Gospel Story Finder

In August of 1959, a groundbreaking ceremony was held at the site of what was to become Hyde Park Chapel in London. One worker on the site was struck by the peculiarities of the chapel that he was helping to build. Walter Frederick Kew would return home to his wife, Mary, and tell her about the lack of crucifixes and stained-glass windows. This was unlike any chapel either of them had seen.
On 26 February 1961, the Hyde Park Chapel was dedicated by President David O McKay (1873–1970). But to Walter Kew and his young family, this was just the end of a job. It would be a long time before the Latter-day Saints would again enter his mind.
Eleven years later, Mary received a knock at the door of their Hayes, West London home. It was two young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Trying to put them off gently, she said they could return when Walter was home. Unexpectedly, that is exactly what they did! After a few more attempted visits, they knocked on the door during a downpour of rain. Feeling sorry for these young men, one of whom was limping, she immediately invited them inside.
The family was baptised in July 1972, in the very chapel that Walter had helped build all those years earlier.
Walter passed away peacefully in 2010, a member of the Milford Haven Branch, Merthyr Tydfil Stake.
50 years on, Walter and Mary’s family has grown to include grandchildren and great children, the majority of whom get to enjoy the blessings of the gospel and the promise of eternity together.

Troy Jackson, Jaren Hope, and Andrew Allan are bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood who were called by an inspired bishop to team teach a family history class in their ward. These young men are representative of so many of you in their eagerness to learn and desire to serve.

Troy stated, “I used to come to church and just sit there, but now I realize that I need to go home and do something. We can all do family history.”

Jaren reported that as he learned more about family history, he realized “that these were not just names but real people. I became more and more excited about taking the names to the temple.”

And Andrew commented, “I have taken to family history with a love and vigor I did not know I could muster. As I prepared each week to teach, I was often nudged by the Holy Spirit to act and try some of the methods taught in the lesson. Before, family history was a scary thing. But aided by the Spirit, I was able to step up to my calling and help many people in our ward.”

Krista loved Stanley Park. She loved the beaches. The playgrounds. The petting zoo. The train ride.
But most of all, she loved the aquarium! It had all kinds of sea animals. She watched a brown seal swim around and around.
But then she heard something. A girl was crying! No one stopped to help her.
Krista tugged on Mom’s sleeve. “Look. That girl is crying!”
Mom looked. She held Krista’s hand and walked over to the girl.
“Hi,” Mom said. “Can we help you?”
“I can’t find my mom.” The girl sniffled.
“Come sit with us,” Mom said. “We’ll wait with you.”
Krista and Mom sat with the girl. Her name was Sarah.
“When you’re lost, the best thing to do is stay where you are,” Mom said. “Then your mom will know where to find you.”
Sarah looked so sad and scared. Krista wished she could help. She said a little prayer in her mind. Heavenly Father, please bless that Sarah’s mom will come back.
Krista tried to make Sarah feel better. She asked her questions. She told her cool facts about seals. She even gave her a pretty seashell she had found at the beach.
After a while, a woman ran up to them. It was Sarah’s mom! She gave Sarah a big hug. They both said thank you to Krista and Mom.
Krista was glad she could help someone!

It was the first time I’d been able to drive my family’s car to work in weeks. When I pulled into the parking lot, I failed to notice how inappropriately fast I was driving. I thought a one-handed parking job would be rather impressive.
Crunch!
I was wrong.
The car next to me jolted from the impact.
“You just hit that car!” I yelled at myself.
My forehead sunk to the dashboard in despair. I felt like such an idiot.
Had anyone seen? I looked around but didn’t spot anybody. My heart was thumping in my chest. I threw open the door and ran around the front of my car to survey the damage. I examined the front bumper and right panel carefully but saw no sign anything had happened.
Then I turned and looked at the new Toyota Camry I had hit. On the left, back panel there was a small dent where some of the shiny green paint had come off.
I scanned the parking lot again. No one was around. I’d heard kids at school talking about dinging cars and just taking off. It happens to everyone.
“I could just leave, and no one would ever know,” I thought. “If it ends up costing very much I won’t have enough money to take my vacation to Europe in a couple of months. These people probably have tons of money anyway, and I’ve been waiting my whole life for this trip.”
I clutched my wad of keys and gave my predicament a little more thought. I could see my forehead wrinkled with indecision in the reflection of the car window. I took a deep breath and knew it didn’t matter that no one would know. I would know. I could take off and avoid having to pay for the damage I had caused, but I wouldn’t be able to escape denting my soul.
I took out my planner and a pen and wrote a note to stick on the car’s windshield.
“I’m sorry I hit your car. Here’s my name, number, and e-mail address. Please contact me so I can pay for the damage.”
I walked into work feeling sick to my stomach. If I’d done the right thing, why did I feel so awful?
The owners of the car called me that night. I felt embarrassed and angry at myself and almost choked when they told me it was going to cost $800 to get the panel replaced. How was that possible? It took me months to make that much money at my part-time job. I knew I could kiss my vacation plans good-bye.
Even though I felt horrible about what had happened, I never regretted my decision. It felt good to know my integrity was worth more to me than $800 and a little embarrassment.
I learned that honesty is sometimes just between Heavenly Father and me. Honesty is about doing the right thing when nobody is watching and then facing the uncomfortable consequences afterward. I could have escaped the monetary consequences of my mistake but not without cheapening my integrity. I know Heavenly Father is proud of me for keeping my soul dent-free.
By Allyson Taylor

