Gospel Story Finder

When Brigham was a youngster, all his friends wore hats, whether they were working, playing, fishing, or going to church. Brigham also wanted a hat, but he knew that his family had no money for one.
So Brigham learned how to braid straw and make his own hats! He wore his homemade hats during the summer when it was hot.
When it got colder, he wore a warmer hat that his sisters made for him. They called it a “Jo Jackson cap.”

My parents helped me prepare for my baptism and to understand the reasons why I needed to be baptized. I started reading the Book of Mormon with my mother, and the more we read, the more I liked it.
Later, the missionaries taught me, and I started understanding the things I learned in Primary. When the missionaries asked if I wanted to take upon me the name of Christ, I was a little scared because I knew the responsibilities baptism brought with it. But I said yes—I wanted to be baptized as soon as I turned 8.
On November 14, 2004, I was baptized a member of the Church. Since then, I have faced many situations that have caused me to remember that I need to always live the way Jesus Christ did. For example, my sisters are 7 and 2 years old, and now I know what kind of example I need to be for them. I try to take care of my sister at school and help her behave. I work hard at school, and at home I always try to be quieter so my sisters will do the same. I help my mom fix breakfast every Sunday, and I have started fasting on the first Sunday of the month like my parents.

The gospel truly changes people’s lives. Last month I met the missionaries who taught a family of five in South Carolina last year. The father of this wonderful African-American family was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. His father had abandoned his mother when he was very young. He said his “angel mother” worked hard every day of her life to keep them from being homeless. He cannot remember one fun day as a child or as a teenager. He stated, “Other than the love of my mother, I felt very much alone in this world.” He served in the navy on the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk, where he learned discipline, organization, and order. He subsequently met and married his sweetheart, and they have three children. They came in contact with the missionaries, and he subsequently wrote:

The missionaries taught us to pray. They taught us about the Restoration. They taught us about revelation and truth. As they bore their testimonies, my heart became softened and I saw in their eyes the truth of what they said. In my whole life I have never seen such sincerity and love. On May 5, 2006, my family was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Now I really do believe that I have found my place in this world.

He has received the Melchizedek Priesthood, he baptized his eight-year-old daughter two weeks ago, and the family is planning on going to the temple this May to be sealed for time and all eternity.

