Gospel Story Finder

We were moving in two weeks. I didn’t want to. We’d lived in the same brick house my whole life, and I liked it there. I had my own room upstairs with a window that looked out on the apple tree in the backyard. And I had my own friends.
But sometimes you don’t have a choice.
When Dad lost his job a year ago, he had a hard time finding another one. He started traveling a lot, looking for work and taking temporary jobs. We had to get used to his chair being empty at dinnertime. Our plates were never empty, at least, but sometimes the only food on the table was out of food storage and the garden.
One day I was at the table studying, when Dad suddenly walked into the kitchen, grinning. Mom was at the sink, fixing dinner. Dad took the squash out of her hand, set it on the counter, and grabbed her around the waist. “I think the next dance belongs to me,” he said. Then he started to whistle and dance with her.
Emily, Timothy, and Nathan were all upstairs. They came running down when they heard Dad’s happy voice. Melanie came in the back door, too, just then. She had been out delivering newspapers.
Mom was laughing. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you so happy?”
“I finally have a permanent job—a really good one—again!”
Mom started to cry; then Dad started to cry. Suddenly we were all crying and laughing and hugging each other. It felt wonderful.
“The only thing is, we’ll have to move,” Dad finally said. He was still smiling, but I felt a weird sort of ache in my stomach.
“Move? Where?” I asked.
“Arkansas.”
Arkansas. I didn’t know anything about Arkansas. But suddenly Dad’s having a job didn’t sound like such a great thing after all. I knew how hard we had all been praying for him to get one, but I couldn’t see why Heavenly Father didn’t find him one right here.
I didn’t sleep well that night. The next day, I asked Mom, “If Heavenly Father is so powerful, why couldn’t Dad’s job be right here. Why do we have to give up our home?”
She didn’t answer right away, but kept folding towels. I watched her smooth a nice, fluffy green one and set it on the pile.
“Maybe it’s time for us to grow some more,” she said finally. “Maybe there are things we need to learn that we can’t learn here.”
“I can learn here just fine. I get good grades in school.”
“Ben, school is important. But this whole life is like school, and there are lots of lessons for you to learn outside the classroom.”
“I can learn outside the classroom here too.”
“It’s hard to move,” she admitted. “It’s hard for all of us. But, Ben, I have confidence in Heavenly Father and in our family. Your father and I think that Heavenly Father wants him to take this job. It’s always been hard for people to give up their homes, but sometimes Heavenly Father knows that it’s what we need.” She smiled, hugged me, and handed me the pile of towels. “Please put these away for me.”
After putting away the towels, I put on my roller blades and headed toward the park. Sometimes I like to talk to Heavenly Father while I’m rolling along. I know Mom and Dad do the same sort of thing, just not on roller blades. Dad says it’s good to pray whenever and wherever we need help, not just when we’re kneeling down. He says that prayer always helps when you’re working on a problem.
Well, this sure looked like a problem to me. There weren’t any other people around, so I said right out loud, “Heavenly Father, this is really hard for me. I don’t want Dad to be out of work, and I don’t want to move. Why does it have to be one or the other?”
At the park, I took the skating path, skating slowly along and listening for an answer to my prayer. No answer came, but it felt good to be on wheels, and the mountains ahead of me were beautiful. The sun was shining through the clouds. Just looking at them made me feel better somehow.
Did Arkansas have mountains?
Another question slipped into my mind. What if Mom and Dad were right and Heavenly Father wanted us to move? Who else had moved away from home? Were there any families in the scriptures who moved?
Lehi and his family had to leave Jerusalem, I remembered. And they weren’t the only ones. There were the Jaredites too. And in the Old Testament there was Jacob’s son Joseph. He didn’t go to Egypt because he wanted to, but he still went. And later on, Moses moved everybody out again. After four hundred years, Egypt must have seemed like home, even if the Israelites were slaves there.
I swooped down a dip in the skating path and up a rise on the other side. The more I thought, the more names there were in my head.
Joseph Smith was always leaving his home to escape the mobs. Even Jesus Christ had to leave home.
Missionaries leave home. But that wouldn’t happen to me for a long, long time. Ten years. I hadn’t even lived that long yet.
I stopped suddenly. I left Heavenly Father less than ten years ago to come to earth to live with my family. So I’d done it before. … And I could do it again!
A good feeling rushed through me. “Thanks, Heavenly Father,” I said.
It was time to go home. Mom and Dad had an encyclopedia in the living room, on the shelf under the television. I wanted to look at it. I was going to find out all about Arkansas.

