Gospel Story Finder

One day I talked back to my mother. Each of us yelled at the other. Our words were hurtful. Later, I opened my scriptures and read about love. I decided to ask my mother to forgive me. She had left, and when she returned, she put a note on my pillow. She said she was sorry. She just expected me to help her more with household chores. After reading her message, I hurried to tell my mother how sorry I was and how much I loved her, while giving her a big hug. It was a wonderful moment. Since that time, the message of love revealed to me in the scriptures has stayed with me, and I have tried to avoid quarreling by speaking to her with kindness. Tell your mother you love her, and she will do the same. Control yourself when something she does irritates you, and instead think about all of her good qualities. Seek to know what she expects of you. I am certain that by your doing this, the situation will resolve itself.
Raquel L., 21, Bourgogne, France

Streamers of crimson, pink, and yellow crepe paper seemed to glow in the California sun. Orange and yellow balloons clung to the peaks of arched Spanish doorways, with strands of multicolored paper serpentines trailing in the breeze. At a dozen booths arranged in a rectangle around the church courtyard, white banners, lettered in black, proclaimed the names of countries from all over the globe.
At one of the booths Svetlana Rudovsky, 17, a descendant of Russian, Italian, and Spanish ancestors, cut and served a tray of apricot pastry typical of her father’s home region in the Soviet Union. She wore a traditional costume with scarlet satin sleeves, a patterned green front, and yellow and black trim. It was bright, but not as bright as her smile.
At another corner of the courtyard, Tina Ksajikian, 13, opened a piece of pita bread and ladled tahini (yogurt) sauce onto a garbanzo bean patty called felafel. She topped the Arabian sandwich with shredded lettuce and handed it to an elderly woman eagerly waiting to try a new kind of food. Felafel is an Arabian dish, but Tina’s booth also offered a sampling of Armenian cuisine. Two large stainless steel bowls to her right contained egg-shaped balls of kufta—a blend of pine nuts, cracked wheat, and lamb.
Next to the bowls of kufta Tina had arranged a small display of Armenian books, most notably a Book of Mormon. “I can read parts of it,” she said. She attends an Armenian school and is learning the language as part of her classwork.
Both Tina and Svetlana are members of the Los Angeles California Stake, and both were serving food at a festival organized and run by the stake’s Young Women. As at almost any Los Angeles stake activity, there were young Latter-day Saints present representing a multitude of backgrounds and nationalities. So many different cultures were represented, in fact, that the festival seemed like a feast for all the world.
Central and South Americans comprise the largest portion of the stake’s young Latter-day Saints who were born outside of the U.S. In fact, there are two Spanish-speaking wards in the stake. “One of the most difficult things for us,” said Bertha Garcia, Young Women president of the Third Ward, “was to decide which countries we could represent at the festival. We finally decided on Guatemala, because that’s my native land. But we also did El Salvador and Mexico.”
Each country’s booth featured young ladies wearing native costumes and serving traditional national dishes. Cultural displays including posters, postcards, books, souvenirs, crafts, and artwork were also scattered around the covered lanai adjacent to the meetinghouse.
Louise W. La Count, stake Young Women president, said that the “Cultural Cook-off” was organized to encourage the Los Angeles Stake youth to appreciate each other’s background. “The stake is composed of a real potpourri of nationalities,” she explained. “A lot of the elderly people meet in the Wilshire Ward, and there are also the Korean and Chinese branches there. There are the Spanish-speaking wards, and the Hollywood Ward includes a lot of Armenian and Arabic members. The Westwood First and Second wards seem to have a high number of Americans with Scandinavian ancestors, so they chose to represent both America and Scandinavia.”
And, of course, everyone in the stake was invited to come taste treats and learn about other lands. By about 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon, members, families, missionaries, and investigators were wandering through a courtyard filled with foreign fragrances, new customs, and friendly, knowledgeable young women. Youngsters slurped up genuine Italian spaghetti, fathers tried to open wide enough to bite an all-American hot dog, and two college coeds from the UCLA Ward exulted over the delicious plátanos con crema (bananas with cream) offered to them by El Salvadorians.
Dressed in an elegant red and black Chinese gown, 15-year-old Mimi Chu of the Wilshire Ward described the mixture of cabbage, carrots, bamboo shoots, celery, water chestnuts, and mushrooms used as a stuffing in egg rolls. Mimi is the only member of the Church in her immediate family, but she said that family love is strong in her home, and “it’s not that hard.” “Support from friends and other members of the Church helps a lot,” she said. “My family runs a restaurant, and a lot of the members come there to eat.”
At a booth surrounded by shrubbery and bamboo, Kim Phuong Ho, 12, of the Westwood Second Ward, offered fried rice to onlookers and also talked about Vietnam, the country her family fled during time of war. “We came over when I was in second grade,” she said. “Since then, most of my friends have been American.”
Cotton puffs and red and blue ribbons outlined the wooden counter where Julianna Rees, 14, of the Westwood Second Ward, delivered crusty, powdered sugar-coated Scandinavian dessert rosettes to her customers. She explained how the cookies are made by dipping an iron into batter, then into hot oil. “I got the recipe from my grandmother,” she said.
Her friend Margaret Stohl, 13, from the Westwood First Ward, grinned and said, “I learned how to make them from my grandmother, too. Scandinavian grandmothers and cookies—they go together. When I was making my cookies, I was talking to my grandmother and she said she got her cookie iron for Christmas when she was seven years old. That was neat for me because I just got my cookie iron for Christmas, too.”
It seemed only natural for the chefs to swap recipes and for descendents to share stories of the influence, past and present, of their heritage. Svetlana told how her mother’s friends from the Greek Orthodox Church had volunteered to help cook food for the Mormons. Tina discussed her struggles to maintain an LDS identity at her Armenian school. In between serving slices of leche flan, a rich custard topped with burnt-sugar caramel, Maryjoy Morato, 17, of the Wilshire Ward, told how missionaries in the Philippines contacted her family and shared with them the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“They just knocked on the door one day,” she said. “But they were always welcome in our home because they would talk about good things.” Exposed to the light of the restored gospel, the entire family eventually joined the Church. Maryjoy’s father died, her mother remarried, and the family moved to America. “Members here are the same as in the Philippines,” she said. “There’s no change. They’re all nice.”
Laura Sanchez and Claudia Sosa, both 12, are members of the Los Angeles Third Ward. Both arrived in the U.S. just months ago, Laura from El Salvador and Claudia from Mexico. They would agree with Maryjoy that fellowship among the Saints is universal. “One of the reasons I know this is the true Church is because I always feel the same spirit,” Laura said. Their friend Maria de los Angeles Valenzuela, 17, from the same ward, expressed the same idea. Asked through an interpreter if there is a friendliness among Church members no matter what language they speak, she enthusiastically responded, “¡Sí, sí, sí!”
Many of the young women who participated in the festival spent hours with their mothers, relatives, and friends learning recipes, preparing food, sharing stories about “the old country,” and telling each other about parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and traditions. They shared their spirit of love and appreciation for who they are and where they came from with each other, and later with those who came to take part in their celebration. They rejoiced together in the fellowship of the gospel, and in that small way, perhaps, invited everyone everywhere to join in another sort of banquet—the spiritual feast of the gospel, a feast to which the door is always open.

