Gospel Story Finder

When we choose the right, we are sometimes rewarded in our Primary by Officer Charles Theodore Rigatoni (his initials spell CTR!). He comes to Primary with a set of heart-shaped handcuffs and searches for the person who was “caught choosing the right” that week. He presents the person with a shiny gold or silver badge and then tells everyone about the good things he was caught doing. Sometimes it is making his bed, helping to fix dinner without being asked, or sharing toys with friends.
One day I was waiting to get my hair cut. A younger boy tried to knock the book I was reading out of my hand. I tried to ignore him, but he kept pushing me. Finally, I looked him right in the eye, pointed to my CTR ring, and said, “Choose the right!” He backed away and didn’t bother me again. Officer Rigatoni heard about this and gave me a badge. I am glad to have a friend like Officer Rigatoni to help me remember to choose the right.

After we had finished the gully project, my nephew and his bride asked to have their wedding reception in the gully and garden. They planned to come and help with the final tidying up before the event.

But time slipped away. They were busy and unable to come. The day of the open house, I awoke at 6:00 a.m. feeling grumpy. I got up, grabbed my bucket and clippers, and walked to the bottom of the gully’s 58 stairs. As I worked my way up the stairs trimming the English ivy, my feelings calmed. At about 8:00 a.m., I heard a lawnmower in the front yard. I took a break to see what was happening.

When I reached the front yard, Elder Nelson had finished mowing his lawn and was now mowing my lawn.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said.

“Yes, Grant,” he replied, “I need to do this for you today.”

Elder Nelson knew how to hear Heavenly Father. That day, God knew I needed some help.

That experience changed me. Afterward, when my wife and I prayed each day, we began asking to be made aware of those around us who needed our help.

One of the most challenging things I’ve ever overcome was my “I don’t care” attitude. If I wasn’t passionate about what I was doing, I was cold and impatient with people.
This all changed one school break when I was asked to care for my 76-year-old grandfather. “Dadi,” as we called him, had suffered a stroke, which left him half-paralyzed. When my family asked me to care for him for two months, I couldn’t even imagine how!
I had to wake up early to prepare his breakfast, his bath, and his medicine. I helped him walk around for his daily exercise. Since he had difficulty moving, I was by his side at all times, including during his bath and his toilet. As an 18-year-old girl, this was the hardest part.
Aside from all this, he was difficult to be with. He is not a member of the Church and has different principles than I do. He was a man full of regrets—always shouting, never smiling, and constantly saying, “I’m dying!” Because of this attitude, it was hard for us to share a good bond.
At first, I did all I could to avoid my tasks, but that didn’t work. So I decided to change my attitude and give my best effort.
After a week of this new attitude, serving Dadi became a joy to me. My patience grew, and I came to understand his affliction. As I served him, I stopped thinking of being with him as a burden but rather as an opportunity to create good times with him.
Dadi changed too. This frowning old man became a smiling, gentle grandpa. He even came to like listening to Especially for Youth songs!
One night I heard him making some noise, so I looked into his room to find out what he was doing. He was praying for the first time. I’m inspired every day by this change.
Now I’m back at college, but I still go twice a month to visit Dadi with my family. We eat with him and sing for him. His health has worsened, so now the most powerful help that I can give is prayers on his behalf.
I’m grateful for the opportunity to watch over Dadi because it helped me see what I’m capable of giving. Love is a very powerful thing—it softened both my heart and Dadi’s. I have learned the meaning of sacrifice and compassion. Truly, charity enlightens every heart!