A lot of teenagers today don’t even carry a handkerchief. But when I was a young man, having a handkerchief ready for an emergency (like someone crying, for example) was considered important. At least, my mother certainly thought so.
I was going on one of my first dates and was halfway out the door when I heard my mother’s voice calling my name. I went back inside to find her with a white handkerchief in her hand.
“Do you have a clean handkerchief?” she asked. “Mom,” I said in that special voice reserved for mothers by exasperated sons. I took the handkerchief because I was anxious to be on my way. I stuffed it into my pocket, and I was out the door and into the car without thinking more about it.
Today, a white handkerchief is probably the farthest thing from anyone’s mind before a date. Time tends to change many of our styles and customs, but the courtesy and respect that my mother taught me should exist in dating relationships are just as important today as they have ever been.
I don’t remember much about that date, but I do remember asking my mother afterward why a clean handkerchief was such a big deal. This led to a conversation between us that taught me a lot about establishing good relationships with young women.
Now, I don’t mean that I treated girls like they were just one of the guys; but I had a lot to learn. My mother explained, for example, that as a sign of courtesy young men should (1) walk ahead of a date in a darkened theater or room, (2) walk on the outside of the sidewalk, next to the road, (3) stand when a girl the same age or a woman enters the room and stand when she leaves, (4) stand until all women have been seated and help them be seated before seating themselves, and (5) take a young lady back to her seat and thank her after a dance. I did know, without my mom telling me, that opening car doors and helping girls out are also signs of respect.
At first I suspected my mother’s suggestions that all young men should obey the rules of etiquette might be a female conspiracy transmitted from generation to generation in order to control men. Later, as I listened to my wife make suggestions to our sons, I realized there were some time-honored ways for young men to act, and that young women usually like to be treated in those ways.
After I dismissed the conspiracy theory I selfishly thought that if men did all those nice things for women, we would be the only ones doing all the nice things. “What are they doing for us?” I thought. Girls usually don’t have to ask for dates and risk being turned down, and they don’t have to keep standing all the time, or help seat boys at the table.
Because of my suspicions and selfishness I was undecided about whether I wanted to try all of my mother’s ideas. But I soon learned that when people go on dates there are doors, cars, dances, meals, rooms to stand in, introductions, and movie theaters. There are times during each of these situations when someone needs to do something, and if no one does there is a silent awkwardness which makes you feel like a true klutz. I know.
I was at one of my first dances and somehow I’d gathered the courage to remove myself from the wall to ask someone to dance with me. The young lady I asked said, “Yes,” and suddenly I found myself out on the dance floor feeling rather uncomfortable. Fortunately, however, some of my friends had found partners also and joined us. As we danced, my friends and I made comments to one another and before I knew it, our talking had turned into a full-fledged conversation that excluded our partners. Immersed in the discussion, I became oblivious to the young lady I was dancing with and somehow drifted off of the dance floor without even realizing it. Back at the wall again I glanced out at those still dancing and, to my embarrassment, saw my partner out on the floor, alone. An uncomfortable feeling settled itself in my stomach. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what or how to even go about it in an awkward situation like this. So I did nothing. That night I decided that some of my mother’s ideas might be worth trying.
As I did so, the first thing that happened was unexpected. Girls I dated began to think I knew what I was doing and relaxed around me. The nervousness I sometimes felt disappeared too, and I started having more fun. The more we relaxed, the easier it was to talk. Talking comfortably might not seem very important, but it is the way friendships and liking begin and continue. By communicating well, I also began to get to know girls better.
I’ll admit that when I first started dating, I wanted to be seen with girls who wouldn’t tarnish the social image I thought I had to protect. However, after spending time with some young women, having long talks with them and my mother about many things, I found out that girls could be friends (without worrying about all the romantic stuff). In fact, some of the dates I enjoyed most were with girls who were fun and were not worried about trying to make boys like them.
I soon found, though, that I felt better around and preferred the company of some young women over others. After talking about it, my mother suggested that I needed to learn how and why I got along better with some than with others because it would help me when it came time to get more serious about finding someone to marry. So I learned to be observant on a date, to think about why I did or did not feel comfortable.
I began to look at those I dated for the characteristics I thought important, like how well they communicated, their sense of humor, what they believed about religion and what they thought about themselves. I didn’t think much about it then, but I know I was storing up ideas. More important, I also found out that most girls start out wanting to have genuine, fun friendships because they are evaluating young men too. What’s more, as we evaluate others, we’re also evaluating ourselves. Most people feel complimented by genuine interest and questions that give them an opportunity to talk about themselves.
My willingness to treat a young woman with genuine interest and to stop trying too hard to impress her helped me discover that I was often guilty of prejudging. I found after talking to some girls that what I had thought about them at first was later proven untrue.
My mother also taught me that courtesy and acceptance are ways of showing respect, not only toward girls, women, and even toward other men, but also for myself. This knowledge and skill has helped me many times because it has increased my confidence around others. I believe I am less afraid to meet new people, enter new situations, speak in public, and carry on private conversations because manners help me know what to do. Manners have helped me, and many men, overcome a natural shyness.
Women deserve the respect of men. Both men and women are warmed by it and helped to feel secure. In an age when there is much concern about equality of the sexes, some women are receiving unequal amounts of rudeness and disrespect. Many men are using the idea of female equality as an excuse to neglect courtesy.
My mother helped me to learn and show respect for her, and consequently taught me that all girls and women are deserving of it. No one benefits by demeaning or rejecting another person. When young women are ennobled by the respect young men show them, both are elevated.
It never occurred to me as a young man that if a boy treats a girl like a queen, he is raising himself to a higher level too. All men and boys can learn an honest courtesy. And all young men can be known as “good dates,” not because of their social standing or good looks, but because of the respect and kindness they show to those they date.