Elisa walked into Primary and sat by her friend Armando.
“Welcome!” Sister Russo said. “Let’s start with a song.”
Elisa sang with her class. “Faith is like a little seed: if planted, it will grow” (Children’s Songbook, 96).
Sister Russo passed out paper and crayons. “Think about what we sang,” she said. “When you plant your seed of faith, it grows into a testimony. Now draw what your testimony would look like if it were a plant.”
Elisa stared at her blank paper. She didn’t know what to draw. She peeked at the plant Armando was drawing. It had a straight stem with lots of leaves. It looked like the basil growing on her apartment balcony. Maybe that was what a testimony was supposed to look like! She used her crayon to draw one like his.
“Please open your scriptures to Alma 32,” Sister Russo said.
They read about planting a seed in your heart and feeling it grow. Elisa looked at her drawing and frowned. Did she have a testimony? What did that even mean? She wanted to ask, but she felt too shy.
When class ended, Elisa didn’t get up right away.
“Is everything OK?” Sister Russo asked.
Elisa glanced down at her drawing again. “I’m not sure I have a testimony. I don’t really know what that means.”
Sister Russo gave Elisa a kind smile. “That’s OK. Do you remember what faith is?”
Elisa nodded. “Believing in something we can’t see?”
“That’s right!” Sister Russo said. “What are some things you believe in?”
That was an easy question. “I believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I believe They love me.”
Sister Russo smiled. “You just shared your testimony! A testimony is what you have faith in.”
Elisa thought about it. “So I already have a testimony?”
“Yes!” Sister Russo held up her scriptures. “And remember what we read today? You nourish the seed by doing things like coming to church. Then your testimony will grow stronger.”
Elisa felt like she understood. “So that’s why we drew our testimonies as plants?”
“Exactly. Because plants grow little by little,” Sister Russo said. “Testimonies are the same way. They usually don’t come all at once. They grow a little at a time.”
Elisa felt better about her drawing. When she got home, she wrote “My Testimony Plant” above her picture. She hung it up by her bed. She knew her testimony was already growing. And she wanted to keep following Jesus so it could grow even bigger!

One summer, my youth choir took a tour to all of the main Church history sites. We had the opportunity to perform concerts in places like Liberty Jail, the Kirtland Temple, and even the Sacred Grove.
While it was a great opportunity to visit the places where the gospel was restored, I had an even more powerful experience realizing that we were preaching the word of God through our music. For instance, as we sang “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), I felt that we were testifying of the Lord’s Church and of the blessings of having the gospel in our lives. I felt that we were bringing people to Christ.
By the time the tour was over, my testimony had been strengthened so much, and I had seen many of the other choir members’ testimonies grow too. I also hope and pray that we were able to touch the lives of the many people who listened to us. By sharing the word of the Lord through music, we had a great missionary experience. I am now preparing for my full-time mission, and I look forward to continuing to preach the gospel.

May I begin by sharing with you a personal experience from a time many years ago when I received an unwelcome but valuable message from my devoted father. After World War II was over, I was married and wanted to get on with my life. My memorable mission was finished before my military service. I was not anxious to become a student again and go back to the university where I had started some eight years before. My intended course would require another three years of intensive study, discipline, and poverty. With all of this in mind I said to my father, “I don’t think I will go back to school. I’ll just get a job or start a business and go forward in my life.” Now, my father had completed law school after World War I as an older student with a wife and three children. His response was typically direct. He said bluntly, “What can you do?” His answer was so brutally honest that it hurt, but I could not ignore it. I went back to the university and completed the course. This frank but well-intentioned message changed my life.