“Every summer, for many years, Dad would drive us to Utah as soon as school was out. The trip would take two or three days, and we would usually stop in Scipio where my Grandma and Grandpa Peterson lived. Then we’d come up to Taylorsville to visit my cousins, whom we were very fond of. Dad would go back to Phoenix, and at the end of summer he’d come back to get us for school. While we were away, Dad wrote letters to us regularly.”

Rory Nelson was losing again. Four points down with four seconds to go, he was eating mat and fighting like crazy to avoid being pinned. His teammates cheered him on, but he could hear only the rasp of his own breathing and the hammering thunder of his heart. Rivers of sweat ran down his cheeks into his mouth. With each gasping breath he sucked in the sour and salty taste of defeat.

When Rory started wrestling, his brother not only wore a big gold M on his sweater but the coveted patch of a state wrestling champ. It soon became clear, however, that Rory was unlikely to follow in his brother’s footsteps. For one thing, the lanky young redhead always lost. Every time!

Rory was no quitter either. He worked harder than ever, losing in practice as well as in matches. He held his position only because no one else at his weight wanted it. But he set himself a tough goal—to get through the first period of a match without being pinned.

For a long time it looked as if no force on earth could keep Rory from losing, but he kept sweating and working and hoping. Finally, after weeks of failure, it happened! He lasted clear through the first period of a match without being pinned. He lost in the second period, of course.

One day Rory gained some respect and surprised everyone but himself by surviving a whole match. He celebrated by setting himself an outrageous new goal. He was going to win!

It took a year or so, but Rory finally won his first match. Then he won a few more. By the time he was a junior he was winning fairly often. It wasn’t easy, heaven knows. In the meantime he carried a very high grade point average, hoping to qualify for a scholarship to help in his premed studies. He worked a job after school. As one of 11 children, he did his share of work around the house—anything from washing dishes or scrubbing floors to cultivating the pomegranate bushes or repairing the chicken coop. Most families in Overton get their eggs at the store, but in a family of 13 you do what you can for yourselves. And resting is not one of the things you do.

Rory had goals too. Impossible goals. But by the end of his junior wrestling season he had achieved the impossible, earning a spot in the zone tournament. At this level he was unlikely to win any matches, but it was a tremendous honor just to be there. By now, in addition to all his otherburdens, he was the first assistant in the priests quorum in the Overton Third Ward, spending too much time on the phone and in meetings, time that had to be borrowed on the no-return-plan from other activities—or from the sleep bank.

Rory didn’t seem to want to go home from the zone tournament. Surprising everyone (and amazing most), he made it all the way to the semifinals. But then reality caught up with him. The final seconds of the match were draining away, and he was losing again.

But Rory, as mentioned, was no quitter. He gritted his teeth and threw everything he had into one last convulsive effort.

Convulsive efforts help, of course, only after long, slow, careful preparation. There are things more important to Rory than wrestling, and there is nothing convulsive about his approach to them. One of his great goals is to serve a mission. The same is true for almost all the young men in his ward. The bishop seldom gets a chance to approach an active young man about missionary service. They come to him long before they’re old enough to go.

You can probably guess the end of Rory’s story. He recalls: “I caught him in a move that got me out from under and scored two points. In the process I put his shoulders to the mat for a moment, which gave me another three points, so I won by a point in the final second.”

Rory finished second in zone, and went on to finish fifth in state. Some of his teammates finished higher, but none finished happier. The “loser” had become a winner—and taught everyone on the team an unforgettable lesson about hanging on and hanging in. The mountain had stood firm. The wildflowers had bloomed. A river had risen in the desert.

As Rory says, “When you know who you are and where you came from and who you can become, there isn’t anything you can’t accomplish.”

