Gospel Story Finder

Allison began playing the piano at age three, and although she was very talented, she had no affinity for the keyboard. “My mother was a concert pianist, my aunt was a pianist, my grandmother was a pianist, my cousins were pianists, all my mother’s students were pianists,” she says. “Everything was piano, piano, piano. I just got tired of it.”
Then came the cello. When Allison was nine, she decided she wanted to play in her school orchestra, which already had a pianist, so she decided to switch. “I didn’t know the cello very well, but my mother loved it, I loved the sound, and I thought it would be a good size for me,” she says.
Within six months of her first cello lesson, Allison won her first competition, against children who had been playing for years. She seemed to be racing ahead, winning competitions right and left. She was invited to play with some of the world’s finest symphonies.

One day there were missionaries at my house. I wanted to be a missionary, so I read the Friend. I learned a lot about missionaries.

In the 1980s my mother, Mai Saczkowski, directed the Swansea Ward choir. She loved her church choir. Whether it was singing in sacrament meeting or competing on the stage, she pursued perfection and was never content with second best.
As far back as I can remember, music and singing were an important part of growing up. We were encouraged to play instruments, take theory exams and develop our talents. Car journeys were filled with singing. My mother was a gifted and glorious singer with a beautiful, rich mezzo soprano voice. It has been over 20 years since her passing and I struggle to remember her speaking voice, but her singing voice I can instantly recognise.
Mai joined the Swansea Amateur Operatic Society. She appeared in many musicals and soon she was the guest artiste in concerts and fund-raising events. Her social life flourished. She attended Cardiff College where she obtained a Gold medal in singing.
But amidst this flurry of activity, my mother thought of her temple covenants and decided to curtail outside activities and concentrate on building up music in the Church. This was probably her most significant contribution. She inspired many people, especially the youth, by directing shows and teaching singing. She blessed the lives of many with her voice, adding to the spirituality of meetings.
Elder Boyd K. Packer extended a challenge in 1976 that my mother took on board:
“Go to, then, you who are gifted; cultivate your gift. [ …] If you have the ability and the desire, seek a career or employ your talent as an avocation or cultivate it as a hobby. But in all ways bless others with it.”

A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing longingly behind them as the trail disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.
Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had began to sing along.
The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had looked large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.
The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?

I learned another important principle very late too. I’ll repeat it so it might be of some help to you. The lesson began fifty-three years ago, in 1918, when I was a soldier in the First World War. After the Armistice, our regiment organized a football team while we were waiting our turn to come home. Because I played on the team, I was excused from drill, menial tasks, and general discipline. The players could also go to Bordeaux, the nearest city, any time.
On one such visit I had enjoyed a favorite painting hanging in a cathedral. It depicted the Lord raising Lazarus from the dead. It was very large, about eight by fifteen feet, and a masterpiece. I never tired of looking at it. Afterward I went to the YMCA and wrote some letters, and finally I went to the place in the town square where the truck was to pick us up to go back to camp.
While standing in the shadow of a building, I saw a teammate come to the spot. He stood under the dim street light, waiting for the truck. Soon a French girl came up and accosted him. He did not speak French, but the language she was using was universal. After looking in several directions and seeing no one, he walked away with the girl.
Later we were discharged and arrived in Salt Lake City. I saw a woman, obviously this same man’s wife, run up to him and place a baby in his arms. As I stood there watching him look at his offspring for the first time, I wondered what he was thinking. I am still wondering.
That was in January 1919, fifty-two years ago. I was telling this story about five years ago, stressing the obvious moral that “the wages of sin is death”—death of the spirit, at least.
Suddenly, as I spoke, an idea was born: If I had stepped from the shadows and joined him, or called to him, or let him know in any way that I was there, he might not have gone with that girl. By a simple act I might have saved him. Only it didn’t occur to me then. Since that thought came to me, I have not thought so well of myself.

Later, in my first year of high school at Cassia Academy, the Book of Mormon was the text we used in our theology class. Recently I found in the notebook I there used a short written statement concerning the content of each chapter in the book.