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

Returning home one Tuesday night, I was surprised to find everyone but my mom asleep. During the few weeks since I completed my first year of college, I felt almost guilty turning out my light and going to bed when I knew my sister Hailey was down the hall staying up until all hours of the night rushing to complete math assignments, term projects, and study for end-of-school tests. But tonight Hailey’s light wasn’t on.
I didn’t think I’d gotten home late and asked my mom why everyone else was in bed. She said that the usually cheerful and conversational Hailey had returned home from her ninth grade dance an hour before, not said much more than “Goodnight,” and gone to bed.
I decided to see how she was doing. I entered her bedroom, sat down on the floor, and asked, “So … how was it?”
A simple, “Fine,” was all I got.
Not knowing if I should leave the room and go to bed myself or keep pressing, I filled up time by saying, “So …”
“And no, I didn’t dance with anyone,” she finished, thinking she would spare me the effort of asking the question she was sure would be next.
“Oh, Hailey, that’s OK,” I said. But I knew that inside her 15-year-old mind it wasn’t.
I told her that believe it or not, several girls went home that night feeling the exact same way she did. And that there would likely be other dances when she’d feel like she’d danced the night away that would more than make up for the bad ones. And that most importantly, her worth as a beautiful 15-year-old young woman had not diminished in my eyes, or most especially in the eyes of her Heavenly Father.
So that she’d know I wasn’t just saying those things to be nice but that I was truly sincere, I reached back into my teenage past and dusted off experiences that I had hoped I would forget and had never planned on sharing with anyone.
By the time I’d uncovered all of my deep, dark dancing disappointments, Hailey and I were laughing hysterically, and I was grateful I could dispel some of her fears.
As I returned to my bedroom, I felt like I had gained the smallest understanding of our Savior’s empathy for us in our trials. Because I had experienced similar feelings and experiences as Hailey, I was better able to comfort her in her frustrations. I felt an overwhelming gratitude for my Savior, who took upon Himself our “infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he [might] know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities” (Alma 7:12).
Although I was grateful I could help that night, I won’t always be able to understand all of Hailey’s pain, fear, and disappointment, but her Savior will, as He understands all of our pains. And if we ask our Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, I know that He knows how to make them light.