As strange as it seems, it was during the Vietnam War that I discovered the great secret to a peaceful, happy life. I had been in sustained combat for two months, and the experience was taking its toll upon my physical and spiritual strength. Mail from home was seldom delivered to the battle front; neither were there sacrament meetings nor Sunday services to boost my spirit each week. My only resource was my own prayers. I felt isolated and alone.
Little by little, the daily grind of combat and the constant scenes of death were wearing me down and hardening my heart. I found myself becoming almost like the Nephite warriors—thirsting for the blood of the enemy (see Morm. 3:9).
On 9 July 1972, after a day-long tactical march, my battalion settled into a tiny deserted hamlet that had only recently been attacked. The huts lay smoldering in the last rays of sunlight. In an adjacent field, we found the body of a young North Vietnamese soldier. As we searched his clothing for intelligence information, I looked upon this enemy with cold eyes.
Papers were found on the fallen soldier and taken to the commander. My interest was kindled when I heard that the papers did not contain intelligence information—but that they were a diary. I marveled that this enemy soldier had taken time to keep a journal, and I wondered what his last recorded thoughts might have been.
That evening, I obtained a rough translation of the diary. I read it by the flickering light of my small cooking fire.
“I do not know where we are,” it read. “Our officers say that we are fighting bravely against American imperialists who have invaded our homeland. We fight bravely, but we are poorly supplied. I am lonely. I miss my family far away. I wonder how they are doing. I miss my home and wish to be back in the mountains and walk in the forests. I wish to see again the flowers, the birds, and the animals of home.”
I stared at the paper, stunned by the words. These were not the words of an enemy. These were the words of a kindred spirit! His people and mine had met as foes, glaring at each other over a seemingly unbridgeable gulf of cultural, ethnic, and political differences. But we were not really enemies in spirit. In other circumstances, we could have been brothers.
Suddenly, I understood that Vietnam was not the real war and that my comrades and I were not the real warriors. The real war was waged first in heaven by Lucifer. On earth, the real enemy was not the North Vietnamese, nor any people, but the unseen forces of evil that wage a war of ignorance and spiritual bondage against all mankind.
The real warriors fight under the banner of Jesus Christ. These warriors do not kill or destroy, but rather heal and offer life—eternal life —through the merits of Jesus Christ and a knowledge of his restored gospel.
That day in Vietnam, as I sat by the fire, I discovered that happiness and peace come from understanding the worth of a human soul regardless of race, creed, or political views, and from knowing that we are all children of our Father in Heaven. To know this is to love all people, even those who may appear to be the enemy.

In his earliest childhood in Huntsville, Utah, where on his father’s farm he grew to manhood, he was taught by the example of his parents that the Lord and his work were to come first in a person’s life. When he was eight years of age, his two older sisters died, and a short time later his father was called on a two-year mission to Scotland. Sister McKay was to give birth to a baby girl in ten days, the farm had to be run, and the young family needed to be fed. But the Church came first. It was a test of faith, of commitment. As the elder McKay climbed on his horse to leave, he lifted his little son up into his arms, kissed him good-bye, and said, “David, take care of Mama and the family.” From that day onward, an exceptional sense of responsibility seemed to press on young David.

by Anne C. Bradshaw
“It all began with winning every running event I entered in primary sports,” said 15-year-old Gillian Tate of Saltcoats Branch, Paisley Scotland Stake. “Because of that success, my parents decided to start me training with a proper coach. Now I’m really grateful. I hope to run for Scotland in the Olympics one day.”
And that desire may well come true. Gillian recently was awarded the special prize at Birmingham Athletics, during the 150th anniversary, for coming in first or second in so many events.
Gillian is a member of the Scottish Women’s Amateur Athletic Association and trains three times a week. She is the North Ayreshire Schools champion in 400 meters and is a consistent winner in competitions.
However, Gillian feels her speed is a little unfair for any more Church sports and is thinking of withdrawing from future stake and regional races. “I have to slow down to give other girls a chance,” she says.

