Gospel Story Finder

The miracle of the mortal body became apparent to me one afternoon when I was holding my first baby. It was a girl, and suddenly she seemed to stop breathing. I tried to force air into her lungs. I cried to the Lord in desperation, and after only a few seconds that seemed like an endless hour, she began to breathe normally again. The problem was diagnosed as an enlarged thymus gland that needed treatment. I shall never forget how grateful I was for the miracle of life and for the power of the body that I knew that day. I determined to do my very best to help her use her life as the Lord intended when he gave her to me to care for and love.

When Uncle Palacios announced he had chosen Simon to live in Caracas with him, the Bolivar children looked hopelessly at each other. They knew now that other relatives would take Simon’s older brother and his two sisters. It was bad enough to be separated from each other, but they did not want to leave the white-pillared mansion in the beautiful Aragua Valley, Venezuela, that had always been their home.
Father had died when Simon was only six, but his mother had insisted that the children stay together on the large estate, where its cocoa trees, herds of cattle, and copper mines were taken care of by the thousands of slaves owned by the family. Now, three years later, their mother was dead too, and so the relatives had met to decide who should be responsible for each child.
The house of Uncle Palacios was stiff and formal, and the strictness of the cowled monks who came to teach Simon there was frightening.
Simon missed the river, filled with fish, that flowed through the green valley of his home. He missed the sloping hills and the cool little summer-houses hidden among the trees where he had played. But sometimes it seemed to him that more than anything else he missed having a horse and the freedom to ride it that he had enjoyed all his life.
Uncle Palacios was good to Simon and grieved over the unhappiness of his rich and lonely little nephew. So after a year or two he dismissed the stern monks and hired an exciting young man, Rodriguez Carreno, to live at the house and be a companion and a teacher to Simon.
Rodriguez threw away the dull books Simon had been studying and announced that together they would learn about life and living. He was quick to see the sparkle of interest on the boy’s face, and he caught the longing in Simon’s voice when he talked of the home and horses he had had to leave. The next day the new teacher said, “Among other subjects, I intend to teach you something about the anatomy of animals. We will include the horse. Therefore, we must have a horse stabled in the garden to study and to ride.”
Simon learned much from Rodriguez. He was shocked and hurt when he was told that, in spite of the Bolivar family’s wealth and their high place in Venezuelan society, they were looked down on by their Spanish rulers because they were people of native birth, even though they were of European descent.
He found this to be true when at sixteen he went to live with some of his wealthy and titled relatives in Madrid, Spain. One morning very early, as he was riding his horse on the hills outside of Madrid, he was surrounded by mounted police who told him that because he was a Creole, he would not be allowed to wear his costly jewels and fine clothing.
Simon left Madrid a few days later and went to France. There he was called Prince Bolivar by his friends, who with him enjoyed parties and pleasure. His old companion-teacher Rodriguez expressed disapproval of the way his former student was living and insisted that he and Simon go on a walking tour through Italy. They talked of many things as they walked—of governments, the French revolution, the needs of people, and the ideals of freedom.
One day they stopped to rest on the green hillside overlooking the ancient city of Rome. Simon Bolivar suddenly stood up, stretched out his arms, and said in a solemn voice, “On my life and honor I promise most faithfully not to rest until I have freed America of her tyrants.”
Simon gave up his carefree ways and returned to Venezuela.
The beautiful Bolivar estate outside of Caracas had been taken over by the government, and Simon was left without money or friends. But he had a magnetic personality and soon was able to persuade others to join him in the cause of freedom.
He gathered around him men of various nationalities, soldiers who had only ragged uniforms and odd bits and pieces of civilian clothing to wear. Their powder and bullet pouches were roughly made out of cattle hide, and their muskets and bayonets were almost worn out. Most of the men were bareheaded; on their feet they wore clumsy leather sandals. The discomfort of the humid heat of the jungles through which they traveled was equaled only by the shivering cold of the high Andes Mountains, where the half-frozen and hungry men gasped with exhaustion as they labored across the volcanic peaks and the mighty glaciers.
They met defeats that would have seemed complete disaster to most armies, but Simon Bolivar would somehow manage to hold his men together, to attract others to join them, and to almost miraculously secure funds. Because of his brilliance and his dedication, he was able to lead the army to startling and unbelievable victories. These men knew that they had to defeat the Spanish forces or die, and they did not want to die—nor to let their country remain in bondage.
Because of personal sacrifices and in spite of unbelievable odds, Bolivar’s army won independence for Venezuela and Colombia. On October 3, 1821, Simon became president of Colombia.
By the time he was forty-three many of his dreams had become glorious realities when he was also named president of Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru. Soon afterward he learned that certain provinces in Peru wanted to break away from the rest of the country, so arrangements were made for them to do so, and Simon Bolivar became president of these united provinces too. They were named Bolivia in his honor.
Although there were many problems, heavy responsibilities, and much heartache, Simon never deviated from the vow he made to his old teacher on the hills above Rome. Twenty years later Rodriguez received a letter of appreciation:
“You may have followed with curiosity my steps in the path you traced out for me. You opened my heart to freedom and justice. You would hardly believe how deeply your teachings are graven on my heart.”