Richard had a lucky hat. He wore it to breakfast, and he wore it to bed. In fact, he hardly ever took it off. His grandfather had given it to him, and on the very first day that he wore it, Richard had caught a fish.
“It must be a lucky hat,” Grandfather had said, and Richard knew that it was true.
But it was hard to keep a hat on all the time—even a lucky hat. He couldn’t keep it on in the shower or when he went swimming. It was almost impossible to keep his hat on when he turned a somersault or did a cartwheel. And when it was windy, or when Richard ran really fast, his hat would be blown onto the ground.
When it blew off Richard’s head, his little brother Andrew would snatch it up and run with it because he wanted a lucky hat too. But no matter how much Andrew cried or screamed or kicked the floor, he always had to return it. The hat was Richard’s—Mother had said so!
Richard was glad he didn’t have to share his hat. I don’t know what I’d do without it, he thought. He had learned to do many things while wearing his lucky hat. He had learned to throw a football and to ride his two-wheeler without the training wheels. He had learned to build a house three stories high out of play logs. And now he could even write his name on the drawings he made for his mother.
But of all the nice things that had happened to Richard while he was wearing his lucky hat, the very best thing had been meeting his new friend Bernie. Bernie had moved in right next door, and he was just the kind of friend that Richard had always wished for. All summer long they had played together. Now that fall was coming, they would start school together too.
Once, Richard had been afraid to go to school. He was scared that he wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. He was scared that he wouldn’t make any friends. But since he had his lucky hat, and since he had his new friend Bernie, he wasn’t afraid at all. He couldn’t wait for the school doors to open.
And when they did, it was wonderful. He liked the room full of bright colors. He liked his teacher, Miss Evans. And he liked his classmates. Richard liked everything about school—that is, he liked it until the moment Miss Evans noticed his hat. “Please take off your hat, Richard,” she said. “You mustn’t wear it in the classroom.”
“But it’s my lucky hat,” Richard pleaded.
Miss Evans insisted, though, so Richard removed his hat. He stuffed it up the front of his shirt, but it made his stomach itch. He tucked it into his belt. But a boy grabbed it and wouldn’t give it back. Miss Evans finally took the hat and put it into her desk drawer. “You may have it back after school, Richard,” she promised.
The next day Richard didn’t want to go to school at all. First he said his head ached. Then he said his throat was sore. And then he said his stomach hurt. It did, too, because Richard was scared. But he had to go to school anyway—Mother said so.
So Richard took his lucky hat and put it up high in his closet, where Andrew couldn’t get it. Then he trudged to school with Bernie.
“It will be terrible without my hat,” he said to Bernie. But the day surprised him. Miss Evans gave him a big smile when he helped her pick up some papers she had dropped. Then he was the third one chosen in a game of ringtoss. Later his painting with the big yellow sun was hung on the wall for the whole class to see. That made Richard very proud, and he could hardly wait to tell his mother. Afterward he went out to play with Bernie and forgot all about his hat. He did remember it at bedtime, but he was too tired to get it down.
So the lucky hat stayed safe, high up on his closet shelf. Richard didn’t think of it again until two weeks later. He was looking for his favorite blue racing car when he found his hat. He dusted it off and tried it on. It fit as well as it ever did, but somehow it didn’t feel right.
“It’s hard to wear a hat all the time,” Richard murmured, “even a lucky hat.”
He took it off and started to put it back on the shelf. Then he thought, I don’t need this anymore, but I know who does.
And Richard climbed down from the stool and went to find Andrew.

The big glass jar had the words “Fill Your Life with Service” on the side. Each week the young women and their leaders from the Titusville Ward in Florida anonymously wrote down the acts of service they had given during the week. The slips of paper were then rolled, taped, and placed in the jar. The young women used yellow paper, and the leaders used green. Plus, on one Mutual night for each of the six months of the project the young women held a service activity.
The first month focused on service to family, week two on friends, and then the priesthood, neighbors, community, and the world. The slips of paper revealed all kinds of service: “I helped my brother with his homework,” “I baked my friend a cake,” “I volunteered at the animal shelter,” “I sent some mail to missionaries from our ward.”
Jessica Crook, a Beehive, said, “I think the activities helped all of us understand more about helping and serving others.” In the end there were more yellow papers than green, so the young women were rewarded with a dinner prepared and served by their leaders.

More than a decade ago a major in the U.S. Air Force told of his test flights. He was born of goodly parents who taught him righteousness. He had flown 25 different types of military aircraft in 4,000 hours in the air. He had flown 142 combat missions in Korea and had received many distinguished medals. He told us that “before takeoff every pilot takes a few moments to make a last-minute check of his engine, flight controls, hydraulic and pneumatic systems and other essential subsystems of his aircraft to be sure the flight can at least begin safely. … His reactions to emergency conditions must be instinctive and as infallible as human thought and reflexes permit.