I took my college entrance exams, filled out applications, and sorted through the letters offering track scholarships. A mission was only two years away. I took a part-time job at a restaurant to help save money for it.
Mom was doing great and Dad landed a promotion at work, one that took him off the dock and into an office. He was almost 50, and I was happy to know that his days of heavy physical labor were over.
On the track, my times kept improving. I hadn’t lost a race in two years, but my streak was in jeopardy. At an invitational meet in Sacramento, I was going to race the top runners from California, including Michael Banks, a senior from Los Angeles.
I had never met him but knew his reputation. On Mondays at practice my coach kept me apprised of Michael Bank’s achievements. “You were good on Friday, Tom. But Banks was two seconds faster.”
“Tomorrow’s the big race?” my father asked innocently the night before the meet.
“It is. I’ve never been so nervous about a race in my life.”
“You run in a circle four times; then it’s over. What’s so tough about that?” he kidded. “You’ll do fine, Tom. I’ll leave work and drive up to see you.”
My father was a stake clerk and went to a meeting of the stake presidency that night. I was asleep when he got home, yet he had already left for work when I arose just after six.
“Couldn’t Dad sleep?” I asked my mother at breakfast.
“No. He met with the stake president last night. He has something to tell you, but I’ll let him do so in his own way.”
I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell me, and I didn’t think of it again. Michael Banks and his fearsome times were crowding out everything else.
“Good luck. We’ll be there to watch and we’ll be proud of you whether you win or not.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I left for a half-day of school before driving to Sacramento with my coach.
Almost 11 hours later I stood at the starting line in the fifth lane. A half-dozen other boys stretched and shook their arms, preparing for the race. Tension was thick, a very real presence. My stomach was wound tight and I felt a little sick. Michael Banks stood two lanes away, looking confident, hands on his hips, staring down the track. We had met in the tunnel on the way to the track. He nodded in my direction and I murmured hello. That was all.
My coach gave me a few last-minute instructions. “Take the lead early in the fourth lap. If you don’t, Banks will out kick you down the stretch. You have the better stamina, but you can’t match his kick. Good luck, Tom. You’ll give it your best, I know.”
We were called to our marks. I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see my parents. I tried to block the worry from my mind. Concentrate, I must concentrate, I repeated softly. Your parents are in the stands. Don’t worry. The starter raised his pistol, and it cracked into the air. Arms and legs rushed, and there was a jostling of elbows as we started around the first corner. I began talking to myself in my mind.
How do I feel? Legs are tight, relax. Who’s on my shoulder? Don’t get boxed in. Breathe, breathe, relax. Keep your arm motion smooth. Glide, not too fast. Where’s Banks?
Glide, glide. Move outside when you can. Was that Banks in the lead? No. Maybe neither of us will win. Wouldn’t that be something. Don’t make your move yet. Do I have enough left in me to even make a move? You’ll die by the fourth lap. Remember what the coach said.
The second lap was nearing an end. My head hurt and I could taste blood in my mouth. I guessed I was in fifth place. My legs were rubbery. I didn’t have much.
Maintain, just maintain. Let your mouth go slack. Glide a lap … Oh, what’s the use? You don’t have it today, Tom. Banks has this one.
My pace slowed a bit. I was on the inside lane. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar face, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on the infield. It was my father.
Quick strides brought me within hearing range. What was he shouting?
“Tommy … !”
Yes, Father.
“… Paula—you’re an uncle.”
What? An uncle? A boy or a girl? Get this race over, Rosa. You’re an uncle!
I forced my arms to pump faster. I moved to the outside and fought past two runners. Third place now and Banks clearly in the lead.
Paula, she isn’t due for two more weeks. But … But … a new baby in the family!
My pace quickened. I took over second place. Only Michael Banks loomed ahead. My lungs burned and my legs ached. Still, I managed to pull even with him. In unison, Michael Banks and I ran, leaving the others behind. We came around the bend again. There was my dad, shouting jubilantly.
“Tommy …”
The crowd was going berserk as Banks and I matched strides. Could I hear my father? I drew nearer and heard only two words: “You will!”
I will … I will … Now!
I moved inches ahead with a half-lap to go. Now! My fists rammed forward; my legs pounded the track. The lead grew to a foot, then a yard. I heard Michael Banks’ strained breathing behind me. Never had a race been so hard for me.
A baby!—Paula was a mom. My mom was a grandmother. And my father, a grandfather, who somehow made his way to the infield because he knew I needed to hear him.
I rounded the last corner, now in a dead sprint, my chest heaving.
Remember Banks’ kick. Don’t hold anything back. Pump your arms, run on your toes.
The tape loomed ahead. I frantically ran toward it. A few yards away, I stumbled, fought to keep my balance, and broke across the finish line. Michael Banks whisked in behind me. I turned and we threw our arms around each other. “Great race, man,” he gasped. “You ran inspired.”
“You’ll never know,” I panted.
I walked to the grassy infield. I knew that I should keep moving, but my legs refused. I sat down, then leaned back. I looked up into the clear, blue sky. A face filled it, the face of my father.
Some boys, they say things about their fathers. They say they aren’t friends, that there is too much of a difference for them to understand each other. They say they don’t know if their fathers love them. I feel an emptiness for those boys and their fathers. When thousands were shouting in a very tough race, it was my father’s voice that I listened for and heard.
On the way home, my parents told me why they were late. They got a phone call from Paula’s husband just as they were leaving. When they arrived at the stadium, the race had just started. One look told Father that I was struggling. Before he stopped to think about it, he was at the edge of the stands heading to the infield. He said he thought it was the only chance for me to know he was there.
“What a day,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I suppose that’s what happens when the stake president asks you to serve as the bishop.”
He said it so casually that the impact didn’t hit me for a few seconds. My dad was going to be the bishop of our ward!