At this time Peter was going through a series of 28 operations to reconstruct his features and correct injuries suffered in his accident. He was approached by his bishop who asked what he would be doing if he could do anything he wanted.
Quickly it slipped out because it was a great desire of mine, but it seemed so totally impossible. I said, “I’d love to serve a mission.” And without even thinking twice he said, “Well, let’s get you ready.” I said, “Oh, bishop, I can’t do that.” I started to go over my finances and how much I owed and how my leg had not healed yet and all the operations I faced and the way people related to me. But he just said, “Let’s get you ready.”
The bishop called Peter to teach Sunday School, and after several trying times, Peter had some good experiences in teaching the Gospel Doctrine class. He was working several jobs to help pay his hospital bills. He had several more operations scheduled, and he was beginning to think seriously about his future. Some friends came one day to ask him to go to a stake dance that evening with them. Although he wanted to go, he refused. It took them six hours of talking to convince him to try going to the dance.
As I entered the foyer, I noticed that all the kids started looking at me, and I noticed some girls over by the coat rack. A couple of girls whispered, they didn’t know I could hear them, “Look at that guy. I sure hope he doesn’t ask me to dance.” Once again an ugly feeling shrouded my whole being.
I found a place behind the young men up near the band. I claimed a 60 cm square piece of board as my territory. I was going to own it for those hours at the dance.
At intermission his friends tried to encourage him to dance. They started pulling him out onto the floor. During the intermission, he resolved that as soon as the band began playing again, he would ask a girl to dance.
As soon as the music started, I remembered my commitment. I refused to think about my appearance and I went right out there to dance. I knew if I didn’t do it then, I would be a coward for the rest of the night.
He reached the section of the floor where the girls had congregated. He approached one girl from the back. When he touched her on the shoulder to ask for a dance, she turned and screamed. Embarrassed, she ran out of the ball, pushing her way through the crowd. It was just like the store. The band stopped; everyone stopped to see what was the matter. He returned to his place. His friends tried to comfort him, and the dance started again.
I wanted to shout; I wanted to get out of there. And this small voice deep down inside me said, “Peter, you can’t run now; you’ll be running for the rest of your life.” Another strange thing started to happen. My legs started to move across the floor. I watched myself go out there to ask another girl to dance. I had strength beyond my own power. It was like my spirit was up above me saying, “What are you doing? You’ve got to get back. Are you a glutton for punishment.” As I was walking across the floor, I was having this argument saying yes and no and yes and no. This small voice inside me kept reassuring me. It said, “Peter, you must keep asking them to dance. Don’t turn and run because you’ll be running forever.”
He asked a girl to dance every dance for the rest of the evening. He was discouraged when only two girls the entire evening would dance with him. That night as he knelt in prayer, Peter was one bitter young man.
Everything seemed to come together—all the pressure of the people, the way they treated me and stared at me and pointed at me, and all the operations that were left to be done. I still did not really know if they could correct my eyes and give me some eyelids, a normal mouth, and a nose. This feeling of ugliness came upon me, and in my anger, I said to my Father in Heaven, “There is a scripture that promises that we will not be tempted beyond our capacity to resist. I need that now.” I went to bed. The next morning I was blessed with a peace and a calmness that has stayed with me ever since. And regardless of how the world treated me from that point on. I was normal. My Father in Heaven just gave peace to me as He promised. If we live the commandments, he will give us what we need. He gave me a peace and a calmness so I was normal from that day on. Yes people would still react the same toward me, but I was different.

A book could be written about the many experiences of those coming to pageant this year. One lad walked 100 miles to be in it. Robert and Danielle Baird participated in the pageant for their honeymoon, having been married one week before. And Jane Whitesides of the San Leandro Second Ward in California had incurred a bad case of poison oak as a counselor at girls camp just a few days before pageant. It was the first such case in ten years. Aided by the prayers of all the girls in the camp and the blessing of two elders, Jane was healed in what a doctor termed “a miraculous time.” To Jane, it was an encouragement to put her all into pageant, since she knew that was what the Lord wanted her to do.

The second counselor spoke first. He talked about his childhood in a small town and how he made the extra efforts to befriend a boy who had been rejected by all the other children at school. He told us how, twenty years later, that friendless boy, now a successful man, came to him and thanked him for his kindness. He concluded his talk by quoting a scripture about the worth of souls and bearing his testimony of the gospel.