Some of the first forks were brought to Europe from Byzantium, a rich and powerful empire to the east. About a thousand years ago a Byzantine princess came to live in Venice, a city in Italy. She ate with a fork. The priests thought her way of eating was so fancy that it was sinful. They scolded her. They preached against her in church. Soon afterward, the princess caught a terrible disease and died. Many people believed that she was punished for using her fork.

As I was preparing to come, I was awakened, I will even tell you the time of day, at 1:00 in the morning. I had slept for only two or three hours and I think the Holy Ghost did it by telling me, “You’re rested,” which didn’t seem reasonable at that hour. “It is time to go.”

So, I got up. In a period of five hours, when I planned to talk about quite a different thing, I wrote what I have given you. I was surprised. I thought that this isn’t the kind of thing you talk to young people about. You should tell more stories, or tell them something amusing, or try to catch their attention.

In his autobiography, Parley P. Pratt told of his conversion and then of his compelling desire to share the gospel with others. Parley’s brother William, however, was more impressed by Parley’s material success and could not understand why he would give it all up to teach the gospel.

William asked Parley, “This is your all; you have toiled for years to obtain it, and why not now continue to enjoy it?”

Parley responded, “I see plainly you know but little of my circumstances—of the changes which have taken place with me since we parted five years ago, nor how vastly wealthy I have become within that time. Why, sir, I have bank bills enough, on the very best institutions in the world, to sustain myself and family while we live.”

Again William questioned, “Well, I should like to see some of them; I hope they are genuine.”

Parley replied, “There is no doubt of that. They are true bills and founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.”

Parley then unlocked his treasury and took out a large pocketbook full of promissory notes like the following: “Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sisters, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.” Parley explained to William that the words of Jesus Christ will not fail, and then he said, “I feel called upon by the Holy Ghost to forsake my house and home for the gospel’s sake; and I will do it, placing both feet firm on these promises with nothing else to rely upon.”

Still not fully convinced, William left to do his business, and Parley made preparations for a mission that would be lifelong. Parley was not “conformed to this world.” With all his heart he sought to both obtain and share those treasures that money cannot buy.

As I buttoned my coat and tied the cords of my knit cap, I shivered with excitement. The whole Christmas season lay before me, and tonight Dad was taking us out into the middle of it. I hadn’t a clue where, but it didn’t matter. Dad always had a good plan for family night.
“There’s a special event on Temple Square tonight,” Dad told us as we drove downtown. “I had you dress warmly because it’s outdoors.” Becki, my little sister, was bouncing with anticipation as we searched for a parking spot. I couldn’t help bouncing a little, too. We had only recently moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and the granite-gray walls of the Salt Lake Temple were a source of wonder to me.
When we reached Temple Square, there was quite a crowd gathered in the garden south of the temple. Bleachers and a podium had been set up on a little slope. Dad led us to a spot slightly above and to the side of the bleachers. We stamped our feet to keep warm in the cold night air.
Dad hoisted Becki onto his shoulders. “Look,” he said softly. “There’s President McKay.” I stretched to see, and there he was! President David O. McKay! I could hardly believe it. I could see his wavy white hair and smiling face. The feeling I had was amazing. I felt tingly. I hardly had time to think about it, though, because the program was starting.
The people on the bleachers turned out to be members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, who sang some Christmas songs. I was hearing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in person! I kept on tingling, and somehow I knew it wasn’t from the cold. Then, after an introduction, President McKay stood up and reached into a box partly hidden by the podium.
It’s hard to describe the marvelous moment when the prophet flipped the switch. The light! The color! Thousands of tiny lightbulbs sparkled in the trees. The walkways were lined with them, and the bushes, shrubs, and flower beds were suddenly transformed. A huge gasp and a sigh rose into the night as the crowd shared the wonder of the moment. We soon found ourselves moving along the sidewalks and pathways around the Tabernacle, past monuments and fountains. It was glorious! I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.
“Well,” I thought, “this is Christmas!” It seemed absolutely right to me that I should feel the spirit of Christmas so strongly this close to the house of the Lord. After all, we were celebrating the Lord’s birth. Christmas lights ought to shine more brightly here. And it was perfect to have the prophet turn on the lights. He represented Jesus Christ, and Jesus is the Light of the World. It felt like a little bit of heaven.
That was in 1965. Almost every Christmas since then, lights have gleamed on Temple Square. Going to see the lights on Temple Square became a Christmas tradition for our family, as it has been for countless others. It is more than a tradition for me, though. It has become part of my testimony. Several things happened to me as I watched President McKay turn on the lights that December night. I felt the Holy Ghost witness to me that the old gentleman with white hair was a true prophet of God. I also came to know as I had never known before that the temple is God’s holy house. I promised myself that I would feel that joy and wonder again—by being worthy to enter it someday.