I guess I always knew that Mom, Dad, and Grandma were Mormons. Sometimes Grandma took me and my brother to her church, but my family didn’t go to Sunday meetings. I wasn’t a member of any church.
I never really talked about religion with my friends. I had seen my friend Lynsi at Grandma’s church, but other than that, religion didn’t come up much.
Then one day at school, Lynsi said, “Karisa, I’m getting baptized this weekend. Would you like to come?”
I couldn’t go, but I started wondering what baptism was. How did Lynsi decide to be baptized? Did she have to take a test? Why did she have to be baptized at all?
A long time passed, and I couldn’t hold all these questions inside anymore. I decided to ask my mom about baptism and about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“Well, Dad and I were baptized in that church when we were kids, but we haven’t gone to church in a long time,” Mom said.
“What does a person do to be baptized?” I asked.
“Usually people who want to know more about the Church talk to missionaries. They teach people about what they believe,” Mom explained.
“Can I talk to the missionaries then?” I asked.
Mom looked uncertain. “I’m not sure, Karisa,” she said. “Asking the missionaries to teach you is a big commitment. You have to be willing to attend church regularly and live what they teach you. Are you ready to do that?”
“Yes, I promise, Mom!” I didn’t know why I said that. The missionaries hadn’t even taught me anything yet.
“We’ll talk about it again later,” Mom said.
The next day I couldn’t tell if Mom was willing to invite the missionaries over, so I started on my homework. But all I could think about was asking the missionaries about baptism and what they believe.
A little while later there was a knock on the door. My brother Kaleb answered and called for my parents.
I was surprised when Mom, Dad, and Kaleb entered the family room with two strangers.
Mom looked at me and said, “Karisa, these are the missionaries. Did you ask someone to send them here?”
My eyes widened as I looked at the two young men wearing dark pants, white shirts, and ties. One held a blue book with gold words on the cover. Their name tags said Elder Kamalu and Elder Hengen.
“No,” I said. “But I really hoped they would visit soon.”
Elder Kamalu smiled. “May we share a message with your family?” he asked my dad.
Dad nodded his head and even smiled a little. The missionaries didn’t stay for very long, but they left the blue book for us to read. It’s called the Book of Mormon. They asked if I would read the first page of it. I promised I would, but I still had so many questions. I couldn’t wait to get more answers!

Few are aware of the pure Christian service being administered at refugee camps in Thailand and in the Philippines by our missionary sisters. Basically, these sisters are restricted to teaching the English language and Western culture, but there is a deeper teaching that takes place through their pure love and sweet attitude toward these displaced people.
The story is told of a young camp refugee from Cambodia who was relocated in California. He found his way into one of our Church meetinghouses because the name of the Church on the sign out front corresponded with the one he used to look at each day on the name tag of the wonderful missionary sister who taught him at the camp. People don’t soon forget acts of simple kindness. Pure love can transcend all differences.

Sister Linda K. Burton told the story of a stake Relief Society president who, working with others, collected quilts for people in need during the 1990s. “She and her daughter drove a truck filled with those quilts from London to Kosovo. On her journey home she received an unmistakable spiritual impression that sank deep into her heart. The impression was this: ‘What you have done is a very good thing. Now go home, walk across the street, and serve your neighbor!’”

Mei Ling has also discussed the gospel with many of her school friends.

“In the beginning I didn’t think about helping my classmates know about the Church,” she said. “But by the beginning of December I was very happy in the Church and everybody wondered why I was so happy. They asked me about it so I told them about the gospel, brought them to meetings, and introduced them to the missionaries.

“But when I first took my friends to be taught by the missionaries, my friends were quite nervous. Besides, to hear, for the first time, a foreigner speaking Chinese, often creates communication problems. Sometimes the missionaries would ask them questions which they couldn’t make out and did not know how to answer. Afterward, my classmates would say that they dared not go back because they couldn’t understand everything.”

Mei Ling decided that perhaps she could help. She started talking to her friends prior to their meetings with the missionaries, bearing her own testimony, and reviewing some of the concepts that the missionaries would be teaching.

“For example, if they were going to be talking about where men go after death, I would make a chart for my classmates, on which I would list questions. Then I would also list revelations and commandments given to the prophets and outline some of the major ideas.”

The results have been impressive. “There are about 30 classmates of mine who have joined the Church.”