Elder Andrew Ballantyne’s excitement bounced in his throat. The cloud cover at Inverness Airport blocked all views of Scotland’s Highlands, but it didn’t matter. He was nearly home—home, family, and Gemma. For the first time in two years, he allowed Gemma fully into his thoughts. They’d agreed not to write after he’d been away 12 months. It became easier then to give his whole attention to the work.
“Are we there, young man?” His thinking was interrupted by an elderly lady in a tweed skirt occupying the next seat. She had awakened with a start as the flight attendant announced, “Fasten your seat belts.”
“We certainly are,” he smiled. “Inverness at last.” He gave a long sigh of satisfaction, settling back once more to dreams of Gemma, brown hair waving across her face; eyes, large and laughing.
“My, oh my! Have I slept all the way from Heathrow?” the lady peered at Andrew as if seeing him for the first time. Her face looked weatherworn and inquisitive.
“You a visitor then, young man? I’m Mrs. McKivett by the way. I cannot quite place your accent.” She pushed her glasses firmly on her nose, squinting more closely.
Andrew, with his cropped black hair and square-faced good looks, had a certain air of authority about him, a sense of purpose, reassuring and calm. “Not exactly a visitor,” he chuckled. “I’ve been in Switzerland for two years doing missionary work for my church. I expect my accent’s a mixture of German, French, American, and Scottish by now.”
She smiled back, nodding slowly. “Ahh … that explains everything.”
Before he could ask what everything meant, they were taxiing to a halt, and the confusion of disembarking began.
He saw them as soon as the baggage cleared. His parents; 16-year-old Adam, now taller than himself at six feet; and 11-year-old Beth, grinning widely, skipping around the three of them. With a lump in his throat he reached out to meet their embrace. Looking from face to familiar face and swiftly absorbing the changes that had taken place, he felt complete—like his mission had crowned them all with a circle of love. But part of the circle was missing.
“Is Gemma working or something?” he asked his mother as soon as the barrage of questions and answers quieted.
Andrew thought he saw an expression of dismay before she glanced away. He caught his breath. “Let’s get home first, dear,” she whispered gently, “then we can talk properly.”
The drive to Relkennan seemed to take forever. Andrew scarcely noticed as they sped over bridges and down winding roads. The view of the firth, reappearing now and again between frosted hills, then slithering down to the sea, was shrouded in a mist, as cheerless and chilling as his thoughts. His replies to the family became more automatic than interesting.
“Don’t worry, son,” his father leaned across, patting his arm. “You must be exhausted. We’ll get you in the house; then you can get some sleep before tonight’s social.”
But Andrew’s mind was racing too fast for sleep. As soon as he unpacked, he went looking for his mother, following his nose and smells of fresh baking. Her face shouted bad news before she spoke.
“I’m sorry, dear,” her placid features broke into small lines of worry as she struggled to find the words.
Andrew felt suddenly weak. “Is she … she’s not ill, is she?”
“No. It’s not that. Gemma’s … that is … we would have written but didn’t want to spoil things for you before your return.”
“She’s found someone else, hasn’t she?” Andrew stared out of the window, desolation sweeping all else aside. Then clearing his throat, “Is she happy? What’s he like? Is he a member? How long … ?”
“It’s best you see for yourself tonight,” Sister Ballantyne said, putting an arm around her son. “Go and rest, Andrew. You’ll feel better after a nap.”
But sleep was now further away than ever. His future looked bleak. It had always held Gemma. Even though she had stayed in a distant corner of his thoughts for two years, he could not imagine the future with anyone else.
It was as though his thoughts turned into prayer and a hymn began playing through his mind. They’d sung it at the last zone conference, and it was the first time Andrew had even noticed it in the hymnbook. Now here was number 336 in clear replay. He could even see his companion up there conducting with resolute conviction. “School thy feelings, O my brother; Train thy warm, impulsive soul. Do not its emotions smother, But let wisdom’s voice control …”
Jumping off the bed, Andrew rummaged through his backpack until his fingers touched the familiar worn covers. As the pages flipped open to exactly the right place, a sheet of paper dropped out. The mission president had given everyone the same quote that day: “What man thinks in his heart, he advertises on his face.”
With a rueful grin, Andrew decided, there and then, he would not spoil this homecoming for anyone. Somehow he would smile at them all. He sighed, then fell into a fitful sleep.
The meetinghouse was full. Members, family, and old school friends, everyone. “Well, young man,” a familiar voice piped up, as he worked his way around the congregation after the formal welcome. “I thought I’d find you here. Remember me?”
“Of course,” Andrew blinked in amazement at the elderly lady from the plane, still in the same tweed skirt. “I had no idea you were LDS.”
“LDS? Never heard of it. I think they called me an investigator last week. Prefer to be called Eva McKivett actually, but not to worry.” Hooking her hand through his elbow, she steered him towards a seat at the back of the hall. Andrew’s stomach knotted as he saw where they were heading. There was no way out. Next to the empty chairs sat Gemma and her boyfriend.
“I have great respect for you young elders,” Eva continued. “Taught me a few things this past month. Must say I like what I hear and feel.” She gazed unwaveringly at Andrew.