Perhaps not coincidentally, Father Damien arrived at Kalaupapa in the same year the Napelas did. This Belgian priest would eventually gain international fame because of his demonstration of faith and attitude of selfless service on the island, best captured by his own words: “Suppose the disease does get my body, God will give me another one on resurrection day.”9 From the day of his arrival in 1873 until his death at age 49, his concern was for all the patients, regardless of race or religion. However, the core of his heart seemed to belong to the orphaned children, whom he often led in singing.

Soon after their arrival at the settlement, Jonathan Napela and Father Damien became acquainted. Both had come to Kalaupapa to serve, and both contracted Hansen’s disease as a result of their charity. Damien was 27 years younger than Napela, and the cultural background of each was very different, yet both were firmly committed to their religious orientations. Though ecclesiastical leaders of different faiths, they became dear friends. In fact, one of their contemporaries who lived at Kalaupapa wrote, “After Father Damien arrived in the Leper Settlement, . . . Mr. J. Napela . . . and Father Damien were the best of friends.”11 What makes this relationship particularly unusual is the fact that at this time heated rivalries existed between faiths as they vied for island converts.12 Yet at Kalaupapa, there seems to have developed a different kind of spiritual terrain nourished by the relationship between these two great men and their commitment to improve the decadent moral conditions they encountered upon their arrival at the settlement.

“What’s up, Coach?” DeLyle said.
“Come in,” Coach Gardener said. “Sit down.”
DeLyle Condie walked into his coach’s office and pulled up a chair. He held his red basketball jersey in his hands. It was almost time for practice.
“I hear you’re going on a mission,” Coach said. “Let me show you something.” He turned on the projector.
DeLyle blinked in surprise. Coach often showed films of other teams playing. But these were pictures of palm trees and beaches.
“This is Hawaii,” Coach said. “The team’s going there next year. You’re going to miss it.”
“I know. But I’ve already decided,” DeLyle said. “A mission is the right thing to do.”
“Suit yourself,” Coach said. “But if you go, I don’t think you’ll ever play basketball again.”
DeLyle looked at his jersey. “I love basketball,” he said, “but some things are more important.”
“Good luck, then.” Coach sighed. “Now get to practice. You’re not a missionary yet!”
A few months later, Elder DeLyle Condie got on a ship in San Francisco, California, USA. It was 1955, and missionaries often traveled by boat back then. Three weeks later the ship arrived in Sydney, Australia. There, Elder Condie took an overnight train to Melbourne. Two elders were waiting for him.
“Wow! You’re a tall one!” Elder Johnson said. “You’d have been a great Mormon Yankee!”
“What’s that?” Elder Condie asked.
“More like what was that,” Elder Johnson said. “Missionary teams used to play in local basketball leagues. It was a way to help people get to know about the Church. One of the teams was called the Yankees. But we don’t do it anymore.”
“That’s OK,” Elder Condie said. “That’s not why I came on a mission.”
“Well, let’s get to the office,” Elder Johnson said. “It’s time to meet President Bingham, our mission president.”
President Bingham assigned Elder Condie to Tasmania, an island near Australia’s southern coast. There weren’t many Latter-day Saints there. In fact, in all of Australia, there were only about 1,200 Church members.
Elder Condie soon met lots of friendly Australians. But most weren’t interested in discussing the gospel. What they did want to talk about was the Olympics.
“Why are so many people interested in the Olympics?” Elder Condie asked.
His companion grinned. “The games are coming to Melbourne next year,” he said. “It’s a chance to put Australia on the map. Besides, lots of people are sports crazy already. I think that’s why the Mormon Yankees were so popular. I wonder if they’ll ever do that again.”
At the same time, 200 miles away in Melbourne, two men were discussing exactly that.
The coach of the Australian Olympic basketball team sat across the desk from President Bingham. “We need your help,” he said. “I know you used to have teams called Mormon Yankees. Some of your missionaries were pretty good. With the Olympics coming, it’s a long shot that Australia will win any games. We need to practice against players with talent and experience. Some friendly practice games will help people know more about your church, and they will help us get ready for the Olympics. Can you put a Mormon Yankees team together one more time?”
After the meeting, President Bingham found one of his assistants. “Bring Elder Condie back to Melbourne,” he said. “Missionaries will still be missionaries. But we’re going to help Australia prepare for the Olympics. And I’ll need Elder Condie to help choose a team.”
To be continued …