As I came into the kitchen, my big brother Matt was saying to Mom, “I think just you, Dad, me, and Abby should be in on it. I don’t think he can keep a secret.” He was talking about me! “I can too keep a secret!” I said.
Mom smiled. “On Monday nights, the Family Night Phantom secretly leaves treats on people’s doorsteps. How would you like us to become the Phantom?”
“What a great idea!” I wanted to go right then, but Mom said that we had to wait until Monday.
Tonight we decided to deliver cookies and notes from the “Phantom” to two new families in our ward, the Kennedys and the Jensens. With Mom at the wheel to make a quick getaway, Dad and Abby did the ringing and running at the Kennedys’. Then it was my turn. Matt and I walked quietly up to the Jensens’ porch, laid the cookies down, rang the doorbell, and ran. The Phantom was a success!
For this week’s adventure, Mom said, “Why don’t you each choose a family?” I wanted to phantom my best friend, Kyle Stephens.
During the family home evening lesson, Abby talked about how Jesus helps lonely people. That made me think.
“Mom, do you think Sister Hart would like chocolate cupcakes?” She was an older lady in the ward who lived alone.
“I’m sure that she would, Jeremy. Why?”
“I changed my mind. Let’s leave the treat at her house instead.”
We had a great time phantoming. Sister Hart almost caught me! I was at the edge of her driveway when I heard the door open, so I dove behind the hedge. I heard her say, “How nice! What a wonderful treat.”
Later that week, Matt said that his friends thought that the Phantom was the Bennetts.
“Well,” Dad said, “I think that puts the Bennetts on the top of our list to phantom next week!”
I came home from school on Monday to the wonderful smell of homemade bread, our Phantom treat for the week. “Who should we phantom tonight, besides the Bennetts?” Mom asked me.
I had been thinking about it all day. “The Barneses are moving and are probably busy packing. And Sister Bradley has been sick, so her family could use a treat.”
Mom gave me a kiss and said, “You’re really something. Tonight it’ll be bread for the three Bs!”
A few days later, Dad came home from a meeting at church. He had seen a note on the ward bulletin board marked FAMILY NIGHT PHANTOM. It read: “Thanks for the bread. We didn’t have a family home evening dessert planned, so it came in handy. Keep up the good work. From the Barneses.” Mom said that we had to secretly remove the note and put it in our family scrapbook.
During dinner on Sunday, Mom told us that after church Sister Simpson and Sister Bennett had discussed the Phantom. They wanted to get “revenge,” but on whom?
On Monday, I had news of my own. “Tyler Bennett asked me who I thought the Phantom was. It was hard not to smile! Then he said his family is going out tonight armed with 10 loaves of banana bread.”
“We can’t match that, but I do think it’s time to phantom ourselves,” Mom said.
“Great idea,” Matt agreed. “If the Phantom visits us, no one will suspect us!”
That night I delivered popcorn balls to my own door. We were sitting in the kitchen munching away when the doorbell rang. Matt opened the door to find a plate of cookies on the porch and not a person in sight! “Are you sure Tyler said that his family was delivering banana bread?” Mom asked.
We decided to hurry and finish phantoming before we ran into other Phantoms. We chose Bishop Stephens’s family (including Kyle!) and the Garcias.
Back at home, we began our family home evening lesson. Mom asked us to name activities that draw a family closer. Dad said, “Family prayer.” Abby thought of scripture reading. Matt mentioned camping together during the summer. “Don’t forget the Family Night Phantom,” I said. “That has brought us closer.”
“I think you’re right, Jeremy,” Dad agreed.
“So serving together brings a family closer,” Mom concluded.
Our night wasn’t over. When we were almost settled into bed, the doorbell rang—for the third time! We all ran for the door. On the porch was a loaf of banana bread. What a night!
No one has accused us of being the Phantom, so I think our secret is still safe. Tonight we have brownies, ready for delivery to three more unsuspecting ward families. The Family Night Phantom rides again!
“Loving service anonymously given may be unknown to man—but the gift and the giver are known to God.”President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, “‘Anonymous,’” Ensign, May 1983, 57.

One day at school, I heard that a boy was being bullied. I felt sad. No one should be treated that way.
Later that day, our grade had a party. The boy who had been bullied earlier came to the party and sat by himself. When I saw him, I remembered what had happened. I heard a voice tell me to sit by him. But I didn’t want to be the only one sitting by him. He’ll be fine, I thought. He doesn’t need someone to sit next to him. I pushed the feeling away.
The voice came to me again, stronger. Go sit by him.
I looked at the boy. He looked lonely and sad. OK, I thought. When I sat down by him, he looked uncomfortable. I told him my name and asked him about himself. At first, I was nervous. But as we talked, I felt peaceful. And he didn’t look lonely or sad anymore.
When he had to go back to class, I said I’d talk to him later. He smiled a little and said OK. My teacher came to me and said, “Thank you, Sierra. That was very kind.” I just nodded my head.
The rest of the day went by quickly, but that peaceful feeling didn’t go away. I knew I did the right thing. Sometimes people aren’t treated right when they’re different. I don’t like it, but it happens.
We are all God’s children. We should treat others kindly. If we do this, I know that God will bless us.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.” She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough. When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.” Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same person as God? How do you know that He doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
C. You all three go back to the tire swing and have a lot of fun. After a while, Julie’s mom picks her up and Tasha walks home. You’re glad that she and Julie have become friends too.
This is the end of the story—unless you want to do a little more missionary work. If you do, go to G.