“Now then,” she eyed his missionary badge, “now then, Elder Ballantyne, please point out your family to me. Done a good job bringing you up, they have. And then tell me which of these pretty lasses has been waiting for you to come home.” Her blue eyes twinkled knowingly behind the glasses as she tapped his arm.
By now Andrew was squirming in discomfort. He had caught Gemma’s eye before sitting down, but on hearing her gasp, didn’t dare turn in her direction.
“My parents are over there … by the bishop,” he stammered. “Would you like to come over and meet them?” He half stood, hoping she would follow.
“No, no, my dear, not yet. Only just sat down.” She pulled him back into the chair. “So which one … ?” Eva began a survey of the handful of young women scattered around the hall.
“Excuse me.”
Andrew let out his breath with a relief at the interruption. Then he realized it was coming from the young man next to Gemma.
“Gemma made me come tonight. We might as well get this over with. Glen’s the name, Glen Munroe,” he said, extending one hand to Andrew and slapping him on the back with the other.
While Andrew introduced Mrs. McKivett, he took stock of Glen out of the corner of his eye. The light red hair and fair complexion, so typical of Highlanders, gave Glen a distinctive air.
He turned at last to Gemma. As their eyes met, he was puzzled by what he saw, but the look was gone in a second. Her smile was warm as she held out her hands. “Welcome home, Andy. It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you. But it’s gone quicker than I expected.”
Andrew swallowed hard. This didn’t feel right. He wanted to give her a hug, sit down, and talk and talk. “Yes … quicker than you’d ever imagine,” he said, deciding the cool approach was his only option.
“Okay, Gemma,” Glen grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. “That’s about as much missionary talk as I can take for one night. No offense, Andrew, but you’d never catch me taking off for two years.” He pulled Gemma to his other side, away from Andrew. “Wouldn’t go and leave a beautiful girl like this floating about waiting to be snapped up by someone else.” He laughed as they moved away.
Andrew caught a glimpse of Gemma’s blush as she bit her lip with embarrassment. His stomach churned, but he gave her a quick wink, shrugging his shoulders, and raising his eyebrows in defeat. He felt someone poking him in the back. He’d forgotten Mrs. McKivett.
“Ah ha!” she said, head nodding vigorously. “So that’s the one.” She pulled the back of Andrew’s jacket until he sat down again.
“I think it’s time to turn the tables. Let me be a teacher for a moment, and you can be … what’s the word, an investigator?” Her voice sounded bossy, but her kindly smile said otherwise.
Andrew winced. “Whatever you say.”
“Do you love this young lady?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
He looked grave for a moment. “For the sake of her happiness, I guess I could go away, far away. Back to Switzerland maybe.”
“Is that what you really want?”
“Of course not.”
“Is that what she really wants?”
“Er … I don’t know.”
“Are they engaged?”
“Don’t think so. I couldn’t see a ring.”
“Then what are you waiting for? My father always said, ‘If what you want is right, then don’t give up until it’s yours.’”
“Sounds like he should have been a missionary,” said Andrew with a fleeting grin.
“And that’s another thing, young Andrew. When I came to this church, the first thing I asked the elders for was a hymnbook. Music’s been the joy of my life. In there I found this hymn, number 336 I think it is. You go and read verse four. Then find that lass before it’s too late.”
She shooed him away before easing herself to her feet and making her way over to his parents.
It was an hour later before Andrew could escape the crowd and find a peaceful moment on his own in the chapel. Sinking quietly into a seat in the corner he shut his eyes and leaned back. It was good to be home, but he missed having a companion when it came to talking things through.
What if Mrs. McKivett is wrong? he thought. Suppose Gemma really loves Glen? I can hardly go all out to break up a relationship that could bring her happiness.
He reached for a hymnbook, but his thoughts continued. It’s odd, Eva McKivett finding that song, he thought. As he was carefully reading verse four, he became aware of someone entering the chapel.
When Gemma whispered, “May I join you?” he raised his head. For a second he didn’t know if he wanted this conversation or not. Then Mrs. McKivett’s parting remarks echoed in his mind. His smile of welcome advertised a wealth of feeling far deeper than he intended.
“I … I’m sorry about Glen, Andrew.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You’re a free woman. Always were.”
“When you and I stopped writing, he was constantly around. He is very persuasive you know.”
“I noticed.”
“We got engaged last week.” She looked down at her fingers. “No ring yet. Glen couldn’t afford one.”
Andrew turned away. With his heart sinking, he made quick mental reminders to keep cool, keep smiling, let her think he didn’t mind.
“But,” she went on with a rush, “I only agreed because he said I owed it to him after all this time. I guess he convinced me that I did owe him.”
“Do you mean you don’t really love him?” Andrew’s voice rose a pitch as he stared at Gemma.
“I don’t know. I thought I did,” she looked pleadingly at him. “I don’t expect you to understand. And I don’t expect us to be back where we were before. I simply want you to know that Glen and I are no longer a couple, as of 10 minutes ago. He’s so angry he scares me right now.”
“Gemma, listen to me.” Andrew spoke softly. “We’ll deal with Glen. I’ll be right there for you. Right now I want you to know something.”
She watched his face anxiously.
“The things I felt for you before I left have increased a hundred times.” Andrew paused, watching Gemma’s frown turn into a smile of relief. “It’s as if,” he concluded, “as if someone’s fine-tuned the strings and an amazing song is about to begin.”
For Andrew, his homecoming circle could not have been more complete.