Francoise watched quietly as her friend Hilda marched in the St. Nicholas parade. Hilda wore a large miter-shaped hat with a design of stars and snowflakes cut out in it. She carried a big horn that she blew often and loud.
Hilda waved as she passed Francoise, but Francoise did not wave back. Instead she frowned at Hilda and the other children in the parade.
Unhappy thoughts tumbled through Francoise’s mind as the St. Nicholas parade came to an end. Why did my father have to come here to Switzerland? Why didn’t he stay in France? They don’t celebrate Christmas here in this country the way they should!
Hilda ran to meet Francoise. “Didn’t I tell you it would be fun?” she exclaimed, speaking very fast in German. “You should have worn the hat I made for you and marched in the parade with us.”
Francoise didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Hilda asked after a few silent moments had passed, “didn’t you like the parade?”
“It is not how we celebrate Christmas in France,” Francoise mumbled.
“I know. But I wanted you to see how we celebrate here in Switzerland.”
Silently the two girls walked to the bus stop. Hilda put her big hat and her horn on the bench and sat down.
“You know,” Hilda said at last in French, trying to make Francoise feel better, “I’m glad there are so many ways to celebrate Christmas. In our country we have many customs from Germany, Italy, and France.”
Francoise sat down beside Hilda. “I think there should be only one way to celebrate Christmas, and I like our way best,” she insisted. “All of this about St. Nicholas is wrong. It is Christkindli who brings gifts.”
“He may bring gifts to your house, but it is St. Nicholas who comes to my house,” Hilda replied. “Anyway it doesn’t really matter. Christmas is Christmas!”
A big gray bus soon sputtered to a stop and the girls climbed into it. Neither of them spoke during the ride home, but mixed-up thoughts kept turning around in Francoise’s mind. What did Hilda mean by “Christmas is Christmas”? Of course Christmas is Christmas, and that is exactly why it should be celebrated in the right way as we’ve always done.
When Francoise arrived home, she sat in front of the Christmas tree and stared at Christkindli on top. “Now this is how Christmas should be,” she said out loud.
“What do you mean?” a voice asked.
“Oh, Mama,” Francoise gasped as she turned and saw her mother in the doorway. “You frightened me. I thought I was alone.”
“What were you talking about when you said, ‘This is how Christmas should be’?”
“I was talking to myself about Christmas. Hilda has a star on top of her tree, and St. Nicholas comes to her house instead of Christkindli. They don’t recite Christmas poems when they open their presents. And—well, they just do everything wrong.”
“Wrong?” Mother questioned.
“Yes. Everyone should celebrate Christmas the way we did when we were home in France,” Francoise insisted.
“But Francoise,” her mother explained, “although we still speak French, our home is here now. We are Swiss people. And besides from the stories my father used to tell me, we do not celebrate Christmas at all as they used to do in France. Christkindli isn’t even a French word, you know. Many Swiss people have Christkindli in their homes at Christmas.”
Francoise felt bewildered. She stared at the tree for a moment and then spoke, “Well, maybe our way of celebrating is different from the old French way, but still I think it’s the right way.”
“Why should our way be right and Hilda’s way be wrong?”
Francoise started to answer, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. A big lump formed in her throat. She felt there must be some reason for her beliefs, but she couldn’t think of a single one..
“Well, we all celebrate the birth of Jesus; so shouldn’t we celebrate it in the same way?” Francoise asked.
“Why?”
Again Francoise couldn’t answer. She only shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
“Christmas should be a time of love, and love can be shown in many different ways,” Mother said gently as she patted Francoise and left her alone to think about the events of the day.
Maybe it is I who have been wrong and not Hilda, Francoise decided.
Just then the doorbell rang, and Francoise went to answer it. But when Francoise opened the door, no one was there. Instead, on the step was a colorful box filled with tirggel, a delicious Christmas cookie. A tiny blue card tucked between the tirggel said, “Froehliche Weihnachten! (Merry Christmas!) From whoever brings presents!”
Francoise looked all around, but she could not see who had left the cookies.
“Who is it?” Mother called.
“Only a box of tirggel,” Francoise answered.
“That is my favorite Christmas treat,” Mother said as she entered the room. “Do you know who left it?”
“It must have been Hilda.”
“How nice,” Mother smiled as she tasted the cookie.
Francoise wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. She thought about the way she had acted at the parade and on the way home. She must have made her friend sad by not marching in the parade with the hat Hilda had made for her.
Then Francoise remembered what her mother had said about Christmas being a time to show love. And that was just what Hilda had been trying to do.
Slowly Francoise tasted a cookie. It was delicious.
“These are good,” she said.
“If we were still in France, we might never have tasted tirggel. And you’d never have had a friend like Hilda either,” Mother replied.
Francoise thought very hard. She had been selfish and she felt awful. “Christmas is Christmas,” Hilda had said, and looking at the cookies, Francoise knew exactly what she could do.
“I’m going to celebrate Christmas the right way,” Francoise decided, and she hurried to her room.
She took colored pencils and paper and wrote out her favorite Christmas poem. Then she drew pictures around the edges of the poem and framed it neatly in heavy colored paper.
Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough to Hilda’s house, but soon she found herself knocking at the front door. When Hilda answered the door, Francoise handed her the poem.
“Thank you for the tirggel,” Francoise said. “And now here is something from our Christmas tradition. We always read our favorite Christmas poems when we exchange gifts. I guess if we put the tirggel, Christkindli, St. Nicholas, poems, and parades all together, we’d have a lot of Swiss Christmas traditions.”
Hilda laughed. “Yes, after all, Christmas is Christmas!”
“I know what that means now,” Francoise said softly. “Christmas isn’t German or French or Italian or English or even Swiss. Christmas is Christmas, and Christmas is love no matter where you are.”