The clouds hung low and white over the small town of Liberty Bell that twenty-sixth day of December 1908. Sarah Moseley made her way from her family’s house at the end of the street toward the boardwalk, where her new dress would get a brief respite from mud-spraying wagon wheels.
Sarah’s family had been laboring under the stressful effects of no income in recent months, but her mother had managed to rummage up sufficient materials from an old attic chest to fashion a beautiful patchwork dress for Sarah. It was the only gift she had received for Christmas the day before, and she was fitly grateful for and proud of it.
As she continued along the street, she turned the collar of her frayed wrap up around her neck to ward off the biting chill of wind and lightly driven snow. Suddenly someone wearing a tattered sheepskin coat stepped out in front of her. He had a tangle of red hair, and a crooked scowl on his face. Toby Wilder! Last week he had asked Sarah for some answers to a test in Miss Cornaby’s class, and Sarah had refused. Now he looked ready for revenge. “I would have passed that test if you had given me those answers,” he growled.
“There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” Sarah said, swallowing hard, “and cheating is wrong.”
Toby glared at her, then pushed her back toward the edge of the boardwalk. “There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” he mimicked. “You think you know all there is to know about what is and what isn’t, don’t you little Miss High-and-Mighty.”
He glanced up and down the street through the haze of falling snow. No one was in sight. Shoving her roughly off the boardwalk, he laughed derisively and swaggered away as she pulled herself up from the street mire. Her eyes filled with tears as she wiped at the icy ooze on her new Christmas dress and headed for the store.
The bell above the door jangled as Sarah stepped into John Walton’s Mercantile Store. The man behind the counter looked at her with concern.
“What happened, Sarah?” he asked.
“Toby Wilder,” she sighed.
Mr. Walton nodded. “That’s not the first time he’s done something like that. Warm yourself by the stove there.” When Sarah hesitated, he added kindly, “Go on, child. There’s no sense in all that warmth going to waste, now, is there?”
“I guess not,” Sarah responded. “It’s just that you’ve given us so much these past few months, all our food and such, that I just don’t feel right about taking the only spot in front of your stove.”
“Sarah Moseley,” Mr. Walton declared, “since when did I keep anybody away from my potbellied stove?”
Sarah smiled in gratitude and stepped in front of the stove. Mr. Walton came out from behind the counter and pulled up a chair in front of Sarah. He sat down and spoke privately. “After that boxcar explosion at the depot last September, it’s a wonder your father is still alive. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s up and about.” He pushed a wisp of damp hair from Sarah’s eye. “Your father is a good man,” Mr. Walton continued. “He’ll pay me back when he’s able. Now give me that shopping list I know you have.” Sarah obliged him. “Besides,” he added as he stood with a little grunt, “it’s Christmas time, isn’t it?”
Sarah’s face wrinkled with curiosity. “What do you mean, Mr. Walton?”
“Christ gave His life for you and me, Sarah, not to mention for those that crucified Him. It seems the least I can do is give a can of beans and”—he checked Sarah’s list—“a box of baking soda and the like to people I love. Of course, that’s easy. The trick is giving to, or doing something for, someone you don’t like. Now there’s the real test. The problem is that I like everybody.” He laughed. “Well, almost everybody.”
Sarah watched Mr. Walton climb the ladder behind the counter. A ray of winter sun made his face radiant. “Why is it so important to be nice to people who are mean to you?” she asked.
Mr. Walton reached for a box of baking soda on a high shelf, then looked down at the girl below him. “Maybe because the Savior was. Maybe because it’s part of forgiving. It’s the same thing, wouldn’t you say?” He climbed down the ladder and began placing the few gathered items in a sack on the counter. He pushed the groceries across the counter to Sarah. “I have an idea that charity is what Christmas is all about. And forgiveness. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Walton,” Sarah answered, thoughtful.
It wasn’t until Sarah was outside again that she noticed something extra in her sack. A large candy stick. She puzzled over it a moment, then smiled at Mr. Walton’s kindness.
No sooner had Sarah started down the boardwalk in the direction of home than she spied Toby Wilder just ahead, leaning against a pole. His back was to her, and he was looking toward the sun as if he were aching for a little warmth on an otherwise bleak, unfriendly day.
Bracing herself, Sarah stepped up to him. “Toby?”
Toby whirled around. When he saw who it was, he growled, “What’s the matter, Sarah. Didn’t you get wet enough the first time?”
Sarah handed him the candy stick. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Toby didn’t answer. He just stood there gaping.
Sarah glanced back in the direction of the mercantile store, where she could see Mr. Walton looking out the window, waving. She waved back, then turned and continued down the boardwalk toward home.

One reluctant young man who sang bass came to his first rehearsal because of pressure from his friends and parents. He said as he sat in his place, “I don’t know why I’m doing this” and “You are very lucky that I came.” Later in the session I was giving him some individual help (which is not uncommon for many members of the choir—these young people are not musical geniuses, they are just determined to do their best) and suggested that we simplify a section for him. But he said no. “Let’s sing it the way it was written. It’s more fun that way.”

We have not found it necessary, incidentally, to use music that is in the current pop styles. We have successfully ranged from hymns to anthems, to carols and to chorales. When the youth choir performs, other youth sometimes provide the accompaniments.