Some years ago I read an article that told of the less-than-spectacular career of a quarterback on the football team of a small rural high school. This young man managed to make the team, but it was clear he was not going to be all-state or all-American. Indeed, it didn’t look like he was going to be all-anything, except perhaps all battered and bruised. He was the fourth of the four quarterbacks.
By season’s end he had never been called into a game and had given up hope. During the final game of the year he pulled off his shoes, wrapped himself in a blanket, and settled on the bench to watch his buddies play.
Midway through the game he heard the coach shout his name. He was startled and wondered if he had been mistaken. Then it came again, right from the coach’s lips, “Hey, you! Get in there and move the ball!”
What should he do? His first impulse was to lapse into a coma. His second was to pretend he didn’t hear. His third was to say, “Wait, coach. Wait while I put on my shoes.” He did the only manly thing. Strapping on his helmet as he ran, he made straight for the huddle; his white-stockinged feet were conspicuous to the players on both teams, as well as to the spectators and the coach, who also must have been ready to lapse into a coma.
He called the play, but the shock of his first game was obviously a little disconcerting. By the time he took the snap from center he had forgotten the play he had called. His teammates moved to the right, but he gamely went left. There, alone against the world, he met the opposition head-on and was swallowed up in the snarl of the onrushing linemen.
He said later, “No one expected me to make a touchdown. Even running the wrong way was understandable. But there was no excuse for a quarterback without shoes” (Improvement Era, Sept. 1969, 44).

Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was only thinking about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he’s eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

It was Friday when we three boys who had been chums for many years made our plans—three sun-touched boys with an itch for one last outing before cold weather set in.
There was Eddie Simkins, with the mop of curly hair, and Scrummy Chislet. (I never did find out why he was called Scrummy.)
So we three 12-year-olds formulated our adventuresome plans. That afternoon after school we would head for the valley and spend the night.
When our school studies were over I dashed home and spoke to my mother. She was sewing in the living room, and from her little radio came sounds of the music she loved.
“Mam” I said excitedly, “Eddie, Scrummy, and I are going up the valley to spend the night. I would like some bedding and a little food. We are going to have such a good time.”
Mam looked up from her sewing. “Son,” she said, “I just heard on the radio there is a chance of thunderstorms in the hills and the possibility of flash floods.”
There is something about a mother’s look when it concerns the welfare of her children that is hard for a 12-year-old boy to understand. “Mam,” I said, with the know-how of a boy. “You can’t believe all that stuff you hear on the radio.”
I took her by the hand and led her over to the big bay window. “Look Mam. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.” And I argued like only a boy can.
She turned to me and said, “All right, if you insist on going, but remember when the storm comes that I warned you.”
I rolled up an old quilt and a blanket and tied them with a piece of string. Mam made me some sandwiches of homemade bread and blackberry jam, from berries I had picked myself. These she wrapped in a sheet of newspaper and put them in a brown paper bag.
She stood on the doorstep as I left, and again that look was on her face. Later I knew what it was, an unspoken prayer.
The three of us met where the street ended and the valley began. Our destination was an old woodcutter’s cabin about four miles up the valley. What a day! The birds were singing, and up on the hill a patch of gorse was in bloom, giving a bit of gold to the world. Under the hedgerows the last of the violets were peeking. The sun was warm, and a tiny breeze rustled the dying leaves on the trees.
We laughed and joked as we hiked along, not a care in the world.
We were about two miles from the cabin when suddenly there was a change in the weather. The birds’ song was stilled, and a heaviness filled the air. Over the top of a distant hill we saw the tip of a black cloud. It grew as we hurried our footsteps.
Soon the cloud filled the sky, and the thunder and the lightning came. The rain started with a few drops at first. Then it became a deluge. By the time we reached the cabin we were soaked to the skin. To add to our discomfort, the roof of the cabin had caved in during the winter months and only a small corner offered any shelter.
The cabin was erected on a bank above the brook, the brook I loved so well. Its music was a pleasant melody like a lullaby at night. But now as we huddled in that corner the voice of the brook became loud and threatening, and we could hear stones rolling down its bed.
The thunder reverberated through the trees, and once we heard the lightning strike a big beech tree not far away. We were three frightened boys.
We tried to light a fire in the fireplace, but due to the wet wood we only succeeded in making smoke, and I must confess all the tears in my eyes were not caused by the smoke.
During the night we sat huddled together in the corner, but the wind blew the rain in on us. The pangs of hunger came, and I unwrapped the sodden covering around my sandwiches. The bread was sop so I scooped out the jam with my fingers and ate it.
Few words were spoken during the night, but over and over in my mind came Mam’s words to me, “Remember when the storm comes that I have warned you.”
With the coming of the dawn the storm ended, and we gathered up our rain-soaked bedding and started for home.
About a mile down the trail we met our fathers, who had come looking for us. My father took my bedroll and put his arm around my shoulder. His words were simple and sincere. “I am glad you are safe.” Mam was waiting at the door. The look was the same except for the moisture in her eyes.
She had prepared breakfast. There was hot oatmeal porridge with cream from the top of the milk bottle and toast made on top of the coal range.
There was no “I told you so,” only a request: “You must lie down awhile, my son, and rest.”
Through the years I have learned what that look is that mothers get. It is the look of the good shepherd who cares for his flock.
I have also learned the similarity of my mother’s warning to those of our Heavenly Father. I can imagine him saying, “Remember when the storms come and nations tremble and there is desolation on the earth, that I have warned you.”