His father, Raymond, had taught him two important secrets to obtaining goals: give it your all and never quit. David was used to giving his all, so it was no surprise when he was back at school the following Monday.
“Looking like an alien with my body cast and neck brace, I could see how different I was. I had absolute faith I would get better, but soon realized I was completely unlike the other 800 kids in my school. After that first hard week, though, I knew I could do anything I wanted; I just had to find a different way.”
When his brother suggested he run for student body president a few months later, David again gave it his all. “Vote for someone with skills and wheels!” posters lined the school halls, and soon David went from jock to school leader. “That year was awesome,” he says. “I felt it was the perfect preparation for my mission.”

I Love Family History! I didn’t always appreciate family history work. That changed when I was baptized for one of my ancestors in the Santiago Chile Temple.
I was a deacon the first time I went to the temple. When I was about to enter the baptismal font, I felt the presence of someone enter the room. I looked up and saw an old man dressed in old clothes. I felt his love and gratitude for me because I was doing his vicarious work. After I was baptized for him and came up out of the water, I looked around for him, but he was no longer there.
I used to think that the temple would provide the names for temple work, so I wasn’t interested in doing family history research. But this experience got me excited about looking for my own family names.
One day I got on my computer and saw that I had received an email from the Church with a family name. I felt that I needed to research more names, so I asked my mother how I could effectively look for names and gather more information about my ancestors.
So far, I’ve found 11 family names, and I know I can find even more. These people never had the opportunity to be baptized while they were on earth, and they have waited a long time for their temple work to be done. I’m glad I can help them through temple and family history work.
Lucas R.,16, Santiago, Chile

Photograph courtesy of Anna T.
John 14:6 “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”
This is my favorite scripture because when I first read it, I wasn’t trying to find an answer of some sort. I just found it, and it gave me a quiet revelation that I belong to the true Church.
Anna T., 15, Arizona, USA

Elder Peterson and I took the Star Ferry to Hong Kong Island. From there we boarded a bus that would take us to our area on the back side of the island. Elder Peterson was a new missionary, and I wanted him to see, as soon as possible, how the gospel brings new joy into a person’s life. We chatted for a while; then we each drifted off in thought.
I don’t know what Elder Peterson was thinking about. Maybe the hot, humid August weather. Maybe the strange foods. But I clearly remember my thoughts.
Our pool of investigators was average in size, but we didn’t have anyone who was ready for baptism. As I prayed silently, I had a calm understanding within my heart that the Lord would guide us to people who were prepared for the truth. I hardly expected a miracle, though.
We set out that day tracting through Shek Pai Wan—one of the many government housing complexes that crowd entire families of six or eight people into one-room apartments the size of a small living room. For being in Hong Kong only two days, Elder Peterson did remarkably well speaking Cantonese during his door approaches. But we had little success.
The next few days we worked hard and followed the Spirit. Although we found one or two new investigators, no one seemed to really be catching fire.
Then it happened.
I was looking through the drawers in our bedroom and found an old notebook. I opened it and saw a book of contacts and investigators from years before. The pages were torn and soiled. The writing was faded. But the Spirit whispered that I should read through the scores of names. I sat on my bed and began reading the book. As I slowly skimmed the lists of faceless names, my eyes and fingers stopped at a Mr. Chan.
The notes indicated that he had been taught the first discussion but that he wasn’t interested.
The burning in my heart was distinct and comforting. At once I knew we should visit this man. That afternoon we found the apartment listed in the old notebook. I said a silent prayer as we knocked on the door. The burning of the Spirit deep within us intensified as we waited for Mr. Chan. We waited. No answer. We knocked again. Still no answer.
“I guess no one’s home,” I said to Elder Peterson. “Let’s try later.”
We were a few feet away when the door opened.
“Matyeh a?” The man was asking us what we wanted.
“Hou ma?” We responded with the traditional Chinese “How are you?” greeting.
A minute later, this man was introducing himself as Mr. Chan.
“May we tell you a little about our church?” we asked.
“Please do,” Mr. Chan said.
The Spirit of the Lord was with the three of us as we discussed the Prophet Joseph Smith and the First Vision. We testified of Christ and of His atoning sacrifice. As we testified, the Spirit told us Mr. Chan believed our words.
“How do you feel about what we’ve said?” we asked.
“I know what you tell me is true,” Mr. Chan replied. “Wait here a minute.” He walked to a chair and stood on it while reaching for some books on a shelf. Finally he found the Book of Mormon.
“This is your church, isn’t it?” he asked, handing us the book.
“Yes, it is. Where did you get this?”
“Some missionaries like you came to my home three or four years ago,” he explained. “I bought this book from them, but they never came back.”
Elder Peterson and I looked through the well-worn Book of Mormon.
“Have you read this book?” I asked.
“Yes, many times. It is the word of God. Can you baptize me?”
“Why do you want to be baptized?”
“So I may return to live with God and Jesus Christ,” he said.
The Spirit was strong as we knelt in prayer with Mr. Chan. He had truly been prepared by the hand of God for baptism into His kingdom.
The words of Alma to his son Helaman in Alma 37:9–10 now have more meaning to me: “These records and their words … brought them to the knowledge of the Lord their God, and to rejoice in Jesus Christ their Redeemer. And who knoweth but what they will be the means of bringing many thousands … to the knowledge of their Redeemer?”