I might mention here an experience of a young couple. This young lady and her husband (they had two children, a tiny girl and a baby two weeks old) graduated from college, and he had a business opportunity in Salt Lake City. So they moved to Salt Lake City.
They, of course, were active in the Church, and Bishop Bowles—it was in the Belvedere Ward—called them in the first week they were there. The bishop said, “We’re building a new building, and we need all the help we can get. Are you willing to serve?” They both said they were. And he said, “Would you like to suggest where you’d like to serve?”
That’s a little unusual in the Church, but she was happy for that. She was a teacher. She said she’d like to teach in the Sunday School or in the Young Women. So the following Sunday she was sustained as second counselor in the presidency of the Relief Society! Now, she protested and used the word shocked, and this is a quote: “That organization is for my mother, not for me.” She said she had no experience, and, I quote again, “I have no desire to learn.”
Well, the bishop prevailed, as bishops will, and she answered the call. They held Relief Society in a dismal room in the basement of the chapel because of remodeling and construction. It was in the furnace room. While the furnace was on, it was terrible, and when the furnace was off, it was intolerable. Her children caught cold. On at least two occasions she went to the bishop and asked to be released. On both occasions the bishop said he’d think about it.
Finally, she was in a very serious automobile accident. After some period of treatment, she was recovering at home. Part of the injury was a terrible laceration of her face. This became infected, and they called a doctor one Sunday night. He made preparation for some further attention, but he said, “I think we can’t touch this surgically; it’s too close to the nerve in your face.” He gave her what attention he could and explained how grave the situation was.
It was as the doctor was leaving that Sunday night when the bishop appeared at the door, after a long, busy day, as Sundays will be for a bishop. He said, “I was just on my way home from some interviews and saw the light on and wondered if there was trouble here.” This woman was in agony. When the bishop said, “Is there anything we can do for you?” she answered from her pain and with tears, “Yes, bishop. Now will you release me from the Relief Society?” He said he would pray about it. And when the answer came back, it was, “Sister Spafford, I still don’t get the feeling that you should be released from the Relief Society.”
This great and lovely woman, who for many years presided over our Relief Society in the Church, was tested in those early days of her life. I think that something like that may come to many of us, most of us, when we’re being tested, as it were.

One such time came before a gathering of hundreds in a hotel ballroom in Vietnam in November of 2019.

President Nelson met with a group of young single adults, who were given the opportunity to ask the Prophet a few questions. With the questions complete and the meeting coming to a close, President Nelson paused and said he would take one more question. The room stilled as the young woman he selected next spoke about her experience with emotional and sexual abuse. “How can we know we are not to blame and worthy to follow God and that He will accept us when we do?” she questioned.

President Nelson spoke about the mortal experience. “We come to this earth for two purposes — to get a body and to be tested,” he said. “Everyone will have bad things happen to them. … What we become is how we handle the very hard things in life. The main thing is to develop faith in God, faith in Jesus Christ and know you will be talking to Them one day. …. With faith you can overcome. The Lord will say, ‘Well done.’”

After the gathering, President Nelson and his wife, Sister Wendy W. Nelson, walked straight to the young woman. President Nelson offered private counsel. Sister Nelson, a mental health counselor by profession, embraced her. “You were beautiful before the abuse,” she whispered. “You are beautiful after the abuse. It wasn’t your fault.” [12]

A sweet spirit filled the room. The young woman wept. I knew at that moment that I had witnessed a miracle — a healing of an ailment no less isolating or debilitating than leprosy was for those in the Savior’s day.