Alena skipped into her grandma’s house with her mom and dad. She had a big smile on her face. Grandma Stanley was busy in the kitchen. Alena smelled the ham, the apple pie, and her favorite treat—homemade bread.
“How’s my girl?” Grandma said. She scooped up Alena to give her a kiss. “I’m so glad you’re here to celebrate my mom’s birthday.” Alena grinned. She loved family get-togethers. And today was extra special. It was her great-grandma’s 90th birthday.
“Time to eat!” Grandma called from the kitchen. Mom put the last few dishes on the table.
Grandma ushered everyone into the dining room. Aunt Alyson took pictures of the family. Alena silently counted 15 people around the big oak table. Dad offered the prayer. As soon as he said “Amen,” everyone started dishing up the food.
While the family ate, Great-Grandma Grish told stories from when she was young.
“When I was Alena’s age, I loved to eat clabbered milk. I don’t think I’ve had that dessert for 80 years.”
“What’s clabbered milk?” Alena asked.
“After milking the cow, my mother would pour the cream from the milk into a small bowl and set it on the stove overnight. In the morning the milk looked like custard. I would sprinkle on cinnamon and sugar and eat it like yogurt.”
“What did it taste like?” Alena asked.
“De-licious,” Great-Grandma said. Everyone laughed as Alena scrunched up her face in a silly frown.
Aunt Alyson took more pictures of the family as they listened to the guest of honor.
Great-Grandma finished her last piece of bread and butter, and Aunt Sandy handed her a few gifts.
Alena was sad. She hadn’t brought a present for Great-Grandma. But she wanted to give her something special for her 90th birthday. Suddenly she had an idea. She ran to Aunt Alyson and whispered in her ear.
Aunt Alyson smiled and winked at Alena as Great-Grandma opened the present from Alena’s mom and dad. Alena quietly stood next to Great-Grandma and smiled. Aunt Alyson snapped a picture.
When Great-Grandma finished opening all her presents, Alena giggled and said, “You have one more to open, but you’ll have to wait a few days.”
“I can hardly wait,” Great-Grandma said, giving Alena a squeeze.
A week later Great-Grandma got a package from Alena. Inside was Alena’s note: “Thank you for sharing your stories about when you were my age. Here is a special reminder of your special day.” In a purple frame was a picture of Alena smiling next to her Great-Grandma Grish.

One of Lucy’s most poignant memories is her distress when she realized that they were going to lose the home that had been designed by her beloved Alvin for the express purpose of seeing that she and Joseph Sr. would be comfortable in their old age. “I was overcome and fell back into a chair almost deprived of sensibility,” she wrote. She asked Hyrum: “What can this mean? … How … is [it] that all which we have earned in the last 10 years is taken away from us in one instant?” Her feelings were natural, but when they had to move from the home three years later, she told Oliver Cowdery, who was boarding with them: “I now look around me upon all these things that have been gathered together for my happiness which have cost the toil of years. … I now give it all up for the sake of Christ and salvation, and I pray God to help me to do so without one murmur or a tear. … I will not cast one longing look upon anything which I leave behind me.”