Years ago I taught a seminary class filled with the “stars” of the senior class: Mr. Macho, the all-state quarterback, a heart-stopper of every young lady in school; little Miss Pep, the head varsity cheerleader; Mr. President, our student body leader; Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed; and Mr. Brains, a young man who had already been offered several full-ride scholarships to some pretty prestigious universities. One day we all learned a sorry lesson that almost any of us can bend to peer pressure. Here’s how it happened.
I had read a magazine article on negative peer pressure. The article described an experiment I was tempted to try on my class of “achievers.” The experiment was designed to show, in a very convincing way, how powerful peer pressure can be. It didn’t really occur to me that the experiment might have some negative consequences.
In class the next morning I did as instructed in the experiment. On the chalkboard I drew a star, a circle, an oval, and a square. I told my class that for the next 50 minutes, the objects on the board were to be identified as a star, a circle, an oval, and a triangle, even though the square was obviously a square. It was now to be called a triangle and nothing else! In a moment they would have an opportunity to convince an unsuspecting visitor that the square was actually a triangle.
Six fold-out seats were set in front of the classroom. Mr. Quarterback, Miss Pep, Mr. President, Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed, and Mr. Brains were invited to take their seats, leaving one vacant chair. I then invited a freshman student into the classroom. He immediately recognized that he was among the “elite” of the high school. The students made him welcome. In no time he was feeling right at home. He was with the “Who’s Who” of the school and was thriving on it.
I invited him to take a seat in the one remaining chair in front of the class. I explained that when it came his turn, he was to simply identify the objects drawn on the board. He agreed. The others smiled. The lesson began.
“Mr. Quarterback, will you identify the objects on the board?”
In a deep, macho voice he said, “Star, circle, oval,” and then, coming to the square, he confidently said, “Triangle.”
Our visitor, forgetting himself, let out a laugh that conveyed the idea, “You’ve been sacked a few too many times.” But the rest of the people in the room were absolutely silent.
The freshman quickly searched the faces of those present for acknowledgement of Mr. Quarterback’s obvious mental fumble, but my students were playing their parts. To them that square was nothing more than a triangle. Mr. Freshman had a bewildered expression.
I then turned to Miss Pep.
“Would you please identify the objects on the board?”
She enthusiastically replied, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
The freshman fidgeted in his seat.
The class remained silent and nonchalant. Twice more the question was asked. Mr. President and Mr. Most-Likely-to-Succeed answered in perfect form.
By now our visitor looked slightly ill and had that “may-I-please-be-dismissed” expression on his face.
“Star, circle, oval, triangle,” Mr. Brains answered.
Now it was Mr. Freshman’s turn. With each object his voice grew weaker, shakier, and less confident.
“Star … circle … oval …” Then silence.
We looked at him. He looked at us.
“What’s the last object?” I asked.
Silence.
“Come on, what is it?”
Then finally, quietly he spoke.
“Triangle.”
I thought we’d all break the tenseness with a good laugh. The experiment had worked. But instead there was silence.
I searched the students’ faces. They were all deep in thought. Some heads hung.
Then it hit me. Each one in the class could relate to the embarrassed freshman. Each in a foolish moment, wanting so badly to be accepted or to be part of the group, had in his own way called a square a triangle, had committed a wrong when there was no misunderstanding. Even I could add my name to the list. And we all realized, especially me, that we had been unkind to put Mr. Freshman in such an awkward situation.
We spent the remainder of our class time sharing feelings and regrets, but more importantly sharing desires, hopes, and longings to be more courageous. Mr. Quarterback put his arm around Mr. Freshman, and we all reassured him that we’d made the mistake of bowing to pressure before, too. By the end of the class he was accepted by his peers—not because he’d given in, but because we’d all come to see the importance of never surrendering, of calling a square a square despite the consequences.
When the bell rang, we left as a group, wiser, more hopeful, and with a greater resolve to fight a good battle amid the pressures of the world.