“Hello, Sheri! Are you there?” a friendly voice crackled from the shortwave radio. Australia’s School of the Air classes were ready to begin.
Sheri North sat up straight, arranged her school books a little, and adjusted the radio dial labeled squelch.
“I’m here, Mr. Walker,” she told her teacher.
Mr. Walker sat in an almost empty classroom a hundred miles away at Broken Hill in New South Wales, Australia.
Sheri listened attentively while Mr. Walker finished calling the roll. Then she heard a horse whinny and her mind wandered outside to where Jumper, her pinto pony, pawed the parched earth of his pen. She glanced at the calendar above her desk—December 22—two more days and she’d be free for Christmas vacation. Though it was only nine o’clock, the hot, dry air told her the day would be another scorcher.
It’s funny, she thought, how my cousin in the United States always sends Christmas cards showing ice and snow. She’d probably be surprised to know that south of the equator we have summer in December and winter in July.
“Sheri! Sheri North! Come in!” an anxious voice shouted.
Sheri’s daydreams were shattered by Mr. Walker’s call over the radio.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Walker,” Sheri said as she pressed the microphone switch. “I guess my mind wandered.”
“Thank heavens you’re still there! I thought for a minute that you had disappeared too.”
“What do you mean too?” Sheri asked.
“Do you know Donny Fisher? He lives about ten miles north of you.”
“Sure, he’s a little red-haired boy my cousin sometimes plays with. He’s the only other eight-year-old in the whole neighborhood.”
“Well, he doesn’t answer his radio this morning; and he hasn’t missed a single day of class since we started this term. Do you think your father could drive over and see if the family is having some kind of trouble?”
Sheri tried to stifle her fears for a moment as thoughts of danger flashed through her mind. She knew families living in Australia’s outback (isolated rural countryside) had to be self-sufficient—modern-day pioneers, her father always called them. They were so isolated from each other, they even held church services over the shortwave radio.
Sheri’s father insisted that all his children learn to use a fire extinguisher, for there were no fire engines available. He taught them to shoot a rifle to drive off the dingos (wild dogs) that sometimes frightened the cattle with their wolf-like howling. Even her two-year-old brother was beginning to ride a horse, for horses were the only sure transportation across the parched, dry desert where cars and trucks habitually broke down.
“My father is out with the sheep,” Sheri explained. “He’s been gone three days and we don’t expect him home until tomorrow.”
“What about your mother?” Mr. Walker asked. “Could she go see if they need help?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so. The baby is feverish and my mother can’t leave her when she’s so sick.”
“Then you’ll have to go,” Mr. Walker said in a firm voice. “It’s quite a responsibility, Sheri, but you’re the oldest in your family. People must grow up fast out here if they expect to survive.”
Sheri gulped hard. It wasn’t the ten miles that bothered her so much—she could ride that far in less than two hours—what worried her most was how she could help when she arrived. What if their house has burned down and they’re all dead? What if they’ve been attacked by outlaw aborigines or by a pack of dingos? What could I possibly do to help?
“All right . … I’ll go if my mother says it’s OK,” she hesitantly agreed. “But I want you to know I’m plenty scared! I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“Look. You just radio me, and if they’re sick or hurt, I’ll send a flying doctor over in a plane to help out. You won’t be alone for long,” Mr. Walker consoled.
“Just one more thing,” Sheri added. “You won’t mark me absent from school, will you?”
“No, I’ll give you full credit,” Mr. Walker chuckled. “Now skedaddle and get moving. Don’t forget to take a canteen, and don’t ride too fast. You can wear out a horse in no time at all in this heat.”
“I’ll be careful,” Sheri assured him.
Within minutes Sheri had saddled and mounted Jumper. Her mother slung a pair of heavy saddlebags behind Jumper’s saddle. Then she smiled and patted Sheri’s knee.
“There’s a first-aid kit in this side,” Mother explained, pointing to one bag. “I’ve packed a lunch in the other one and also a pistol. Don’t use it unless you have to!”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t. I hate the loud bang and the way it kicks,” Sheri said, nudging her horse and trotting away.
“Radio me when you get there so I can stop worrying,” her mother called.
Sheri waved, but didn’t look back. Her mind was on the problems ahead. She rode past scattered dwarf acacia trees, saltbush shrubs, and tough spinifex grass growing in large clumps in the sandy areas.
Suddenly, Jumper pulled up short, rearing on his hind legs so quickly he almost threw Sheri from the saddle.
A large red kangaroo leaped from a bush in front of them. He was followed by another and then two more.
Sheri sighed, then called after them, “G’wan home you crazy wallaroos!”
The sun was high when the Fisher Sheep Station (ranch) appeared on the horizon. Sheri spotted a man on horseback and Jumper broke into a gallop.
Approaching the jackaroo (apprentice sheepherder) and his dog, Sheri was puzzled to see everything appearing pretty much as normal.
“Hold up there, young lady!” the man called. “What’s the big rush?”
“I rode over to help save the Fisher family,” Sheri said.
“Save ’em?” The man looked confused. “Save ’em from what? The ants or the lizards?”
“No! You don’t understand.” Sheri didn’t appreciate his dry sense of humor. “Mr. Walker, my teacher, sent me over to save them when Donny didn’t answer the radio at roll call this morning. I’ve got to help!”
The man burst out laughing, but stopped when he saw a tear run down Sheri’s cheek. “Hey, look, miss, if you really want to help and you don’t mind getting your hands greasy, you can ride over there to the tool repair shop and help Mr. Fisher fix the electric generator. He’s been working on it since late last night, and I’m sure he’d be happy to have all the help he can get.”
“You mean Donny didn’t answer the radio because there’s no electricity?”
“Kind of seems that way, doesn’t it?” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “And you’ve had an unexpected day off from school.”

Adult leaders of the youth in the Hong Kong China Stake asked the youth council to choose their own service project. After the youth looked into their community’s needs, they decided to teach children from low-income families at a local school. Around 125 youth taught over 80 schoolchildren about developing talents, making healthy food, holding family gatherings, and creating true friendships.
“This was not just a one-time influence,” said Anita Shum, stake Young Women president. “What the youth have done with the kids could have a lasting effect.” She added that the youth now have good memories and experiences that will bless them forever.