“… Yet, there is something missing on the printed checklist which to me has become as necessary to a successful flight as lowering the wheels for a smooth landing. It is a prayer to ask my Father in heaven to bless me that my best judgment and skill will guide my actions, especially in periods of stress. There have been several instances … in which I know the answer to this prayer has been received with dramatic suddenness. …”

“Let me tell you about a man named Emmanuel Ninger. The year is 1887, and the scene is a small neighborhood grocery store. A distinguished looking gentleman in his late 50’s or early 60’s is buying some turnip greens. He hands the clerk a $20 bill and waits for his change. As she starts to make change, she notices that the ink is coming off on her fingers which are still wet from handling the turnip greens. She is shocked and pauses to consider what to do. She thinks, ‘This is Emmanuel Ninger, a long-time friend, a neighbor, and a customer. Surely he would not give me a bill that was anything less than genuine.’ So, she gives him the change and he leaves.
“Later she had some second thoughts because $20 was a large amount of money in 1887. She sent for the police. One policeman was confident that the $20 bill was genuine. The other was puzzled about the ink that rubbed off. Finally they obtained a warrant to search Mr. Ninger’s home.
“In the attic they found the facilities for reproducing $20. As a matter of fact, they found a $20 bill in the process of being printed. They also found three portraits which Emmanuel Ninger had painted. Ninger was an artist, and he was a good one. He was so good, he had hand painted those $20 bills. Meticulously, stroke by stroke, he had applied the master’s touch so skillfully that he was able to fool everyone until a quirk of fate in the form of wet hands of a grocery clerk exposed him.
“After the arrest, his portraits were sold at public auction for $16,000—over $5,000 each. The irony of the story is it took Emmanuel Ninger almost exactly the same length of time to paint a $20 bill as it took him to paint a $5,000 portrait.
“This brilliant and talented man was a thief in every sense of the word. Tragically, the person he stole the most from was himself, Emmanuel Ninger. Not only could he have been a wealthy man if he had legitimately marketed his ability, but he could have brought joy and benefit to his fellowman. He had a choice, and he compromised his integrity” (Vital Speeches of the Day, pp. 40–41).

She was a young girl. She had sacrificed her worldly plans to spend long, tedious hours in work in order to provide for and raise her younger orphan brother. But now she lay on her bed, dying of a sickness. She called for her bishop, and as she talked to him in her last moments, he held her rough, hard, work-calloused hand in his. Then she asked the question “How will God know that I am his?”
Gently he raised her wrist and answered, “Show him your hands.”
Someday we may see that pair of hands that sacrificed so much for us. Are our hands clean, and do they show the signs of being in his service? Are our hearts pure and filled with his thoughts?

Eighteen months later my son was called to serve a mission. There were nearly 500 people in attendance at sacrament meeting! Friends from Hawaii arrived, bringing with them a braided green lei, which they presented to our son just before the meeting began. This particular lei, they explained, was one villagers placed on triumphant warriors when they returned victorious from battle. They asked him to wear it when he gave his talk.
However, when our son stood to talk, he didn’t have on the lei. I worried that our friends would be hurt. Then, near the end of his talk, he took out the lei and explained the tradition associated with it. He said he felt like a warrior going to battle for the truth but that there was someone else here who was the real warrior, someone who had waged a difficult war and won. He then turned to me and reached for my hand, led me to his side, and lovingly placed the lei around my neck.

My great-grandfather Harry Payne was one of the original settlers in my hometown of Virden, New Mexico, a tiny farming and ranching community. Twenty-one families left Mexico in 1912 and joined together to buy property in southwestern New Mexico. They divided the property into 21 different farms. Great-grandfather Payne really liked one particular piece of property. It already had a house on it, while most of the other pieces of land did not. To decide who got each piece of property, the settlers decided to draw pieces of paper out of a hat. My great-grandfather’s son-in-law could not attend the drawing, so he asked Great-grandfather Payne to draw for him. As my great-grandfather went up to draw, he thought, “The paper I draw with my right hand will be for me, and the one drawn by my left hand will be for my son-in-law.” The paper he chose for his son-in-law was for the land he so dearly wanted. His paper was for a piece of land with rocky ground. Nobody but he knew which hand he had chosen for his son-in-law. Still, he put aside the temptation to keep the land he wanted. He felt the sacrifice was worth being true to oneself. He and his sons hauled away rock for many years as they lived on the rocky property.
As I think of the faith of these wonderful ancestors of mine, it reminds me of my need to be worthy and my desire to be tied to them as an eternal family, generation upon generation.