Our instrumental music program has also brought exciting results. We have young people studying violin, viola, cello, trumpet, French horn, and trombone. All of these have had the opportunity to play in Church functions—in performances ranging from solos to twelve-piece ensembles. We have also given some of our youth instrumentalists the opportunity to play accompaniment to certain choral numbers and occasionally, do preludes or postludes at meetings.

As a sidelight to our instrumental program, we’ve established a ward music scholarship fund. This fund, which was created and is maintained by member donations, is used to provide music lessons or instruments for students who are unable to afford them.

All of our efforts have been well rewarded. At the time of this writing, we have thirty-four young people ages 9 through 17 studying music. Another eleven have studied at least one year, but are presently not involved in the program.

There are two main reasons for our success: First, a view of the ward music chairman as an educator and organizer, not a performer (a nonmusician could be just as effective): and second, an emphasis on the fun and warmth and unity that arise from practicing and performing together. We’re able to learn, serve, associate, and have a great time all at once! That’s an unbeatable combination.

Ours is not a big ward. We have only thirty-six active youth ages twelve to eighteen. But the excitement of those involved in the program has spread, and of those thirty-six, only about six have never studied music. Being involved in the ward music program has become a prestigious thing to do among the youth. And, as one sister said after a youth performance.,“I could just see all the younger children sitting there clearly thinking, ‘Someday I’m going to be up there too.’”

The spiritual roots of my family tree have been strengthened for three generations because of the unwavering faith of my great-grandfather.

Another example in my family history reminds me not to doubt. In 1913 in Mexico, Elder Ernest Young and his companions preached the gospel to my great-great-grandmother Maria de Jesus de Monroy, a widow; her three daughters, Natalia, Jovita, and Guadalupe; and her only son, Rafael—my great-grandfather. They were baptized on June 10. Two months later, citizens of the United States left the country because of the Mexican Revolution.

On August 29, 1913, the day President Rey L. Pratt and all American missionaries were to depart, Rafael Monroy, a 34-year-old convert of two months, went to the mission home to express his concern. “What is going to become of us?” he asked. “There is no organized branch in San Marcos, and we don’t have the priesthood.” Listening to Rafael’s concerns, President Pratt asked him to sit down. He placed his hands on Rafael’s head, conferred on him the Melchizedek Priesthood, ordained him an elder, and set him apart as president of the San Marcos Branch.

Rafael, who understood that his baptismal covenant was sacred and eternal, also understood that he should share the gospel. For 23 months he and his counselor, Vicente Morales, helped in the conversion and baptism of more than 50 people. They preached to dozens more.

Then, on July 17, 1915, the revolution arrived in San Marcos. Revolutionary soldiers accused Rafael and Vicente of belonging to and supporting the opposing army, hiding weapons, and belonging to a strange religion. They took them prisoner, tortured them, and hanged them until they fainted. Then the soldiers gave them one last chance to save their lives. They would be spared if they would renounce their religion. Rafael answered, “I cannot do it, for I know that what I have received is true.”

Rafael and Vicente did not doubt. They acted consistent with their knowledge and testimony. At the end of that day, they were executed by the Liberation Army of the South, giving their lives for what they believed.1

An example of that happy, optimistic spirit is a 13-year-old girl I know named Elsa, whose family is moving to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 1,800 miles (2,900 km) away from her friends. It’s not very easy when you are 13 to move to a new place. Elsa was understandably unsure about the move, so her dad gave her a blessing. At the very moment of the blessing, her mom’s phone chimed with a text. The young women who live in Louisiana had sent this picture with the caption “Please move into our ward!”
These young women were optimistic they would like Elsa without even meeting her. Their enthusiasm created optimism in Elsa about the upcoming move and answered her prayer about whether everything would be all right.