The night was chilly, the clocks had gone back and the last thing I felt like doing was turning up to fill a duty slot at the FamilySearch Centre. The day had already been packed with ‘busy stuff’, and I was convinced that no one would turn up anyway.
It was youth activity night and—as expected—the usual sight of an empty FamilySearch Centre greeted me on arrival. Wanting to be proactive, I wandered over to the foyer, where two mums were happily chatting while waiting for their children. Their younger ones were off playing somewhere in the building. I asked if they’d like to come into the FamilySearch Centre and carry on their conversation there. Both wrinkled their noses and shook their heads. I told them they could still chat while getting involved. Feeling a bit sorry for me, one of the mums reluctantly said she’d give me half an hour. The other mum took a bit more convincing. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she was setting her alarm for 30 minutes—no longer—as she tapped away on her phone. I chuckled and said she might be surprised and end up staying longer, but I was happy with the time they’d both offered.
I showed one of the mums how to check names that the computer had completed. Once she realised she could do it independently, there was no stopping her. Very quickly, she’d checked sixty names. She kept going, ignoring the alarm when it went off and then asked about her family tree. We moved over to work on her tree using FamilySearch, taking breaks for phone calls to relatives to confirm names and dates. Before long, her tree was filling up with ancestors that others had already researched—and her 30 minutes turned into 90! She told me how much she’d enjoyed herself and how satisfying it was to have accomplished something so meaningful.
Meanwhile, the other mum’s younger children wandered in—probably hoping to play with the nursery toys, as the FamilySearch Centre doubles as the nursery. They grew curious about what was going on and wanted to help check the names too. Together, they cheerfully decided whether names ‘matched’, needed ‘editing’ or were ‘unsure’.
The Spirit of Elijah was tangible in the room during those 90 minutes. On my way home, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for all that had happened and thanked those two sisters for their attendance and willingness to help gather Israel. I even managed to get a photo of them and shared it on our ward Facebook page, explaining how a simple offer to help for 30 minutes had turned into an hour and a half of joyful service.

Olivia hung her head as she listened to the excited whispers of the girls sitting behind her on the bus.
“I’m so glad your mom said you could get off at my bus stop with me! Did you bring the games?”
“I’ve got them. My mom let me bring a bag of popcorn too!”
Olivia frowned into the book she was reading. Didn’t they know she could hear them? She definitely didn’t like listening to her two friends make plans for something she wasn’t invited to.
Stephanie, Rebecca, and Olivia had been friends for a long time. They used to do everything together. But when the new school year started, Stephanie and Rebecca found out they had the same teacher, while Olivia was in a different class! Olivia remembered the sad feeling she had in her stomach as the two girls eagerly talked about sitting next to each other in class and eating together at lunch. She had that same sad feeling now.
The bus rolled to a stop in front of Rebecca’s house. Olivia watched miserably from the window as the girls jumped off the bus and ran to the front yard.
By the time the bus finally reached Olivia’s stop, she could barely hold the tears back. She hurried into the house.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
Olivia started crying. “It was awful! Rebecca and Stephanie barely even talk to me anymore, and we were supposed to be best friends forever!” she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. It can be hard when friendships start to change,” Mom said. She paused for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to the temple to be sealed?” she asked, pointing at the picture hanging on the wall. Olivia looked and saw her family smiling in front of the temple. She had been a lot younger then, but she could still remember being with her parents and older sister, Jane, in the beautiful sealing room.
“Do you know why we worked so hard to get ready to go to the temple?”
“Because we wanted to be a family forever?” Olivia answered.
“Exactly. Even if you’re not best friends with Rebecca and Stephanie forever, you’ll still have your family as your friends forever.”
“Yeah,” Olivia said. “But it’s not the same.”
“I know your feelings are hurt,” Mom said, “but I’m glad you’re home. I have a job for you and Jane.”
Olivia couldn’t believe her ears. Instead of helping her feel better, Mom was giving her chores!
“Go put on some old clothes and meet me on the back porch. Tell Jane to come too.”
Olivia went upstairs, stomping her feet a little harder than usual, and put on her work clothes.
When the girls were dressed and outside, they saw Mom walking back from the shed. She was carrying a green can, some paintbrushes, and a wadded-up sheet of plastic. When she got to the porch, she laid down the plastic and handed each of the girls a brush.
“You’re going to let us paint something?” Olivia asked skeptically. Usually Dad did those kinds of projects.
“Yep,” Mom said. “I want the back door painted by dinner time.” And then she turned and went into the house.
The girls looked at each other for a long moment and then grinned. This could be fun. They dipped their brushes in the smooth, green paint and got to work. Olivia liked this job—it didn’t seem like doing chores at all. Jane showed her how to move her brush in long, even strokes. Soon the girls were laughing and talking. Olivia started to remember all the fun times she and Jane had spent together. She was glad she would always have her sister for a friend.
A couple of hours later the girls were covered in splotches of green paint and wearing huge smiles. Olivia carefully opened the shiny green door and poked her head inside. “Mom, we’re done with the door,” she called. “Come see how great it looks!”
Mom came to the door and looked at their work. “It looks wonderful,” she said. “And so do you two.” She smiled at the girls. “I’m glad you had fun together. Sisters are special friends.” Olivia smiled back. She knew Rebecca and Stephanie would still be her friends at school, but she was especially glad for Jane and for her family that would be with her forever.

I was interested in a little story that Brother Benson told us the other day. He was back East attending a convention, and he attended a banquet where he sat next to a minister. The minister turned to him and said, “Mr. Benson, I’d like to talk to you after the banquet.” They went to the other end of the banquet hall, and the minister said, “There are two things in your church we would like to copy.”