Many years ago I attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, where the stake presidency was reorganized. The stake president who was being released, E. Francis Winters, had served faithfully for the lengthy term of 23 years. Though modest by nature and circumstance, he had been a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley. On the day of the stake conference, the building was filled to overflowing. Each heart seemed to be saying a silent thank-you to this noble leader who had given so unselfishly of his life for the benefit of others.

As I stood to speak, I was prompted to do something I had not done before, nor have I done so since. I stated how long Francis Winters had presided in the stake; then I asked all whom he had blessed or confirmed as children to stand and remain standing. Then I asked all those persons whom President Winters had ordained, set apart, personally counseled, or blessed to please stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet. Tears flowed freely—tears which communicated better than could words the gratitude of tender hearts. I turned to President and Sister Winters and said, “We are witnesses today of the prompting of the Spirit. This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.” No person who was in the congregation that day will forget how he or she felt when we witnessed the language of the Spirit of the Lord.

Here, in Francis Winters, was “an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.”

Then I met our bishop, a large rancher who seemed too gentle for his intimidating stature. In my first interview with him he asked me to pray. I refused. I knew how to pray, but I couldn’t because I believed God wouldn’t listen to a sinner. The bishop seemed to understand, although I didn’t see how he could because I was sure he had never sinned in his life. But he didn’t condemn me. He seemed to consider me of equal value to all the “saints” in our ward. Feeling so accepted, I continued to attend.
The next couple of months were filled with something I had never felt before. I came to realize that it was the Spirit of the Lord trying to tell me that everything I was hearing and feeling was true. I don’t think I had a testimony at that time. I only knew that I loved my schoolmate and her funny ideas. I loved my Young Women adviser because she loved me. I loved my bishop because he didn’t condemn me. I loved the feeling I had when I was with these people, and I wanted to have that feeling always in my life.

Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia sat on the couch, looking through the new Christmas catalog.
“Oh, look at that dollhouse!” Katy exclaimed.
“Santa will never get that thing in his sleigh,” said Yolanda. “It’s too big.”
“Santa can do anything,” insisted Marcia, the youngest.
At the supper table that night, Katy mentioned the dollhouse. Dad and Mom looked at each other. “I think things are going to be a bit different this year,” Dad said. “Santa has some extra kids on his list, so we’re going to ask him for fewer things than usual.”
“But Santa can do anything,” Marcia objected. “Who are these kids, anyway?”
Mom answered with a question: “Have you met the girls who moved into the Jones’s house?”
“The Jones’s house?” Katy exclaimed. “They must really be poor!”
“They are poor, Katy. Santa and our family are going to help them. That’s why there will be fewer presents under our own tree this year.”
There was silence around the table as the three sisters thought this over.
Dad sighed. “I can see that this won’t be easy for you, but we have so much, and your mother and I feel that it’s important to share.”
“Santa will still bring you a few things,” Mother reminded them before adding, “but the best gift that we’ll all get is a wonderful feeling.”
Katy was unconvinced. “You can’t open a feeling on Christmas morning.”
Dad looked disappointed. “If you each share just one of your toys, that’s all we’ll ask.”
“Except that I could use some help with the Christmas cookies,” Mom added. “We’ll put some in a big basket for them.”
“What about us?” Yolanda whined. “Don’t we get any?”
“I think that’s just about enough,” Dad said sternly. “You’ll meet the Smith girls tomorrow at church. We expect you to be polite and show them around.”
The meal ended in gloom and silence.
The next day the three sisters kept looking around the chapel to see if they could spot the Smith girls. “There! On the third row, next to the door,” whispered Yolanda. Her sisters slowly turned around and stared at the two strangers.
“They’re wearing braids,” Katy said. “Nobody wears braids anymore.”
“Hush and turn around,” said Mom. “It’s rude to stare.”
On the way to Primary, Dad introduced the new family. “Girls, this is Sister Smith and Susan and Beverly.”
“Hi,” everyone mumbled.
“Where are you from?” asked Katy.
“From Grafton,” said Susan.
“That’s a long way from here. Why did you move?”
Before Susan could answer, the Primary president poked her head out the door. “Time to get started, girls.”
At lunch the next Saturday Marcia asked, “Why did the Smiths move here?”
“Well,” Mom said slowly, “they lost their father last summer. Sister Smith was able to get a good job with the telephone company, but she had to move here to take it.”
“If she has a good job, how come we have to give up our Christmas to them?” asked Yolanda.
“Because she doesn’t have any money yet,” Mom said. “And you’re not giving up your Christmas—just a few things. Try to remember that these girls have lost their father.”
“I still don’t like it,” said Marcia.
Just then the telephone rang. Dad answered. “Yes,” they heard him say, “I’m sure that they’d like to come.”
“Who was that?” asked Katy.
“It was Sister Smith inviting you to spend the afternoon with her daughters.”
“No way! They didn’t say three words to us at church. Please, Dad!”
Dad was wearing his stubborn look. “Look, girls, I know this is hard. But sometimes we do things just because they’re right.”
Mom helped them into their coats and herded them out the door. It seemed like too short a walk through the fast-falling snow. A soft knock brought Sister Smith to the front door. Her daughters stood silently behind her.
“Come in, girls. We’re happy that you could come over.”
Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia entered the living room. There was no furniture, just a big pile of moving boxes against one wall. They followed Susan and Beverly into the big, old-fashioned kitchen and were greeted with the smell of gingerbread. In the middle of the room was a large oak dining table. On it were candies, bowls of frosting, and a sheet of baked gingerbread.
“Bev and Susan thought it would be fun to make gingerbread houses,” said Sister Smith.
“Wow! All right!” Yolanda exclaimed. “I didn’t think we would—” Katy pinched her before she could say “have any fun.”
“Come on,” said Beverly. “Let’s get started!”
“Yeah,” said Susan. “We do this every year with our friends. We’re glad we have you to share this with.”
The five girls started on the gingerbread houses and were soon laughing at each other because of the frosting on their faces.
Later, while they were waiting for more gingerbread to cool, Katy said, “Let’s go play in your bedroom.”
“We can’t,” said Beverly. “It’s too cold in there. We only go there at bedtime.”
“Oh.”
Beverly jumped up. “I know—let’s make paper chains for our windows! Mom, don’t we have colored paper somewhere?”
Soon the girls were absorbed in their project, scattering bright paper scraps like confetti on the floor.
“Let’s make some for your tree, too,” Yolanda said.
Susan and Beverly exchanged glances. Finally Beverly said, “We might not get a tree this year. They’re pretty expensive.”
The three sisters looked at each other. After a while, Katy said, “I’m tired of making chains. Let’s make something else.”
“I know,” Susan said. “Let’s make foil stars and hang them from the light fixtures.” Soon they were scattering silver foil and cardboard among the bright scraps of paper already on the floor.
Before long, the setting sun appeared through the clouds, filling the room with light. Later, just as the clock on the wall chimed five times, a knock sounded at the kitchen door.
“Look, it’s Dad,” Yolanda said. “What does he have?”
“It’s a tree!” cried Beverly as Sister Smith opened the door.
“A little offering from our family to yours,” said Dad with a grin. “Do you have a big bucket or something else we can put this in?”
“Bev, run to the shed and get that old gray bucket. Brother Harris, how can we ever thank you?”
“Well, we all wanted to do something fun.” He winked at his daughters.
Beverly burst into the kitchen, carrying a large gray bucket. The next few minutes were filled with happy, noisy confusion as everyone tried to help Dad put up the tree. Satisfied at last that it was secure and well watered, he stood up, sniffing appreciatively.
“Mmmm, pine trees and gingerbread—it sure smells like Christmas! Bring out the ornaments, and we’ll finish the job.”
“Well, I’m afraid all I have is a string of lights,” Sister Smith said.
“We have something!” cried the girls. They scampered off and brought back armfuls of paper chains and foil stars.
“Now, that’s the ticket! Sister Smith, you go get those lights. Girls, get that stuff untangled, and we’re in business. Hey, got any gingerbread men?”
As everyone got busy, they filled the old kitchen with laughter. Finally they all stepped back to admire their handiwork.
A soft knock sounded at the door. It was Mom carrying a large casserole dish. “A little something for your dinner,” she said. “My, that’s a fine tree! It looks like you girls have had a busy afternoon.” She set the steaming dish on the counter.
There were tears in Sister Smith’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for remembering my family. This is a Christmas we will always remember.”
Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia didn’t know what to say. Mom did. “Thank you for letting us share. We need you too.” She gave Sister Smith a hug. “Come on, girls, let’s go before their dinner gets cold. Ours too.”
As the Harris family walked home, Yolanda turned and looked at the Smith kitchen window. The Christmas tree lights blinked brightly. “Mom, what did you mean when you told Sister Smith that we needed her?”
Mom took Yolanda’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you remember how you felt when you went to the Smith’s this afternoon?”
“Yeah—pretty awful.”
“Well, how do you feel now?”
“I feel wonderful. Is that what you meant? I understand now—we needed to give so we could feel good again.”
“And we’re not done yet!” Katy and Marcia chimed in.