What are some of the best ways to gain a better understanding of someone else’s faith? You could go to official online sources, and that’s pretty good. But if you only search online, that won’t always give you the whole picture. When it comes to really understanding a faith, you can learn a lot by talking to the people who practice it.
And that’s just what some young people in California, USA, are doing.
The mission statement of the Interfaith Youth Council of Orange County (IYCOC) says their goal is to help youth “come together to promote respect, understanding, and appreciation for the integrity of each other’s beliefs, cultures, and traditions.” One way it does this is by hosting an annual Faith Forum and Festival.
Last year’s festival was held on a beautiful Sunday afternoon near the grounds of the Newport Beach California Temple. Over 150 youth from more than a dozen different faiths were able to take a tour of the temple grounds and ask questions about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Missionaries from the California Irvine Mission served as tour guides. They fielded questions from the youth about the basic beliefs of the Church and about the temple. These youth were seeking greater understanding of Latter-day Saints’ faith, and they knew this was a great way to get it.
“It’s better to understand other people’s faiths and not just think of them the way you think they are,” said Mohammed, a Muslim. “You need to actually know what their religion is.”
Nazee, a Zoroastrian, agreed. “These interfaith events bring people together and promote respect and understanding for all religions. I want to reach out to more people to help them to learn about other faiths.”
After the tour, the youth met in a nearby stake center to talk about and share their beliefs. Youth from various faiths were seated at tables together. They asked each other about their traditions and beliefs, their struggles in practicing their faith, and how their faith affects their views of current social issues.
As the youth expressed their beliefs, the conversations became more open. Latter-day Saint youth were able to share their feelings about being sealed together as families for eternity in temples, helping and serving others, why we emphasize the full name of the Church, and even what it’s like walking for miles and miles on a pioneer trek.
In the same discussions, youth of other faiths shared their own beliefs, values, and challenges. One young man of the Sikh faith said he has to live his faith stronger since he is no longer in India surrounded by others of his faith. A Jewish young man expressed the challenge of keeping the Sabbath day holy in today’s society. A young woman shared what it’s like to be one of only three students of her faith at her school.
Some from other countries remembered the joy of celebrating their traditions back home and how it’s different in America, where they’re not as widely celebrated. Others expressed hope that someday there wouldn’t be so many negative stereotypes about their faith.
Representatives of various religions from the youth council stood at the front of the meeting and lit an electric candle as they stated their hope about religion.
“I light this candle in hopes of peace and unity,” Mohammed said.
“I light this candle to support faith education,” Lizzie, a Hindu, said.
“My hope is that we can all find respect for each other that we didn’t have before,” Jessie, a Protestant, said.
Daniel C., who served as the vice president of the interfaith youth council, represented The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and said he hopes “that we can find similarities between our faiths.”
All youth participants took a moment of silence in unity and respect for each other.
“We want there to be more respect and less alienation,” Daniel said. He has attended many “house of worship” tours with the council over the last few years, visiting places such as the local Jain Center, Sikh Center, Buddhist Temple, Islamic institution, and Zoroastrian Center.
“I have much more respect now that I have made friends with people of other faiths and have seen what’s important to them,” Daniel said. “I learned that all religions are rooted in the values of doing good to others and serving your fellowmen. Most religions have beliefs similar to the Golden Rule.”
Daniel’s friends who have participated on the interfaith youth council expressed similar understandings and desires. Raj, of the Sikh faith, said, “I think that these experiences have shown us a lot of the similarities between our faiths, and as a result of that, it’s comforting to see that people are feeling the same way you do.”
“At the end of the day, everyone wants peace, unity,” Mohammed said. “No one wants terrorism; no one wants to hurt others. They just want to have a good society and a good community.”
Learning about different faiths and cultures helped him get rid of misconceptions, Raj said. “There’s so much more to it than what I previously thought. I want to reach out to more people for them to learn about other faiths as well.”
Paige M., one of the Latter-day Saint participants, said, “I think if we can join together with other religions and realize our commonalities instead of our differences, then we can help protect religious freedom and be able to come to understand what everyone else is talking about, gaining a respect for what they believe.”
Understanding, respect, friendship, and love. These are things that people of all faiths strive for. And when we strive for them together, it can be a very powerful thing.

Just before my ordination to the office of a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, an important event transpired in our family. Early one evening Dad received a telephone call. At the conclusion of the call, he privately visited with my mother. She immediately began to tidy up the house, a sure sign we were going to have visitors. In a short while three well-dressed gentlemen knocked at our front door. Before we could tell who the callers were, mother whisked us to the rear of the house and shut the doors to the living room. After a few minutes of discussion with the men, Dad came and asked Mother to join them in the living room. Mom’s departure allowed me the opportunity to go into the kitchen and sit on the floor with my ear next to the living room door to hear what was being said in the next room. It was soon apparent that my dad was receiving a call to serve as the bishop of our ward. What a shock to a prospective deacon!

Tony Wong, reared in the Church with family support, is an exception in Hong Kong. Most Church members are first-generation converts, often with families who don’t understand this “new” religion.
“It was difficult,” acknowledges Camel Lok, who was baptized as a teenager. Her family tolerated her weekly church attendance, but Camel often felt alone in her quest for spiritual growth and learning.
“I couldn’t have done it without my friends in the ward,” she explains. “Meetings on Sunday really strengthened me for the upcoming week.”
Now Camel and her husband, Gary, both returned missionaries, find support from each other and look forward to rearing their daughter with a strong gospel foundation.

I remember as a youth walking with my mother up the dusty road to the bishop’s house in a day when we often paid tithing from our animals and produce. As we walked, I said, “Why do we take the eggs to the bishop?” She answered, “Because they are tithing eggs and the bishop receives the tithing for Heavenly Father.” My mother then recounted how each evening when the eggs were brought in, the first one went into a small basket and the next nine went into a large basket. I first learned the law of tithing from my beloved mother.