A few weeks ago I learned an important lesson from a Laurel who was the youth speaker in my ward. I was touched as she confidently taught and testified of Jesus Christ. She concluded her remarks with this statement: “When I make Jesus Christ the center of my life, my day goes better, I’m kinder to my loved ones, and I am filled with joy.”
I have observed this young woman from a distance over the past few months. She greets everyone with sparkling eyes and a quick smile. I’ve watched her rejoice in the success of other youth. Two Mia Maids recently reported to me of this young woman’s decision to forfeit her ticket to a movie when she realized that it was not going to be an experience that was “virtuous and lovely.” She’s loving, kind, and obedient. She comes from a single-parent home, and her life has not been without challenges, so I’ve wondered how she maintains her happy, kind spirit. When this young woman testified, “I center my life on Jesus Christ,” I had the answer.

I was eight years old when my parents divorced. I remember the day my dad moved out. It seemed like everything I knew about life fell to pieces after that. I was confused, lonely, and sad. It felt like a big part of me had been ripped out. While the other members of my family seemed to move past the divorce, I still felt empty inside.
Being so young, I couldn’t understand why my family had to be broken up. I came to believe that I must have been deficient. I figured I wasn’t worthy of an intact family. I thought that if I had had enough faith, God would have put my family back together.
As I got older, the hole inside me became a deep pit of sadness. I tried to fill it with all sorts of things: relationships, school, rebellion, even too much food. None of those things worked. I had read the scripture where the Apostle Paul tells a man who has been healed that “Jesus Christ maketh thee whole” (Acts 9:34). But I doubted that Christ could fill the hole inside me. After all, if I was not worthy enough for Him to fix my family, why should I expect Him to fix the hole in me? I thought those types of miracles were only for happy, faithful people who came from intact families.
Still, I had nowhere left to turn except to Christ. Night after night I knelt in prayer and asked my Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, to heal my emptiness.
I cannot point to an exact day when it happened, but little by little Heavenly Father intervened in my life to show me that Christ’s love was healing me. Heavenly Father also let me know He loves me, He knows me, and He wants me to have an eternal family.
I know, unmistakably now, that my Savior was aware of my pain and sadness. He never gave up on me. I can see now that He strengthened me and carried me through those difficult times. Christ is the only one who can heal our pain. It was Christ who healed my heart.

“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

In that same inner-city ward I observed a similar type of faith in the gentle, loving care of a bishop who wasted no time despairing over the vast needs of an ever-growing number of new converts. Rather, he pressed forward by rallying the more experienced members of the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthood quorums to help prepare new converts from Africa and Latin America for their priesthood responsibilities. The newer brethren were taught how to hold the trays while passing the sacrament, how to kneel and reverently bless the bread and water. Their more seasoned, often younger brethren practiced along with them the words of the sacramental prayers so they would feel confident in giving them. Then, together, all the brethren discussed the sacred nature of this important priesthood ordinance.

