity tries to give one to each patient.
We decided to involve our community in our project, so we posted requests for donated fabric and stuffing. The response was amazing! We received several large bags of fabric and stuffing, including a bag of Christmas fabric. During November we sewed 30 Christmas stockings that were sent to a field hospital in Afghanistan just in time for Christmas. Over the next three months, we made 50 comfort pillows and sent them to the hospital in Germany. It felt so good to use our sewing skills to give something back to those men and women.
Mickell and Jodi H., Utah, USA

I can be like Jesus by being nice to my friends. One of my friends has a lot of video games. While I was at his house one day, he kept playing games without giving me a turn. I wanted to play, too, and I felt like whining and complaining. But I remembered that my mom had told me complaining wasn’t nice. So I let him play and waited my turn. I try to be like Jesus so I can live with Him and Heavenly Father again.

As a philosophical type, I never was an atheist. If we emphatically state that there is no God or that there is nothing beyond what we can observe with solid experiment, we could be excluding a vast reality more magnificent than anything we have imagined. That has seemed to me to be too narrow-minded. Still, I was agnostic for many years, always skeptical of those who seemed to believe without questioning.

Now I realize that questioning is the very essence of our faith. Questioning is what brought Joseph Smith to prayer. Questioning, coupled with some lonely life experiences, is what brought me to experiment with my first heartfelt out-loud prayer to a God I hoped would be there. I can honestly report that life has been a whirlwind ride ever since that day.

I was puffing as I ran my third lap around the track, but I was determined to finish at least one more. My friend Jennifer had pulled ahead of me as usual, nearly half a lap ahead and still gaining. It didn’t bother me that she was faster. I admired her for it. I admired her for a lot of things.
We had been friends since fifth grade, and I remember that she struggled with math so much she had to get extra help. Now she was on the honor roll. Athletics were easier for her, but she had to work hard at that, too. That’s why we were running the track together. She needed the athletic conditioning; I needed the exercise.
It was hard not to like Jennifer; her outgoing personality made her cheerful and friendly. She seemed to have it all and do it all. Her life was an endless round of activities, all of them wholesome and productive.
I was busy, too. I always had more to do than time to do it in. In fact, I had to schedule my time very carefully. I thought about Jennifer’s schedule—which was busier than mine—and wondered how she accomplished all she did.
About then I noticed a younger red-haired girl standing by the track watching us. She was a handicapped student at our small school. I said a polite hello as I ran by her, but I couldn’t afford to slow my pace to say much more. She watched as I rounded the track.
Jennifer seemed to be behind me now, even though I knew she was already a lap ahead and about to pass me again soon. She would finish before me, I was sure, and move on to the other important activities she must have planned.
I looked ahead to the next turn and then looked back to see where Jennifer was. She had slowed to a snail’s pace, and the red-haired girl was holding her hand and running beside her. The busiest girl in school had time to help someone else, and I didn’t. I thought about the Savior as I watched the two of them running together.
I was the only onlooker. Only the Lord and I would ever know about that small kindness. Jennifer didn’t do it for recognition; it was just the way she was. That day she became my hero, not because of all the great things she was known for but because of that simple act of kindness when no one was around but me.

Believe it or not I was once in your shoes. There was a point in my life when I had a full-time job during the day, going to school at night, had a second part-time job after school until the wee hours of the morning, while Sister Teh and I were raising our young family. I only had a couple of hours sleep a few days a week for two months. On top of all of that, I was also serving in a ward bishopric. It was one of the most productive times in my life. I don't think I have ever utilized my 24 hours a day as efficiently as I did during that period of our lives. I am glad I made it out of that situation alive.

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father,” (Hymns no. 139) and it was published in modified form in the Primary songbook.