Two months after our wedding I was called as ward Relief Society president. Later I became ward Young Women president. After seven years of marriage I was still filling executive Church positions.
So often in the Church it is the other way around with the husband well known and holding the time-consuming positions. Without complaint, my husband drove the old car so I could drive the more dependable new one; he stayed home evenings when necessary while I made stake visits and conducted leadership meetings; he sat in the audience while I spoke in conferences; he willingly paid for extra supplies for Church activities; and he would listen to any problem or idea or concern I had.
What does my husband do to show he loves me? He sustains me in the callings I receive. I know I couldn’t fill them without him or his love. I hope I support him as well in his present and future callings.

I have beautiful golden-brown hair. I was watching the news one morning and saw that a little girl was donating her hair to an organization that makes wigs for young cancer patients. One day I was shopping with my mom and sisters when we noticed a salon that took hair donations. We went in and asked the hair cutter how long my hair had to be to donate it. It was long enough! So I sat down in the big chair, and she put my hair in a ponytail and cut it right above the tail. I felt happy and excited because I knew that I had done something to help little kids who were sick.

The center of St. Petersburg, crisscrossed by canals, is full of palaces, monuments, statues, churches, gardens, and museums. For seminary students from the Obukhovskii Branch, it seemed a perfect place to talk about their love of seminary, their love for the scriptures, and their love for their city.
Julia Shaikhulina reminisces about returning from a trip to the Stockholm (Sweden) Temple. “I wondered how I’d feel coming home, since going to the temple is such a wonderful experience. But it was autumn, and as our bus drove across the city, the trees and the buildings were bathed in a golden light. It made all of the buildings look beautiful. And I said to myself, I know that I love my city. It made me feel like I wanted to share the gospel with everyone.”

“Welcome to class, everyone.”
Riley looked up at her new teacher and smiled. He looked younger than her other teachers. His voice cracked as he spoke. He cleared his throat and continued.
“I’m Mr. Berrett.”
A student raised his hand. “Are you new?” he asked.
“Yes. I just graduated from college. You are my very first class.”
Then Mr. Berrett explained what the class would be learning. He spoke softly. Sometimes it was hard to hear him.
Riley could hear kids whispering behind her. That made it even harder to hear what Mr. Berrett said. But Riley did her best to listen. When Mr. Berrett looked at her, she smiled.
At dinner that night, Mom asked about Riley’s first day at school.
“I like my classes and my teachers,” Riley said. “We have one teacher who’s brand new. He was kind of nervous. Some of the kids made fun of him.”
“Sometimes even teachers get nervous,” Dad said.
Mom smiled. “I’m glad you’re there to cheer him on.”
The next day, Riley heard some kids talking in the hall.
“I have Mr. Berrett too,” one of them said. “I couldn’t even hear him yesterday.”
“Did you hear his voice crack?”
“It’s gonna be a long year,” another kid said. They all laughed.
Riley thought about what Dad had said about teachers getting nervous too. Yesterday was Mr. Berrett’s first day of school. That was probably pretty scary. Mom said to cheer him on. How could Riley do that?
When Riley said her prayers that night, she asked Heavenly Father to let her know how to help Mr. Berrett.
The next day, Riley opened her lunch. Inside was a note from Mom. “You’re great!” it said. Riley smiled. She loved Mom’s notes. Her family called them “happy notes.”
That was it! Riley and her classmates could write a happy note for Mr. Berrett!
Riley invited some of her classmates to meet at her house after school. They decorated a big, bright poster with smiley faces and stars. They wrote things they liked about Mr. Berrett. They wrote things they had already learned from him. And they told him they were glad he was their teacher.
The next day, Riley and a few friends got to school early. They hung the poster on Mr. Berrett’s classroom door. Then they hid around the corner to watch what happened.
Soon Mr. Berrett got to his classroom. “Oh!” he said. Riley and her classmates watched him read their notes. A big smile spread across his face.
When Riley saw how happy he was, she felt happy too. She smiled and gave her friends a high five.
As they walked away, Riley heard someone say, “I can’t wait to go to Mr. Berrett’s class today!” Riley couldn’t wait either.
This story took place in the USA.

I clipped an article written by Jay Evensen from the Deseret Morning News. With his permission, I quote from it:
“How would you feel toward a teenager who decided to toss a 20-pound [9-kg] frozen turkey from a speeding car headlong into the windshield of the car you were driving? How would you feel after enduring six hours of surgery using metal plates and other hardware to piece your face together? …
“… The victim, Victoria Ruvolo, … was more interested in salvaging the life of her 19-year-old assailant [attacker], Ryan Cushing, than in … revenge. … She insisted on offering him a plea deal. Cushing could serve six months in the county jail and be on probation for five years if he pleaded guilty to second-degree assault.
“Had he been convicted of first-degree assault—the charge most fitting for the crime—he could have served 25 years in prison. …
“According to an account in the New York Post, Cushing … made his way to where Ruvolo sat in the courtroom and tearfully whispered an apology. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you.’
“Ruvolo then stood, and the victim and her assailant embraced, weeping. She stroked his head and patted his back as he sobbed, and witnesses … heard her say, ‘It’s OK. I just want you to make your life the best it can be.’”