When I was called as first counselor in the bishopric, sacrament meeting attendance in our ward had dwindled. As a bishopric, we decided to fast fervently and pray to Heavenly Father to give us the wisdom to know how to strengthen the members.
The Lord inspired us to emphasize the sacrament meeting as a spiritual feast, so we came up with a way to invite the members, their friends, and their neighbors to come to sacrament meeting and experience a spiritual feast. We made invitations that said, “Come and hear, see, and feel the presence of the Lord in a spiritual feast” and gave them to each of the members, including the young men and young women.
We also prepared a small ward choir of eight voices. We prayerfully selected spiritual hymns and speakers and invited members to help with the reverence of the occasion.
Everything was ready for the spiritual feast! Attendance that Sunday included 42 investigators and less-active members. At the second spiritual feast, there were 64 investigators and less-active members. Three months later we could no longer fit in the chapel, and six months later our ward had grown so much that we were preparing for it to be divided into two wards.
We learned that treating sacrament meeting as more than just a Sunday meeting but as a sacred experience gave us a marvelous opportunity to invite our loved ones to come unto Christ through a sacred spiritual feast.
Our preparation to improve the quality of the spirit and reverence of sacrament meeting helped improve the attendance of the people who had never imagined feeling joy by coming to see, feel, and find it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

A few weeks ago a stake president in Japan felt that we should visit a man diagnosed with cancer. Despite his going through treatment, the cancer continued to spread. In these situations, I struggle to find the words to say. So, for days I pleaded for the Lord’s help. I pictured the man to be downtrodden and devastated. I anticipated that he would ask why the Lord gave him this trial. I imagined that he would be hopeless and perhaps even a little angry. The day of the visit arrived, and I was still at a loss. When we finally met, I was completely astonished. What stood before me was not at all the man I had imagined. His countenance was bright and happy. There was no bitterness, and he never asked why.

In the comic strip Peanuts, Charlie Brown told Lucy about his New Year’s resolutions. He said, “You’re going to be proud of me, Lucy. … I’ve decided that this next year is going to be my year of decision! This is a list of things in my life that I’m going to correct. … I’m going to be a better person!”

Lucy’s reply was, “Not me. … I’m going to spend this whole year regretting the past. … It’s the only way, Charlie Brown. … I’m going to cry over spilt milk, and sigh over lost loves. … It’s a lot easier. … It’s too hard to improve. … I tried it once. … It drove me crazy. … ‘Forget the future’ is my motto. … Regret the past! Oh, how I regret the past! Why did I do this? Why did I do that? Why? I regret it all! Oh, what regrets! What remorse! What anguish! What …” Charlie Brown sighs and throws away his resolutions. (Ellipses in the original.)

So it was in my life. The decision to set aside two years and serve a mission for the Lord has had a greater impact for good than any other thing. In fact, every good thing in my life is a result of my decision to serve a mission. It was during my mission that I received a clear and unmistakable witness of the Spirit that the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith was the Lord’s prophet of the Restoration. I realized my biggest desire was to be sealed to my wife and, with her, raise a family in righteousness. I determined to serve God and His children all of my life. I made the covenant with God that I would keep His commandments, repent, and continue to call on His name all of my life. I came to know God love and trust Him. I knew that He loves His children and that “he doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world, even that he layeth down his own life that he may draw all men unto him” (2 Nephi 26:24). I knew that God loves me and other members of the Church and that “he inviteth . . . all to come unto him and partake of his goodness” (2 Nephi 26:33). All of these deepened my love for God and for His children, wherever I have been blessed to meet them.
This is not all. It was during my mission that I knew the joy of sharing the gospel with others. I love the people I taught. One of the great joys of my life is to see their children being raised in the gospel and their grandchildren being blessed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. Not only did I love these wonderful people, but they have loved and strengthened me and my family over all these years.