I confess that when I left on my mission, my testimony was limited to knowledge about the plan of salvation and the Book of Mormon. I recognized that my testimony lacked the depth I wanted it to have, and as a result, I felt inadequate as a missionary.
Like most French members of the Church at the time, I had never attended a broadcast of general conference. We had always attended rebroadcasts, where we listened to conference in French through an interpreter. Now, as a missionary serving in Wales and speaking English, I was going to hear the voice of the prophet, President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), firsthand.
When the session started, the local congregation sang with the members present in the Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. I also sang and was quickly taken aback by an overwhelming feeling of joy and belonging. These feelings testified that I was a member of Jesus Christ’s Church.
While I was sitting there, an idea came to mind: “What if I asked the Lord to confirm to me that President Benson is His prophet?”
I knew that I could “ask God” (Moroni 10:4), but I was afraid that somehow I would offend Him with my questions. After a minute of reflection, I decided to try anyway. I bowed my head and asked the Lord to testify to me that the man who was going to speak was His prophet, seer, and revelator. Before long an intense feeling of peace and happiness entered my heart. I raised my head, opened my eyes, and listened to President Benson testify of the Book of Mormon.
From that moment on, I knew for myself that the Lord leads the Church through a chosen prophet. As a result of that testimony, I left conference with new goals, and I knew that it was up to me to reach them. I changed the focus of my mission and looked forward to attending future general conferences. I also eagerly awaited the arrival of the Church magazines so that I could read the sacred words of the Lord’s servants.
Thierry Hotz, France

“Son, get up! We’ve got a lot of things to do this morning.”
I turned over in bed and looked at my alarm clock. It read 5:30 A.M. I thought, the sun isn’t even out. It’s snowing, and I have to be to school at 8:15! Quickly I realized that I’d better quit complaining and do my chores before I was late for school.
Life wasn’t easy as a teenager growing up on a ranch in southern Colorado. I had many responsibilities, and my father depended on me to fulfill them. I found little time to watch television or just hang out with my friends.
I remember in the winter months, my job was to feed the bulls, the horses, and a few cows. In the summer when we were putting up hay, my Dad would assign me to certain tasks like cutting, baling, or hauling, and in between, I would have to find time to change the irrigation water. My Dad put complete confidence in me that I would get the job done. I often thought that this responsibility put a lot of pressure on me and that I would have gray hair by the time I reached 20.
I never could understand exactly why my parents wanted me to keep busy and gave me such responsibilities until I left for college. There, for the first time in my life, I was separated from my family. I then realized that because my parents had kept me busy, I had missed some of the bad influences that young people find when they get bored and have nothing to do. Having responsibilities taught me the importance of staying with a job until it’s finished and doing it right the first time. These habits helped me while I was serving a mission. I also found I had patience. (I probably got that from working with stubborn sheep and cattle.)
I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for permitting me to be born to such good parents, who taught me the importance of working hard. It has helped to this point in my life, and I know it will continue to help me throughout my life.
Every time your parents give you a chore or an assignment or a responsibility, take it and do the best you can.

While visiting the country of Sierra Leone in West Africa, I participated in a meeting conducted by a stake Primary leader. Mariama led with such love, grace, and confidence that it was easy to assume she had long been a member of the Church. Mariama, however, was a fairly recent convert.
Her younger sister joined the Church and invited Mariama to attend a Church class with her. Mariama was deeply impressed by the message. The lesson was on the law of chastity. She asked to have the missionaries teach her more and soon received a testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. She was baptized in 2014, and her daughter was baptized last month. Imagine, the two fundamental teachings that led to Mariama’s conversion were the law of chastity and the Prophet Joseph Smith, two points the world often sees as irrelevant, outdated, or inconvenient. But Mariama testified that she was like a moth attracted to the light. She said, “When I found the gospel, I found myself.” She discovered her worth through divine principles. Her value as a daughter of God was revealed to her through the Holy Ghost.