I’m grateful for the bishop’s encouragement and belief in my daughter’s ability to be able to settle down in a sacrament meeting. He didn’t judge me for not being able to get my daughter to be reverent all the time. I will never forget the day he assigned me to give a talk on the responsibility of a mother. I felt it was a role I had fallen very short on, but my bishop didn’t. On Mother’s Day, the bishop, knowing that I often had to leave church early, ran after me to ensure that he personally handed me my Mother’s Day card and gift. That deeply touched my heart.

I began seminary in 2017 in our Pare Ward of the Arue Tahiti Stake. I was in 9th grade in school at the time, and I was eager to be part of this youth group.
During my first year, I woke up before 5 am every weekday to get to seminary on time. I did my readings, and I was very attentive in class. I realized seminary contributed to deepening my relationship with God. Without Him, I would not have been able to successfully pass my school’s National Certificate Exam at the end of year 9.

I think of dear Sister Amy Gent, whom I was privileged to visit for several years as branch president, home teacher, and friend. The first time I visited her, she was 87 years of age. Widowed twice, she was the only member of the Church in her extended family. Was she lonely? Never!

She read the scriptures every day. Once she asked me to bring her some missionary tracts, which I thought were to vary her reading. I gave them to her saying, “You will enjoy reading these, Sister Gent.”

“Oh, they are not for me,” she replied. “I visit an old lady, and I want to share the gospel with her!”

Reaching out, helping, serving, this is the way we overcome the fear of loneliness.