Brother Benson said, “What are they?”
He said, “The first is your missionary program. You send your missionaries all over the world, they pay their way to their field of labor, they maintain themselves while they’re there, and then, out of the church funds, you pay their fare home if they’ve been good missionaries. Now, we have a missionary fund in our church, and we offer to pay their way to their mission field, maintain them while they’re there and pay their way back, but we can’t get anybody to go.”

There are those families comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted occurred many years ago in the life of a young man who, for purposes of privacy, I shall call Jack.

Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when he was 17, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father, “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed his bag. His mother begged him to stay; he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.

Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him, “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”

Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat on the bus, watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and left the words ringing in the summer air: “I love you.”

It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that Dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket and went back.

He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he arose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”

Stephanie Kinderman, 15, of Wilmington, Delaware, has earned an unusual kind of recognition. Her mother, Deborah, writes:
“Three years ago her dad left. We are divorced now. At the time, Stephanie was the oldest of six children and only 12 years old herself. During this last three years, she has cared for her younger brothers and sisters while I have had to be gone to school or work. She has accepted this responsibility without complaint, recognizing the necessity due to our financial situation. Often she has had to sacrifice social events and activities for the welfare of the family. She is very talented at the piano, but her studies were interrupted and her opportunities limited because of our circumstances.
“Stephanie is a beautiful, talented girl and mature beyond her years. She has displayed leadership in her family equal to any organization president. Many of the things that could have come to her in life, she has sacrificed for our family. She will never receive a certificate or award for what she has done, but her achievements are surely equal to any of those who do. She attends seminary, is a member of the Band Front at school, plays Church basketball, and participates in all of her Mutual activities, but above all, her greatest accomplishment is what she has done for her family.”

When I was elected junior class vice president of Edgemont High School, I wasn’t just surprised, I was in temporary shock. I had entered the race at the last minute for the experience. At least that’s what I had told myself. When I actually won, it seemed impossible, incredible! What seemed even more incredible was that I had apparently won by a landslide. At least that’s what Molly Pratt claimed.
“Boy, Mark, are you ever popular. You got almost every vote. I helped count them.”
I shook my head for the hundredth time. “I just can’t believe it. It’s incredible.”
“Not really,” Molly said smiling.
Although I couldn’t figure out how it had all happened, I did know one thing: I planned to do a good job—a great job. I didn’t want anyone to think he’d made a mistake by voting for Mark Bennion.
Just a few days after I’d talked to Molly, I was standing by my locker cleaning out some of the election handouts when I heard a soft voice behind me. I knew whose voice it was even before I turned around. Although she was in my history class, Rhonda Jackson had never spoken to me before, and I could feel my face getting warm. Up close she was even prettier than at a two-row distance. A sprinkle of small, delicate freckles peppered her nose, and her warm smile made me quiver.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound casual but sounding more as if I had just swallowed a baseball.
“We’re having a little get-together at my place tomorrow night,” she said. “We’re going to study for the history test. Well, just for a little while. Then we’ll have some fun. You know, talk a little, dance or something.” She touched my arm lightly with her forefinger. “Would you like to join our group?”
“I, uh, I can’t think of any reason why I couldn’t. Yes, sure.” I knew about her little group. Who didn’t? It was the elite group at Edgemont. The thought of being included seemed unreal. Just last week I had thought of myself as a Joe-average with just a few friends, like the guys I palled around with in the neighborhood. Now hundreds of students seemed to know me and find me important. And I had a chance, a real chance, to belong to the most exclusive group at school.
“Oh, by the way,” Rhonda smiled again and looked straight into my eyes. “We’ve got a copy of the test so you won’t need to bring your book. We’re just going to memorize the answers. We’ll probably be able to get copies of some of the other tests coming up, too.”
“Oh?” Her words hit me like a thud. “How did …”
“Don’t ask.” She put her hand over my mouth and giggled softly. “Let’s just say we have connections. See you tomorrow night.”
I watched her walk away. She turned and smiled, fully aware that I was staring after her. Wow, she was beautiful. I sighed. “Too bad.”
The next day I was prepared to tell Rhonda that I couldn’t make it to the get-together. I couldn’t afford to go and then make a fool of myself by being a goody-two-shoes and refusing to participate in the cheating. I wouldn’t say the word cheating or make any accusations. But when I saw her walking toward me with that appealing smile, the brave words began slipping from my mind. I wanted her to like me. Oh, how I wanted Rhonda Jackson to like me.
“You’re coming tonight, I hope,” she said, emphasizing the words “I hope.” There was a nice lilt to her voice.
“Well, I’d really like to, but …
“I’d really be disappointed if you didn’t come. You’ve just got to come. Everybody’s going to be there. Bill Spilker, Audrey Madsen, Nicki Simmons, and Frank, you know, Frank Lake. They’re all going to be there, and you really should get to know all of us better.” The names she had mentioned were familiar to me—familiar to everyone at Edgemont. They were the officers of the school, the “in-group” of in-groups.
“I have a little secret to tell you,” Rhonda began whispering in a confidential manner. “Frank said something about you.”
“What was that?” I asked, impressed that my name had even come up in conversation. Frank was the student-body vice president.
“He thinks if you play your cards right you could be president of the school.”
“Oh, sure.” I felt myself blushing in pleasure.
“You don’t know how popular you are, do you, Mark? You have a lot of power already. A little more, some friends in the right circles, for instance, could put the presidency right in your pocket.”
“You really think so?”
She looked down dramatically, then up into my eyes. “Believe me, I know so. See you tonight about eight or eight-thirty.”
As I watched her walk away I stood grinning. Again I sighed.
Come on, I thought. Me, president of the whole student body? Me, in Rhonda Jackson’s league? This is all too incredible. I shook my head. “Nah,” I said out loud. But then I began wondering. With some friends in the right circles, maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so farfetched. I had won junior class vice president by a landslide. Maybe further miracles were also possible. I’ve been pretty naive, I thought. There are probably a lot of things going on in this school that I know nothing about. Everyone probably cheats once in a while to keep up the old grade-point average.
In my mind, I went over the people Rhonda had mentioned would be at her house. Slowly it began registering that everyone was matched up—except Rhonda. My face grew warm again. Could it be Rhonda had me in mind for herself? “Impossible!” My stomach did a backflip, and I walked to my locker to get rid of my history book. I wouldn’t need it tonight!
Later in the day, while I was on my way to study class, I passed my last year’s history classroom. Mr. Hancock was just closing the door to his room. As I nodded a hello, he motioned that he wanted to talk to me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I’m glad you walked by, Mark. An interesting thing happened that I wanted to tell you about. Can you come in for a minute?”
“Sure thing.” As I sat down by his desk, I looked around at the pictures of some of the presidents and other historical figures I could remember learning about in his class. My sophomore year in Mr. Hancock’s class had been quite the year for hero worship.
“I don’t know if this will mean anything to you,” he said. “But I thought you should know.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “What happened?” I was curious now.
“Well, a few days ago I gave a test, and my last question was ‘What great person, living or dead, would you most like to use as an example in your own life?’ I mostly got the kind of answers I was expecting: Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin; but a most peculiar thing happened.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys put your name.”
“My name?” I was confused. “Why would he do that?”
“I guess he thinks you’re a ‘great man,’” he said, smiling. “Thought you might want to know.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, staring at him.
“Glad it makes a difference to you. You’ve been getting quite a bit of attention lately, and I wasn’t sure you’d care; but, well, I thought I’d tell you.”
I nodded and kept staring. Then I looked around the room and nodded again. There was a knot beginning to form in my stomach. “It makes a difference,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Hancock.”
“Good to talk to you, Mark, and good luck to you.”
“Thanks again,” I said. I felt two feet taller as I headed toward the door. Without hesitation I turned down the hall in the direction of my locker. I had a history book to retrieve and some hard and fast studying to do. People were counting on me, wanted to be like me. There was no way I was going to let them down!