Morehouse College, a historically Black college in Georgia, USA, announced that it would give its inaugural Gandhi-King-Mandela Peace Prize to President Nelson. The school bestowed this new honor on the 98-year-old prophet on April 13, 2023, at the Worldhouse Interfaith and Interdenominational Assembly at the Martin Luther King Jr. International Chapel in Atlanta.
This prize is named after Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and Nelson Mandela. It is intended, the school said, for someone who promotes peace and positive social transformation through nonviolent means and uses their global leadership to affirm peace, justice, diversity, and pluralism.
President Nelson accepted the award via video, and the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square also performed virtually.

I was having a hard time feeling like I fit in. My family had recently moved to the East Coast from California after living there for the first 15 years of my life. The ward we moved to had a good-sized youth group, but this was the first time that I would be the “new kid.” I figured that since I had been friendly with the new people in our ward back in California, this new youth group would be the same way with me. It was a lot tougher than I had imagined. The worst part was going to a new school. I worried about who I would sit with at lunch. Maybe I’d see someone from church, but then again, I didn’t want to barge in on someone else’s lunch table, especially since I didn’t know if they would want me there to begin with.
The first day of school seemed to drag on forever. I kept feeling as though everyone was staring at me. Then the lunch bell rang. As I slowly entered into the lunch room, I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me find someone I knew. I glanced around to see if I could recognize anyone. No one. So I made my way to a table on the far side of the lunch room and ate my lunch.
Later that day during my math period, there was a familiar face. I had seen David at seminary that morning. At the beginning of class he and a couple of people around him asked to see my schedule. He discovered that we both had the same lunch period.
“Hey where were you at lunch today?”
“I was there. I ate on the far side of the room,” I responded.
He thought for a second trying to remember seeing me. Then he said, “Well, tomorrow come and sit with me at lunch.”
I’m grateful for a loving Heavenly Father, who knows each of our needs individually and who answers each of our prayers. I’m so grateful for someone who was willing to extend a hand of friendship. Something as simple as an invitation can make all the difference in the world.

Ordinary Mary’s Extraordinary Deed Can one good deed by an ordinary girl change the world? It can when she’s Ordinary Mary. A story of how one little girl’s good deed not only comes back to her but spreads to the whole world.Emily Pearson, illustrated by Fumi Kosaka4–8 years

From the first week they arrived in Utah they wanted to be involved in a family home evening at least once a week. So, on Monday nights they were invited into homes all over the Salt Lake Valley and enjoyed American family home evenings. But on Sunday nights they decided to get together and take turns giving the lesson to their own group. They made popcorn and usually ended the evening singing LDS hymns in Spanish.