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a car crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’ recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had reached the lowest feeling of despair. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped recovery capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that experiencing the deepest feeling of despair does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

“There’s the steeple!” Natalie called out. She loved going to church. Sunday was her favorite day of the week, except for one thing—she was sad that her brother, Michael, chose not to go to church with the rest of the family.
As Natalie sat quietly during sacrament meeting, she thought about Michael. When he used to come to church, Natalie liked to sit next to him while she looked at her picture books about Jesus. After sacrament meeting, Michael would take her hand and walk her to Primary. “See you later, Sis,” he would always say. But Michael hadn’t been to church in a long time.
Natalie wished she could tie him up with her jump rope and pull him to church in her little red wagon, but she knew he wouldn’t like that. What else could she do?
In Primary, Sister Chang greeted her class cheerfully. “I am so glad you are all here today,” she said. “It makes me happy to see your smiling faces. But who is missing?”
Natalie looked around the room. She raised her hand. “Jed,” she called out. “Jed isn’t here today.”
“You are right,” Sister Chang said. “Jed wasn’t here last week either.”
“Maybe he’s sick,” Lisa suggested.
“Maybe he’s on a trip,” Boyd said.
“Maybe he just didn’t want to come,” Natalie said quietly.
“We need to let him know we love him and miss him when he’s gone,” Sister Chang said.
“How can we do that?” Natalie asked.
“We’ll tell him,” Sister Chang said. “Little things can often make a big difference. I made a card for you to sign, and you can each draw a special picture for Jed.”
Natalie decided to draw a picture of a mountain and trees because she knew that Jed liked the outdoors. And then Natalie asked her teacher if she could draw another picture to take home.
When Natalie got home from church, she found Michael in his room listening to music. “Hi, Sis,” he greeted her. “What’s up?”
Natalie handed him a folded piece of paper. “I made you a card.”
“For me?” Michael smiled. “Why? It’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Sister Chang helped me write the inside. It says, ‘I miss you when you don’t come to church with us. I love you.’ And I signed my name.”
“Thanks,” Michael said softly. “It’s a nice card. You did a good job.”
“You’re welcome.” Natalie gave her brother a hug and hurried off to help Mom fix dinner. She felt happy inside. She loved her brother so much, and now he knew it too.
The following Sunday, Natalie was so excited when Michael decided to go to church. She held his hand as they entered the chapel. She sat quietly next to him during the service. Natalie saw Jed sitting two rows up and gave him a little wave.
Natalie loved going to church, especially when all her friends and family were there. She decided that from now on, if she missed someone, she would say so, because sometimes little things can make a big difference.

As I was learning from my own true-life experience, I stood alone in my bedroom a few days after the operation, preparing to go to church. I held a tie in my hand and thought, Now what am I going to do with this silly tie? I thought about having my mother help me but soon rejected the idea, knowing she couldn’t go on my mission to tie my ties and otherwise care for me. I simply had to fend for myself. With patience, I tied my tie, and although I used my teeth a little, I learned that I could do it and do it well. That day, a window was opened to my mind where I could clearly see that with patience, faith, and determination, I would be able to handle almost any challenge I would face.

The enthusiastic young people of the Cleveland First Ward, Huntington Utah Stake treated the senior citizens in their ward to a Red Carpet Honor Night. The Young Men, dressed in suits and ties, first delivered an invitation to each home. Then on the night of the activity, they served as chauffeurs and escorts; they drove to each home, rolled out the red carpet, and escorted their guests to the meetinghouse. There they seated the elderly members of their ward and served them a delicious meal prepared by the Young Women.
After dinner, the senior ward members were seated in a semicircle at the front of the auditorium. They were each given an opportunity to tell how they arrived in the community, what life was like when they were growing up, and how they met their companions. They also answered questions from the audience, offered several good words of advice to the youth, and thanked them for a wonderful evening.

A few days before Christmas, I went to a busy shopping area in Buenos Aires to do some errands. Like everyone else, I stopped to look at the Christmas decorations that seemed to be everywhere. “If only I had those decorations to get my house ready for Christmas,” I thought.
On the way home, my bus stopped at a small square. On a bench sat a well-groomed young man with nice clothes and shoes. He was smiling, talking to, and most of all, listening to an old man with long hair and a beard. The old man’s clothes were dirty and torn, and he had no shoes. The bench seemed to be his home.
I thought about the stark contrasts between the two men—in appearance, age, and walk of life. What a pleasure it was to see them talking together, especially because the old man had a lot to say and really seemed to be enjoying the conversation. At that moment I felt that Christmas had arrived. There were no twinkling lights, no ornaments, no wreaths, no Christmas trees—just someone giving the gift of his time, just listening to another with respect. There was no disdain, no prejudice, no selfishness, no discrimination, no arrogance.
It was then that I realized we can give such gifts of love all through the year. We can kindle little lights of hope for those who need them.
I vowed never again to allow getting ready for Christmas to keep me from living Christmas.