On a more personal level, consider the mistake described by Truman G. Madsen in his fine book Joseph Smith the Prophet (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1989):

In a relaxed moment one day the Prophet turned to his secretary, Howard Coray, and said, “Brother Coray I wish you were a little larger. I would like to have some fun with you,” meaning wrestling. Brother Coray said, “Perhaps you can as it is.” The Prophet reached and grappled him and twisted him over—and broke his leg. All compassion, he carried him home, put him in bed, and splinted and bandaged his leg. [p. 31]

I first saw the Liahona (Spanish) when my brother was baptized and ward members gave him back issues. I read all of them. As I did, I felt something I could not explain, which made me cry for joy and happiness.
While my brother served a full-time mission, we lost contact with his ward—but we had the magazines. I read them over and over and always found something of help to me.
When my brother returned from his mission, he taught me the gospel. I was baptized in June 1987.
Later, the magazine was an extra companion for me when I was called to the Mexico Guadalajara Mission. My full-time mission is now over, but I still use the Liahona as a missionary tool. I take copies for the customers to read at the laundry where I work.
The rest of my family has not yet joined the Church, but they read the Liahona, and they are touched by the same spirit that touched me eight years ago.
These past eight years have been the happiest of my life. I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for my spiritual progress and for the counsel we receive through the pages of the Liahona.
Magdalena Cervantes ReynaFresno Ward, San Luis Potosí Mexico Stake

With an angry mob of more than 300 promising to destroy them in the morning, the group of Saints who made up Zion’s Camp was hoping and praying for a miracle.
Under Joseph Smith’s leadership, Zion’s Camp had been marching for weeks from Ohio to Missouri. These Church members were hoping to help the Saints who had been driven out of Jackson County, Missouri, USA, to regain their lands. But they faced threats and opposition throughout their march. And now, yet another mob was threatening them.
The miracle that the Zion’s Camp Saints prayed for would soon arrive. It came in the form of dark clouds gathering in the distance. A violent thunderstorm erupted on all sides and dumped massive hailstones. The storm stopped the mob in its tracks.
“It seemed as if the mandate of vengeance had gone forth from the God of battles to protect his servants from the destruction of their enemies,” Joseph Smith’s history explains. “The hail fell on them, and not on us, and we suffered no harm except the blowing down of some of our tents and getting some wet, while our enemies had holes made in their hats and otherwise received damage, even the breaking of their rifle stocks and the fleeing of their horses.”1
Destructive hailstones were just one part of the storm. Rain poured down so hard that Fishing River, the river separating the two groups, swelled to almost 40 feet (12 meters) deep. It had only been ankle deep in the morning.
The Lord promised the members of Zion’s Camp, “I will fight your battles” (Doctrine and Covenants 105:14). When that happens, there’s no doubt which side is going to win.