Christian fingered the key in his pocket as he walked toward the jail. It had taken months of study and prayer before he had finally decided to use that key for something more important than just opening the jail door so he could carry meals to those who were held there as prisoners.
Almost all the men in the jailhouse were Mormon missionaries. Many of them had sailed into the Port of Frederikstad in a pilot boat they had fitted up and named Sions Löve (Zion’s Lion) so that they could easily travel to coastal areas of the Scandinavian Mission, then including all of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.
At first Christian hadn’t paid much attention to the missionaries, for he was busy learning the catechism so he could correctly answer any questions he might be asked by the priest at the confirmation service that was soon to be held for prospective young members of the Lutheran Church. He was not concerned about the fact that almost as soon as any Mormon missionaries arrived in Frederikstad they were arrested.
Lutheranism was the national religion of Norway and missionaries who taught other doctrines were promptly jailed, some for only a few weeks, others for many months. During this time they frequently were taken to court and almost forced to renounce their religion and declare allegiance to the national church of Norway. Refusing to do so, they were then returned to their quarters.
Christian worked for the warden of the jail who instructed him to heckle and be as unpleasant as possible to the prisoners when he carried meals to them. This seemed like fun until one day a young missionary said, “Why do you talk and act as you do? Remember that so persecuted they the Christ and His followers in Bible times.”
The startled boy asked him to explain what he meant, so two of the elders began talking about the gospel and gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
Every night as Christian studied for his confirmation examination, he also studied the Book of Mormon, comparing it with his Bible and the Lutheran catechism. As the truthfulness of the restored gospel became more and more apparent to him, Christian prayed to know what he should do. Since no answer came before the confirmation date, he purposely failed the examination and then made application to take it again in six months.
Thinking back over his months of prayer and study, Christian knew what he must do. He finally decided to use his key to the prison to let the two missionaries out of jail long enough to go with him to a nearby fjord so he could be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Afterward the three walked back to the jailhouse where the elders returned to their room and Christian turned the key in the lock to their cell.
Because of the persecution toward members of the Church throughout Norway, and also because he knew how angry his father would be, Christian did not tell anyone of the thrilling event that had taken place on that cold winter night of 1852. He knew he would not be able to make his stern father understand what he had done. He tried to talk with his mother but she would not listen. When the next confirmation service was held, Christian honored his application and appeared for his examination with the other prospective young Lutherans.
“Do you believe in God?” was the first question asked by the priest.
“Oh, yes,” Christian answered quickly.
“Can you describe Him?” was the next question.
“I know He is a Being with body, parts, and passions,” Christian replied. “I also know He does not sit on the top of a topless throne. I know our Heavenly Father is good and kind, that He sees, hears, and answers prayers. I know we are made in His image as was His Son Jesus Christ.”
The priest was surprised by this description but continued with the examination, becoming more and more amazed with the answers Christian gave. As the boy glanced at his father he could see that he was very upset. Finally, the priest said angrily, “You answer as if you belonged to that sect known as Mormons.”
“I do,” Christian said, “and I’m proud of it!”
At this declaration, Christian’s father arose from his seat near the front of the Church and rushed up the aisle and out the door, striking his cane hard against the floor with every step he took. Confused and embarrassed, Christian’s mother followed her husband, and their son was abruptly dismissed.
Christian went home wanting to talk with his parents, but he was afraid of what they would say. Having carried his usual armful of wood into the house that night, Christian was piling it near the fireplace when his father came into the room. At the sight of his son who he felt had disgraced him, Christian’s father struck him with his cane and then began to beat him. At last, panting for breath, his father laid the merciless cane on the table.
“Oh, Father,” Christian said quietly, “it feels good to be whipped for the gospel’s sake.”
At these words, the father became even more furious. He picked up stick after stick of firewood and hurled them at Christian. When the wood was gone, he opened the door and shouted, “Get out of my house. I never want to see you again!”
Bruised and bleeding from the beating and the wood that had been thrown at him, Christian dragged himself out to the barn where he threw himself upon the hay. Late that night after her husband was asleep, Christian’s mother noiselessly tied a little food and a few of his belongings in a handkerchief and went out to the barn. Tearfully she treated her son’s injuries as well as she could.
“Why, oh why, did you do this thing, Christian?” she pleaded heartbrokenly.
“Because I had to, Mother,” Christian replied. “I have studied and prayed and I know this is the only true Church. I tried to tell you but you would not listen to me. I cannot deny what I know, Mother. If I did, it would be to deny Jesus Christ, our Savior, and I cannot do that.”
“If, as you say, you know this is right, my boy,” his mother told him, “then you must stand firm. But oh, how my heart aches.”
When the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, Christian’s mother crept back into the house. Christian picked up the little bundle she had brought to him and started walking down the road. As he passed his house he breathed a good-bye to his parents, for he knew he would never see them again.
Christian Hans Monson didn’t know where he would go or what he could do. “But I have a testimony,” the fourteen-year-old boy said to himself. “Whatever happens, I can never deny that. And I know that because of my testimony, all will be well.”

Growing up, a lot of girls struggle with the adversary targeting their self-worth. The world places an emphasis on what we look like, and if you’re an athlete, you’re being watched a lot. I felt a lot of anxiety playing volleyball at Brigham Young University. Lots of eyes were on me, and it brought up insecurities. I had been praying to get through the doubts that came with those insecurities. It wasn’t an immediate answer, but I know that it was those prayers and that time with Heavenly Father that helped me overcome those.

The Spirit reminded me that I am now a different person than I was four years ago. Looking back, I can see times when Heavenly Father’s hand gave me experiences and impressions that I have so much more worth than I thought.

To become consistently charitable is a lifelong quest, but each act of love changes us and those who offer it. Let me tell you the story of a young woman I met recently. Alicia, as a teenager, had drifted far from the Church, but later she felt stirrings to return. She often visited her grandfather in a retirement home on Sundays. On one of those days she decided to attend the Latter-day Saint meetings there. She opened the door and found a Relief Society meeting, but no empty seats. As she was about to leave, a woman motioned to her and scooted over to make room for her on her chair. Alicia said: “I wondered what the woman would think of me. I was covered with body piercings, and I smelled of smoke. But she didn’t seem to mind; she simply made a place for me at her side.”

Alicia, heartened by this woman’s charity, returned to activity. She has served a mission and is now sharing that same kind of love with other women. The elderly sister who shared her chair understood that there is a place for every woman in Relief Society. Sisters, we gather for strength, but we bring with us all our weaknesses and imperfections.

Alicia told me something I will never forget. She said: “I only do one thing for myself when I go to church: I take the sacrament for me. The rest of the time I watch for others who need me, and I try to help and nurture them.”