I used to feel like my mom didn’t understand me. It seemed that all she cared about were her rules. How could she understand me? She had never done anything wrong in her life.
I decided I could do better without her, so I started to define myself in opposition to her. She always wore nice skirts and dresses. I always wore big, shabby jeans. She followed rules of etiquette meticulously. I ignored them. She did everything she could to invite the Spirit into our home. I listened to counter-culture music. She worked to avoid even the appearance of evil. I hung out with kids who were in trouble, and even though I wasn’t participating in their serious transgressions, Mom knew I was on the edge.
My mom spent many rough nights worrying about me. One night she got up to check on me and found a pile of pillows shaped like a sleeping form beneath my open window. When I got home after my mom had spent a long night calling my friends, the police, and anyone else she could think of, I was told I was grounded until further notice.
Soon after, feeling angry and rebellious, I found myself in the principal’s office at school. Knowing that I could identify the culprits of a recent prank, he explained to me that if I didn’t tell him who the guilty party was he would suspend me instead of them. I defiantly kept silent. So he called my mom and told her I would be staying home the next day.
This time she was really angry. While waiting for me to come home and considering an appropriate punishment, she was getting a box out of storage in our unfinished attic. Distracted, she took a wrong step between the beams, which sent her crashing through the insulation, drywall, and plaster of the ceiling onto the floor of the dining room below. Still gathering her bearings in that painful pile of rubble, the thought came to her: your relationship with Michelle is this sensitive right now. One wrong step and the floor will fall out from under you and will be permanently damaged.
When I got home from school, I expected a lecture. Instead, when Mom greeted me, she gently showed me what had happened and explained that she loved me and that she had been prompted to take special care of our relationship and needed my help. I looked at her legs, black and blue from the ankles up and covered with some fierce looking scrapes. All I could think was how amazing it was that as the ceiling gave way beneath her, her first thought was for me. Even I was humbled. We prayed together for help to learn to love and accept.
It wasn’t easy. I really had to work to change my attitude. Looking back, I realize that, all along, she only had my welfare in mind. I eventually found out that Mom was a really fun person. We looked for ways to spend time together in positive situations, doing things we both enjoyed. I learned to allow her to function in roles other than disciplinarian. And most importantly, I learned to change my perspective. Instead of being embarrassed by our “old-fashioned” home, I came to love bringing friends over. I finally realized that I was equally responsible for the success of our relationship.
I guess I’m the one who should have fallen through the ceiling, but I doubt I would have heard the Spirit at the crucial moment. I’ll always be grateful for a mother willing to love me into loving her.

When Madilin Neibert received her school’s citizenship award at the end of her seventh grade year, it took her by surprise. As one of only seven LDS youth in her school, she’d spent a lot of time that year standing up for her beliefs. Some didn’t understand or agree with her, but Madilin learned that she didn’t need to go along with the crowd to earn her friends’ respect.
What was it like to be recognized as a good citizen in your school? I’m really grateful that I got that award. It meant a lot to me because I know I’m doing my part to be a citizen and to be kind to others and to my teachers.

In 1972 my father, his mum and two brothers and two sisters immigrated to Australia establishing themselves in Perth, Western Australia. My father joined the Australian army in 1973, serving in various postings. He met my mother in Melbourne in 1982 and their first date was to a Stake YSA dance. Later, my mother introduced him to the missionaries. Accepting what he had been taught and with the faith and testimony the size of a mustard seed, he was baptized on 9 May 1982. A year later my parents were married and sealed in the New Zealand Temple. Together they had five children. Heavenly Father and living the Gospel have been a blessing in all our lives.