“Hi, Mom,” Ben called as he rolled his bike into the garage. “Hi, Ben,” Mom answered. Closing the recycling bin, she turned to look at him, and her smile faded. “Where’s your helmet?” she asked.
Ben slid his bike into its place. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Mom’s eyebrows went up. “Ben, what is our family rule about helmets?”
Ben took a deep breath and slowly repeated: “If you’re riding your bike, you wear a helmet.”
Mom looked steadily at Ben until he squirmed. “But, Mom!” he protested.
“Please go inside. We’ll talk about it in a minute.”
Ben went in and sat down at the table. Pretty soon Mom and Dad joined him. “So, Ben, tell me about your helmet,” Dad began.
“Dad, I don’t need it anymore. I’m a great bike rider now.”
“You are a good bike rider,” Dad said. “But helmets aren’t just for beginners. I’ve been riding a bicycle for many years. Do I wear a helmet?”
“Yes, you do,” Ben admitted. “But the kids at school think only babies wear helmets.”
“Oh,” Mom said. “So it isn’t cool to wear one?”
“No, it’s not!” Ben exclaimed.
“Ben, do you know why we have the helmet rule?” Dad asked.
“To make me look stupid?” Ben answered with a wry smile.
Dad chuckled. “No. For exactly the opposite reason. It’s to help keep that brain of yours safe.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mom added, “every rule, whether it’s a family rule or one of Heavenly Father’s commandments, is given to help us be safe and happy.”
“But having kids make fun of me for keeping the rule doesn’t make me happy,” Ben complained.
Dad thought for a moment. “Sometimes we have to be obedient even when other people make fun of us for it. I know that in the long run you’ll be happier because you obey.”
Mom looked Ben in the eyes. “Ben, this wasn’t the first time you went riding without your helmet, was it?”
Ben’s shoulders drooped. “No,” he admitted.
“Thank you for being honest,” Dad said. “Your Mom and I both feel that it is very important that you obey our family rules. You’ve broken this one. What do you think a good consequence would be?”
Ben was quiet for several long moments. “Maybe a time-out from my bike?” he said at last.
Dad nodded. “That sounds fair. I think maybe it should be long enough to help you remember the rule. How about until the end of summer?”
Ben groaned.
“OK,” Mom said. “When school starts, you get your bike back.”
As the sunny days of August went by, Ben often looked wistfully at his bike hanging on the garage wall. “Next time I’ll obey the rule,” he told himself. He remembered what Mom had said about obedience helping people be happy. “Well,” he thought, “It’s true that I’ll be happy when I can ride my bike again, even if someone makes fun of me.”
When school began, Mom helped Ben lift the bike down. First he checked the tires and oiled the chain. Then he picked up his helmet, adjusted the fit, and snapped it onto his head. It felt great to be riding again!
One bright sunny afternoon in December, Ben was riding home from school. When he came to an intersection he stopped and looked carefully both ways. But a young lady who had just learned to drive turned right without looking or stopping. The bumper of her car struck Ben’s bike and sent him flying headfirst into the sidewalk.
A neighbor who saw the accident called Mom. As she ran down the street, she heard a siren and saw the ambulance. “Ben!” she shouted.
“I’m here, Mom.”
Two paramedics were checking Ben. “Your son is going to be just fine,” one of them said. “He was wearing this, and it saved his life.” He handed her Ben’s helmet. There was a big dent in it.
Mom gave Ben a long hug. “I’m glad you were wearing your helmet today,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “Obeying the rules really does help keep me safe and happy.”

Some years ago I coached a high school basketball team through a rather unusual season. The season began with a number of disappointing losses. Some of the fans and townspeople didn’t make a secret of their unhappiness over the team’s failures. There was considerable public comment, and it was a challenging time for the players. Several of them finally became discouraged and withdrew from the team. Those who remained didn’t lose faith in themselves or in their coach. The rough going seemed to be an incentive for them to try even harder.
At midseason the team began to win their games. They qualified for the district tournament and surprised everyone there by winning a place in the state play-offs. To the amazement of everyone, they went on to win the state championship—the first ever to be won by their school!
Following the celebration and the awarding of trophies after the championship game, I drove several of the team members back to our city. There was silence during much of the ride as we each reflected on the incredible outcome of our season’s efforts. Finally one of the young men spoke. “Coach,” he said, “I think we were supposed to win tonight.”
I was curious to know what had prompted this conclusion. “Why do you think we were supposed to win?” I asked.
His response was simple and direct—and I will never forget its impact: “Because we paid the price.”