My family moved to that little desert town in the middle of September—one of the hottest times of the year. But among the Mormon kids, all I got was the cold shoulder.
I was 15, and my family had already moved 10 times, so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to make friends. I tried everything I knew to break the ice, but after five months I still didn’t have a single friend who was a member of the Church.
Luckily, I had lots of good nonmember friends at school. But that didn’t make it any easier at early-morning seminary and church. I actually sat through five months of seminary without anyone saying hello to me, except my seminary teacher. And there was always one empty seat between me and the rest of my Sunday School class.
Tom Jeppson* was the ringleader of the Mormon kids. He’d never really said anything to me. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d noticed me until one morning when he met me at the seminary doors.
“Go home. We don’t want you here,” he said.
I started to laugh. He had to be joking, right? But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t kidding. I looked at the others standing a few feet behind him. They didn’t say anything, which I figured meant that they agreed.
As I turned away, I heard the doors slam behind me and muffled laughing.
I’m never going to seminary again, I swore to myself as I walked the half-mile to the high school. It’ll be all their fault.
That day seemed like it would never end. After school, I rode the bus to my street, but I didn’t go home. I went to my seminary teacher’s house. He lived a few doors down from me, and I really liked him. In fact, I liked his whole family.
He usually gave me a ride to seminary each morning, so I wanted to tell him not to worry about picking me up anymore. Actually, what I really wanted was some sympathy.
Sister Murray answered the door. Brother Murray wasn’t home yet, but she invited me in for a drink of lemonade. It wasn’t long before I was telling her the whole story. She was sympathetic until I said I wasn’t going to seminary anymore and that I might not ever go to church again.
“If this was really the true church, people wouldn’t act like that,” I said.
I expected her to plead with me to come back. I wanted her to tell me she would talk to all the kids’ parents and get them in a lot of trouble. I thought she’d be ready to do almost anything to keep me active. But instead she said, “Well, fine. You’re not hurting any of those kids by not going. You’re only hurting yourself.”
I was too shocked to say anything. I quickly finished my lemonade and told her I had to go.
I stayed away from seminary and church for three weeks. My seminary teacher called a couple of times to check in on me. I missed seminary, but I was too proud to admit it. Instead, I kept telling myself that everyone was probably feeling pretty guilty that they’d made me become inactive. I told myself they would be in trouble on judgment day.
Still, I couldn’t forget what Sister Murray had said about me only hurting myself. And then, one day when I was reading the Book of Mormon, a scripture caught my eye.
“See that ye do all things in worthiness, and do it in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God; and if ye do this, and endure to the end, ye will in no wise be cast out” (Morm. 9:29).
As I read the words, the Spirit filled my heart and I realized Sister Murray was right. Sure, the kids had been real jerks. But they couldn’t keep me away from the Church if I was determined to be there. And best of all, they couldn’t cast me out in the end, when it really mattered. Not if I endured.
I got out of bed and set my alarm for 5:00 A.M. so I wouldn’t miss seminary the next day.
We lived in that hot, windy desert town for five more months and nothing really changed—except my heart. For the first time, I understood that no one was responsible for my salvation but me. I didn’t miss another day of seminary or church. And although the Mormon kids were still cold, it didn’t matter. I was filled with the warmth of the gospel.

“Saturday’s activity will be a daddy-daughter cooking class,” Sister Marshall announced.
A wave of excited murmurs rolled through our Primary group. I suppose every girl was imagining bubbling desserts, fun games, and two whole hours with her dad. Every girl but me, that is. I didn’t have a dad—not even a shared-visitation dad like the ones some girls at school talked about. Instead of excitement, an anxious knot twisted in my stomach. I felt my face flush hot with emotion, and I clenched my teeth, fighting to force back tears.
Sister Marshall must have noticed my reaction. Once the meeting was over, she gently placed her hand on my shoulder. “Feel free to bring your mom, Tess.” She meant well, but those simple words were enough to set my tears free. I dropped my head so she wouldn’t notice and turned away.
“It’s OK,” I told myself. “You don’t have to go to that silly activity anyway.” But I knew it was a lie. I would have given anything to be part of a family that didn’t need special instructions from Sister Marshall—a family like the others that I saw dotting the rows of the chapel every Sunday. But my dad had left my mom and me when I was just a baby. We hadn’t heard from him in years, and I knew there was no way he was going to magically reappear just in time for Saturday’s activity.
“Get over it!” I ordered myself for at least the hundredth time since our baptism three years before. Our family was so much stronger now that we had a testimony of Heavenly Father’s plan, and I was grateful for all the gospel had given us. Still, it hadn’t been easy stepping into a group of friends who had been together since they were little—sharing baptisms, Primary activities, ward socials. I was the new girl, and although the others really tried to make me feel included, I still felt that I was different. I sometimes felt like a puzzle with one center piece missing.
“How was class?” Mom asked cheerfully as we drove home. She was a different person since our baptism—happier and more confident.
“Great,” I fibbed. Probably better not to worry her about the cooking class. After all, there was nothing she could do about it.
The week passed quickly. Schoolwork, chores, and friends kept me busy and allowed me to forget about Saturday’s activity. That is, until the phone rang Friday night.
“It’s for you,” my sister said, holding out the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Tess. This is Brother Erickson.” Brother Erickson was our home teacher. He owned an ice-cream shop in town and sometimes brought containers of mint chip or cherry chocolate to our house. He often made me laugh with his twinkling eyes and quick smile. But I couldn’t imagine why he would be calling me.
His voice was cheerful and strong. “I was wondering if you’d let me join you at the cooking class tomorrow.”
I held my breath and peeked into the kitchen where my mom was washing the dinner dishes. I smiled at the mounds of bubbles clinging to her arms. “She couldn’t have told him,” I thought. “She didn’t even know.” I wondered if Sister Marshall had called him.
“I read about it in the bulletin last Sunday,” he continued. “It sounds like fun.”
“Oh yeah, the bulletin.”
“So? Think you can handle toting an old man like me around your party?”
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“I want to!” Then he was silent for a moment. “Please.”
“Well, OK.” To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure it would be OK. I mean, I didn’t know him that well. But my new excitement for going to the activity outweighed any doubt.
Saturday came, and when Mom dropped me off at the church, Brother Erickson was waiting for me in a bright red apron. His smile eased my worries as we joined the other fathers and daughters. We had a blast learning how to make cherry cobbler and homemade whipping cream in our crowded meetinghouse kitchen. He never once made me feel like he was doing me a favor or just fulfilling his calling.
When Mom came to pick me up, Brother Erickson gave me a big high five. “Thanks for letting me come. I had a great time!” I knew that he really meant it.
Years passed, and Brother Erickson remained our home teacher. In addition to his visits, he invited my family over for many game nights at his house. He joined me at more father-daughter activities and gave me my first real job at his ice-cream store when I turned 16.
After college when I was getting married in the Los Angeles California Temple, I asked Brother Erickson to serve as a witness. When I walked into the sealing room, I saw him sitting in the chair typically reserved for the father of the bride. He smiled his silly smile at me, and I knew that he was exactly where he should be. After all, he was no ordinary home teacher. He had become my very close friend.