“Bonjour, Maman (Good morning, Mother),” said Nicole as she ran into the kitchen.
“Good morning, little one,” said her mother, who was slicing a long loaf of bread. Its shiny crust snapped and crunched as the knife cut through it.
“Today is the first of May, n’est—ce pas (isn’t that so)?” asked Nicole.
“Yes. I know you’ve been waiting for a long time for today to come. Would you like to make the bouquets this year?”
Each year on May first, Nicole’s family took small bunches of flowers to their friends and neighbors to show their friendship.
“Oh, yes, Maman,” said Nicole. She started to run into the garden.
“Just a minute. Don’t forget your breakfast.”
Nicole’s mother took a slice of the fresh bread and spread it first with pale butter and then with currant jam. She poured Nicole a cup of hot chocolate.
“While you eat, I’ll get the things you will need.”
Nicole ate quickly so that she would be ready when Maman returned. Her mother soon brought a basket with a pair of scissors and some string in it. Nicole took the things and went into the garden.
Under the almond tree, where the garden was the shadiest, Nicole put her basket by a bed of shiny green leaves. When she pushed the leaves back with her hand, she saw the tiny white flowers called muguets (lilies of the valley). They smelled even more delicious than fresh bread with currant jam.
She began to cut the flowers and leaves and put them into her basket. She was careful not to disturb the roots. Her papa always told her that the roots would make more muguets the next year if she did not pull them out of the soil. After she had cut a basketful, she tied the flowers and leaves into small bundles with the string. When she finished, she picked up a tiny flower that had fallen off its stem. It looked like a tiny china cup.
Taking the basket full of little green bundles into the house, she showed it to her mother.
“They are well-made, Nicole,” Mother said. “Would you like to deliver them too?”
“Will you come with me?” asked Nicole.
“Well, I am busy now. You would have to wait.”
Nicole didn’t like waiting, but she didn’t know if she could deliver them all by herself. “Where would I go?” she asked.
“Oh, to our friends in the neighborhood: Madame (Mrs.) LaCroix, Aunt Marie-Claire, the Armands. Do you think you can do it?”
Nicole knew all those houses well. And Maman had not mentioned grouchy Madame Victor, their next-door neighbor. Nicole didn’t want to take flowers to her. When Nicole’s ball went over the garden wall, Madame Victor complained that it hurt her roses. And if Nicole made a lot of noise playing, Madame Victor always told Nicole’s mother.
Nicole took her basket and went to the Armands’ house first. Monsieur and Madame (Mr. and Mrs.) Armand were glad to see her. They gave her an apple and told her that she was growing up. At Aunt Marie-Claire’s house, Nicole’s cousin, Jules, was out in his baby stroller. Aunt Marie let Nicole push him around the yard. Then she went to see Madame LaCroix. Madame LaCroix thanked her and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.
Nicole was having such a good time that she decided to deliver flowers to some of her school friends. Her basket was almost empty when she started back home. As she reached her own gate, she could see Madame Victor reading her newspaper. She looked lonely.
If I give her the muguets,she will only yell at me, thought Nicole. Besides, Maman didn’t say that I had to give her any.
Nicole opened the heavy iron gate into her own yard. Maman was pulling weeds out of the leek bed. “Nicole, you must have made a lot of deliveries. Your basket is almost empty.”
“I visited all the people you told me to, and I went to a lot of my friends’ houses too.”
“And did you deliver flowers to everyone?”
As Nicole looked at her maman, she thought about Madame Victor. She didn’t feel as happy as she had felt when she was delivering the flowers. “I missed one person. I’ll be right back.”
Nicole grabbed one small bunch of muguets and ran to Madame Victor’s. Madame Victor had gone inside, and Nicole had to pull the rope to ring her bell. Nicole’s heart pounded as she waited. She was about to go back home, when Madame Victor came out of her house. “Oh, it’s you! I don’t need any muguets today. Go sell them somewhere else. And don’t bother me again.”
“But, Madame Victor, they are not for sale. They’re for you, for the first of May.”
Nicole pushed the flowers through the bars of the gate and turned and ran. She was crying by the time she got home. Nicole told her mother what had happened. “I tried to do the right thing, Maman.”
“Sometimes even the right thing doesn’t work,” said Maman. “Now let’s go inside and make a special dinner for your papa. He will be proud that you have done such a good job today.”
Nicole was making a vegetable salad when she heard the bell ring. Madame Victor stood at the gate with a great armful of roses.
“Go open the gate, Nicole,” said Maman. “She is here to see you.”
Nicole ran to the gate.
“For the first of May, Nicole,” said Madame Victor. She had Nicole’s flowers pinned to her dress. “May I be your friend?”
“Of course,” said Nicole. “Of course you may!”

When my baby sisters were born, I was worried that they wouldn’t be OK, because they were born early and were so tiny. When we went to each hospital, I put some friendly pictures in their beds to help them feel a little better.
I prayed for them every day. I asked Heavenly Father to bless them that they would be OK. I told Him that I was scared for them. After I prayed, I felt good. I knew that Heavenly Father would answer my prayers.
Next week is my little sisters’ first birthday. They are both doing well now. I am thankful that Heavenly Father answered my prayers.