That adult programmer began emerging at an early age. According to his mother, Marian, Doug learned how to use a screwdriver at two and started taking apart anything he could get his hands on. “Including an attempt at his dad’s car,” Marian said. “The problem was he couldn’t always put the things he took apart back together.”
By five Doug put down the screwdriver in favor of the Johnson’s home computer. His father, Lynn, also a computer programmer, showed him how to get going, but Doug needed little direction. Over the years Lynn kept his eye on his son and began to show him how he could use his interest and talent. Doug’s first job in programming was with his dad. When he was 12, Doug wrote a complex system for a major law firm while his dad installed the computer hardware.
At 14 Doug was writing his own software and had formed his own computer company, Maximum Output Software, to market and sell his products. At an age when most young people are only thinking about getting a part-time job, Doug was writing his own software and doing programming work for engineering and shipping/receiving firms.
One of his clients, Angelo Mourino, the owner of a Houston air freight company, said he hired three other professional, adult programmers before Doug. None of them could do the job he needed. Word had surfaced about this 14-year-old whiz kid. Angelo said he was skeptical, but ready to try anything.
“One guy I had hired before Doug had taken six months just to figure out he couldn’t do the job,” Angelo said. “Doug finished the project in about two or three weeks.” While going to high school!
At 17 Doug has a long list of credits behind him which include captaining his high school computer team to top awards in state competitions, serving as the president of a prominent Houston computer club (Doug is also the youngest of the 100-plus members), maintaining a 4.0 GPA in his schoolwork. The list goes on.
But, as Doug is quick to point out, there’s more to him than computers and an aptitude at schoolwork. He’s just a normal LDS kid and with normal outside interests. He’s working on his Eagle Scout Award. He likes music and works occasionally as a deejay at stake dances in Houston and, with a friend, writes funny rap songs about the Church. He has attended early-morning seminary for three years and will graduate this spring.
And he has some normal 17-year-old challenges. He’s shy and has trouble meeting people; he’s shorter than average and isn’t too good in sports; and, believe it or not, he’s a procrastinator.
But he faces those challenges, and others, like he faces the computer—by again keeping his goals in mind and doing what he knows is right. When friends invite him to drinking parties, he turns the invitations down and explains why he doesn’t want to go. When he is asked tough questions about his religion, Doug answers with faith and a solid understanding of the scriptures he has gained through church and seminary study. If people try to get him to use his computer knowledge for illegal gain, he refuses without hesitation.
He thanks his family and the Church for keeping him on the right path.
“The gospel has kept me away from drugs and alcohol, but it has also given me a direction. When I leave home I know how I should live, how I should raise a family. The computer can’t be everything. I’d like to be successful at it, but I won’t ever do anything illegal.”
Brent Rawson, Doug’s bishop in the Champion’s Ward of the Cypress Texas Stake, said he recently called Doug as the ward computer specialist and had him devise a computer program that would allow the bishopric to keep track of members, ward callings (and how long each person has been serving), home and visiting teaching, who spoke in sacrament meeting (and when), and so on. Bishop Rawson can now review, within seconds, any detail of his ward’s business.
“He has been a big help to me,” Bishop Rawson said. “A calling like this needs great maturity and he has that, along with lots of leadership ability. From a bishop’s point of view he is a very spiritual young man with a lot of potential.”
Also, Doug’s computer skills have helped him in other aspects of his Church development. Half of all his earnings go into savings for his mission and for four years at Brigham Young University, where he plans to further his computer programming studies. Plus, Doug hopes that his computer company will one day be productive enough to allow him to support a family.
The clicking has stopped. Whatever Doug was working on is finished. He shows you what he’s created, but his manner is matter-of-fact. After all, as Doug will tell you, it doesn’t take a genius to do this. The computer does what it’s told. Doug tries to do the same—live the principles he’s been taught, do what his parents and church leaders advise.
As Doug Johnson will tell you—life, and computers, can be simple if you have the right attitude.

Vicky kept going to the Rowes’ house for church every Sunday. Then Vicky shared the Book of Mormon with her mom. Soon her whole family was learning about the gospel from the Rowes. Vicky translated for everyone.
One day Mr. Rowe asked Vicky’s family a question. Vicky repeated it in Bosnian. “Will you follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized?”
Vicky waited. She wanted to be baptized. But she was nervous about what her family would say.
Finally, Vicky’s dad spoke. “Da.”
“Da,” her family said.
Vicky was so happy she felt like her heart was going to burst. “Yes,” she said to Mr. Rowe. “Yes, we will.”
A week later, Vicky and her family drove for five hours to the nearest Church building. Vicky felt happy as she stepped into the water to be baptized. She felt even happier when she was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Now she would have the Holy Ghost with her always.