Chris sighed. “Do I have to go to school today?”
Mom looked up from tying Alicia’s shoes. “What’s the matter, Chris? You love school.”
“I used to,” Chris said. He took his little sister’s hand and started the walk to school.
“Today we’re going to make applesauce!” Alicia said as they walked down the hill. She loved her first-grade class. She reminded Chris of how he used to feel about school. Before they moved, he ran to school every morning because he was so excited to do math, work in his writing group, and do science experiments with his friends. Sometimes he played four square with Michael and Ryan at recess. Other times he stayed inside with Janet and Caleb so they could help their teacher organize the class’s books.
But now his family had moved to a new state, and even though he still got to learn about math and writing and science, it just wasn’t the same. Chris didn’t have a single friend at school. He walked into his classroom by himself, stared at his desk while his teacher talked, and sat alone at lunch. At recess he wandered around looking for shiny rocks, but he didn’t really want to keep them.
He tried to smile and be a good example for Alicia as he dropped her off at her classroom, but he just didn’t feel very excited about another lonely day.
“How did school go, Chris?” Mom asked when he got home.
“It was OK, I guess. I don’t really have any friends, though.”
“Do you remember what we talked about in family home evening yesterday?” Mom asked.
Chris tried to remember. Alicia had planned a game of musical chairs, Mom had picked out Primary songs to sing, and Chris had helped Mom make the treat. Then he remembered the lesson. “Dad told us about praying for help,” he said.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “I know you’ve been reading your scriptures about how much God loves us. Heavenly Father wants you to be happy, so if you have a problem, you can ask Him for help.”
“Do you think I could pray to Him to help me find friends?”
“Let’s try it,” Mom said.
As Chris said his prayers, he felt like Heavenly Father was right there, listening to him. The next day, as Chris walked to school with Alicia, he still felt a little lonely, so he said a prayer in his mind: “Please help me to find some friends at school today.”
School started just like every other day: he walked into his classroom by himself, stared at his desk while his teacher talked, and sat alone at lunch. But during afternoon recess Carlos from Chris’s class ran up to him. “Hi, Chris! I’m having a birthday party on Friday night.” Carlos handed Chris an orange invitation.
Chris was excited to get home and tell Mom about his new friend. He burst in the front door, but before he could say anything, Mom said, “Chris, I just got a phone call from Jared’s mom in our ward. She invited you to Jared’s birthday party at the zoo on Saturday morning.”
Chris was amazed. He told Mom all about Carlos’s birthday party. When he was finished, Mom handed him a letter. “This came in the mail,” she said.
Chris looked at the blue envelope. He never got any mail except from Grandma. He tore it open and inside was an invitation that read: “Dear Chris, you’re invited to my birthday party on Saturday night.” It was from another classmate.
Chris looked up at Mom. “Three birthday parties in one weekend?”
Mom smiled. “Heavenly Father answered your prayer.”
“That’s right,” Chris said. “I’m going to go thank Him right now.”