Last year, students from Mesa Skyline Seminary in Arizona agreed to work together in creating a habit of daily scripture reading. They accepted the challenge to read the scriptures each day for at least 15 minutes. For every three days a student did this, he or she could write his or her name on a new wooden block.
As the blocks were earned and marked, they were glued together, eventually forming a replica of an ancient American city the students affectionately called “Zarahemla.” After seven weeks of reading and learning, a total of 1,750 blocks were cut, earned, and labeled with a name. The replica city was 12 feet in length, 8 feet wide, with a city wall, four corner towers, a large temple at the center, and hundreds of smaller buildings and shops within.
Building the city of Zarahemla “got me into the habit of reading my scriptures longer,” says Marissa Madsen, 16. “I really appreciated seeing something physically being built as a reminder of my testimony growing as I continued to read the scriptures.”
Randy Chavez, 17, agreed that the project was a big success. “It was nice to be unified as an entire seminary to achieve one large goal, and I felt excited to do my part. Because of the project, I read more frequently and longer.”

“Mom?” I stood in the doorway of Mom’s room. She sat at her desk, typing on her laptop. She ran the dance studio where my best friend, Jessica, and I took lessons.
“Hi, Hailey. What’s up?” she asked.
“It’s still OK if I go to church tomorrow, right?”
“Of course, Hailey. You know it is.” She was right; I knew she didn’t mind. I’d been going for three months, ever since Jessica invited me to a Primary activity. Then she invited me to church one Sunday. I’d never missed since.
More than anything I wanted to be baptized. I loved going to church. I’d learned how to pray. When I read my scriptures, my heart felt warm and calm. When I had asked Jessica’s mom about getting baptized, she told me to talk to my mom first.
“One more thing,” I said. Mom turned. “Yes?”
“I just want … Mom, I want to be baptized.”
“Baptized? I’m sure you could get baptized at your dad’s church.”
I just looked at the scuffed toes of my jazz shoes.
“But that’s not the same as getting baptized in the church Jessica attends, is it?” Mom said.
“No, Mom. Did you know that men who hold the priesthood can baptize with the same authority as John the Baptist?” I told her everything I’d learned about why it was important to be baptized by the right person.
“I’m impressed, Hailey,” Mom said. “It sounds like you’ve done your research. But are you ready to make such a commitment? If you’re baptized into this church, I’ll expect you to be faithful to it. Do you even know all the things they believe?”
My mouth went dry. I hadn’t gone to church very long, and I definitely didn’t know everything yet. But I felt the Church is true. Wasn’t that enough?
Then I got an idea.
“The Articles of Faith!” I said. Mom looked confused. “They’re thirteen statements that tell the beliefs of the Church. I could learn those.”
“Tell you what,” Mom said. “When you’ve memorized all thirteen and can tell me what they mean, I’ll give you permission to be baptized.”
After dance class the next day I told Jessica the news.
“That’s great!” she said. “I learned the Articles of Faith for the Faith in God Award. It’ll be easy.” But I could tell something was bothering her.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“I’m just nervous for our dance recital,” she said. “I can’t get all the steps right.”
“Here’s an idea,” I said. “If you’ll help me memorize and understand the Articles of Faith, I’ll help you with those tricky steps.”
“Deal!” Jessica said.
We practiced at Jessica’s house almost every day for weeks. Soon I was able to recite and explain all the Articles of Faith, and Jessica could dance all the steps with her eyes closed.
Mom noticed Jessica’s improvements during class. “All the time you two spend together is really paying off.”
“If only she knew what you’ve been practicing!” Jessica whispered.
The night of our performance, Mom gave me two thumbs up from backstage. I grinned back. She was excited for the dance recital, but I was more excited for the curtains to close so we could go home. I couldn’t wait to show her what I’d been working on: my memory and my testimony.
When the curtains closed, I hurried to Mom. “Mom,” I said, “I’m ready.”
I recited the Articles of Faith and explained what they meant.
Mom smiled. “You really do understand them, Hailey. I can see that this is important to you.”
Then she hugged me. “I give you my permission to be baptized.”
I was so happy I could hardly speak. Soon I was baptized, and I knew I had made the right choice.

John has already started saving money for a mission. When John was baptized by his father, he received a set of scriptures from his parents. John uses his scriptures at church, during family home evenings, and when his family reads scriptures each morning. He loves the stories in the scriptures, and his favorite is the one about David and Goliath. John was happy to be able to appear in a road show about David and Goliath.