While striving to live the gospel as a single adult, it can be hard not to focus on certain areas of our lives that we wish were different. Sometimes it feels like we hit a plateau in our progress. For me, those feelings of being stuck in certain areas seem to ebb and flow, and they can accompany me over days, months, and gradually even years. I’ve always had many reasons to be happy and feel good about life, but at one point, this stuck feeling hit me particularly hard.
During that time, my teenage nephew asked to spend time with me. He recognized a need for goals in his life and asked for advice. I didn’t necessarily feel I was in a position of strength to offer great wisdom, but I listened. I knew I could “cry unto” God for help (see Alma 34:17–27) and prayed to be able to say something meaningful for him. In response, I remembered Luke 2:52: “Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.”
As I strived to focus on my nephew’s needs instead of my own, something started to change in me. My nephew and I talked about how Christ grew spiritually, socially, physically, and intellectually and so could we. Although my nephew’s needs differed from mine, these four areas of growth were pertinent to both of us. While talking about this scripture, I realized it was answering my own questions about how to get unstuck.
Although my nephew’s needs differed from mine, these four areas of growth were pertinent to both of us.
When I strived to grow as the Savior grew, my focus changed, and that change brought additional blessings. As President Russell M. Nelson said, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1 My efforts to grow more like Jesus Christ helped draw attention away from circumstances that had consumed my focus and redirect it to areas I could productively work on. I was able to move from inward contemplation to outward action.
I earnestly considered how I might grow in each area mentioned in Luke 2:52, from more consistently attending the temple to completing a long bike race.
Photograph of Memphis Tennessee Temple by James Whitney Young
In each area of my goals, I made some observations:
While working on one goal, I frequently felt Christ strengthen me spiritually, socially, physically, and intellectually all within that single goal.
Rarely, if at all, did any goal happen in isolation from the other areas of growth—they seemed to affect and build on each other. Improvement in one area led to improvement in all other areas. Neglecting any area likewise affected all other areas. I realized that each area deserves attention.
Almost every goal included other people—either learning from them or sharing thoughts and experiences with them—and deepened our relationships.
I continually have the opportunity to see and be inspired by growth in others, and I hope I can do the same for them. I recently spoke with a single friend who feels stuck and frustrated with some life circumstances. I listened to understand, and then I was able to share experiences that helped me and also point each area of growth back to the Savior.
While not all areas of life that had left me feeling stuck years ago have changed, I have changed as I’ve learned to focus more on the Savior and strive to grow like Him. As President Nelson shared, “There are many things we can control. We set our own priorities and determine how we use our energy, time, and means. … We choose those to whom we will turn for truth and guidance.”2 Whatever our circumstances, the areas of growth in Luke 2:52 can help us change our focus and find additional joy and progress through Heavenly Father and the Savior.
The Children and Youth Program—for All Ages
With the same focus on following the Savior’s pattern for growth in Luke 2:52, the Children and Youth program can provide a helpful structure for drawing closer to Christ at all ages. Find resources at childrenandyouth.ChurchofJesusChrist.org and in “Strive to Be—a Pattern for Growth and Mental and Emotional Wellness” (Liahona, Aug. 2021, 12–15).
The author lives in Tennessee, USA.

Dot Todman, 18, knows that’s true.
“I grew up with a good friend named Kelly,” Dot explains. “I always knew she was a Mormon, but I didn’t know what Mormons were or anything about them. Kelly moved away, but we kept in contact. Then this year I was on a school choir trip, and we arranged to meet again.
“We were just talking, catching up on our lives, and then somehow religion got brought up. I told her I didn’t feel the church I was attending was right for me. It was kind of like a spiritual kindergarten.
“She said, ‘In our religion, you’d be surprised. It goes all the way up to university level.’ That intrigued me. I asked her to write to me, to tell me about it in her own words.
“I waited for her letter. I waited and waited. In the meantime, another LDS friend of mine tried to get me in touch with the missionaries. But I didn’t want to talk to them until I’d heard from Kelly.
“Finally I called her. She said, ‘Are you still interested?’ She sent me a letter and bore her testimony, and that opened the door.”
Dot found the light she’d searched for, and it grew brighter and brighter. She joined the Church and is now a member of the Barrie Ward, sharing the gospel herself. But Kelly made a discovery, too. She discovered that others were searching for the light she already had.