Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Allen Garns
Our family has a Christmas tradition of giving gift bags of food, gloves, hats, and other necessities to those in need. In 2016, Christmas Eve was especially cold for the area of California, USA, we live in. We were bundled up, but we were still shivering!
As we drove to a park near our home where many people who are homeless stay, we saw a man huddled in the meager shelter of a bus stop, covered in an old blanket. My husband, Dennis, stopped the car and took our son, Jonathan, with him to give the man a gift bag. Our daughter, Abbey, and I stayed in the car and watched.
The man lifted his head as Dennis handed him the bag. A huge smile spread across the man’s face. They shook hands and began to talk. This was unusual because normally there isn’t much of an exchange.
After several minutes, Dennis returned to the car and opened the trunk.
“Is everything OK?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m giving him my parka. He needs it more than I do.”
I was speechless. This was a really nice parka that Dennis had worn only a handful of times! Dennis went back to the man and helped him put on the warm parka. The man’s face was beaming. Dennis and the man continued talking.
I felt compelled to meet this man. I opened my car door, and Abbey followed me. Dennis smiled as we approached, and he introduced us to the man. I extended my hand and asked for his name.
He took my hand, smiled warmly, and replied, “Jesús.”
My family continued the conversation, but I didn’t hear much after that. I kept thinking of the significance of this sweet man’s name: Jesús—the name of our Savior. In that moment, I was reminded of the Savior’s teaching: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40). That experience forever changed me.

Our family chooses to not watch TV on Sunday to help us keep the Sabbath day holy. One Sunday night, our neighbors told me about a show that I wanted to watch very badly. I asked my mom and dad if I could watch it, but they said no. I felt sad that I couldn’t watch the show. My mom read the Friend with me, and then we played a game together. My brother and sister joined us, and we all played a game together. It was fun! When I went to bed, I realized that I didn’t feel bad anymore for missing the TV show. I felt really good that I had kept the Sabbath day holy.

I saw him again—the little freckle-faced, redheaded kid in the wheelchair—holding a baseball. He couldn’t be more than eight years old, and he was maneuvering that old chair around just like a car. Boy, can he drive that thing!
I wondered if they had taken some blood from him too. I didn’t like it very much when they took it from me, but I didn’t let on. After all, I’m twelve, and I don’t want to act like a baby. Anyway, they made me sit in a wheelchair, and they pushed me into elevators and down long hallways to my room. Our wheelchairs passed each other, and the freckle-faced kid said, “Hi! My name’s Kenny. Do you like baseball?”
I mumbled a quick hello in return, ignoring the question about baseball. I didn’t want to tell him that I loved baseball but that I couldn’t run very fast. I wanted to show him my autographed baseball that was signed by three superstars. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Some of the other guys on our baseball team, especially Bill and Kevin, didn’t want me on the team anymore because I couldn’t run the bases. They said it was my fault we’d lost one of the games. So I quit. But I still have the autographed ball, and I still want to be a famous baseball player someday. I’ll show them!
Anyway, I saw the kid in the wheelchair yesterday, sitting in the TV room watching a major league game. He was still holding a baseball. I went in and sat down on the couch in the back of the room. I wanted to watch the game, too, but I didn’t want to answer any of that little kid’s questions! As soon as I sat down, though, he wheeled that monster of a chair over and started in on me.
“Hi!” he said again. “What’s your name?”
“Luke,” I replied quietly, trying to ignore him. He kept staring at me, and I finally said, “You can call me Lucky. That’s my nickname.”
“That’s neat,” Kenny said. A big grin spread across his face, making his freckles seem to pop out. “Are you really a lucky person? I wish my name was Lucky. Why are you in the hospital? You’re not in a wheelchair, and you can walk.”
Boy, could this kid talk! But he was so friendly that I felt I had to answer.
“It’s something to do with my heart,” I told him. “They had to operate about three weeks ago. They left a big scar straight down my chest.”
I turned away from him, and he started to get excited about the home run scored on TV. I thought about waking up after the operation with the tubes stuck in me. They’d put them everywhere, and they hurt. I didn’t want to tell Kenny about it. After all, he was just a kid and wouldn’t understand. The doctors said that my heart was the reason I couldn’t run fast. Only they said everything would be OK now. But I didn’t believe them. I felt even worse than before. When Bill and Kevin came to see me and told me I could be on the team again when I’m stronger, I told them I didn’t want to be on their old baseball team anymore. I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me.
Kenny suddenly turned toward me and asked, “Do you play baseball?”
I tugged at the back of my hair, my eyes looking down. “A little,” I answered, then added, “I want to be a real baseball player someday, like the guys you’re watching on TV.” I don’t know why I said that. It must’ve just slipped out. Kenny’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he pushed his baseball at me.
“Can I have your autograph, please? You’re the only real baseball player I know. Please.”
He seemed almost to plead with me. He thought I was a star. Hesitantly I took his baseball. Kenny grabbed a pen out of his pocket and gave it to me. I looked at the ball, signed it “Lucky Wilson,” and handed it back to him.
“Thanks a lot!” Kenny actually glowed. “Now I have a real autographed baseball!”
I smiled weakly, turned, and walked slowly back to my room. I didn’t want to watch TV anymore. I felt a little mixed-up. In the hall I met the nurse who worked on that floor. “Why is that boy in a wheelchair?” I asked.
“Kenny?” she said. “Oh. His legs are paralyzed. He’s here for more tests and therapy.”
“Will he ever be able to walk?” I asked.
She gave me a long look before she said, “Kenny’s been in that wheelchair for a long time.” Then she added quickly, “He’s a very nice kid, though, don’t you think?”
“He sure is!” I answered and went on to my room.
Today I went back to the TV room. Kenny was there again, sitting all alone. I walked over to him, put my autographed baseball in his lap, and said, “This is for you.” His face sparkled.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?” he asked eagerly.
“I don’t need it,” I answered. “My name’s Lucky, remember?” I don’t think he understood—but I did. I knew someday I would hit a home run. I would hit it for Kenny.

“Andrew, she’s gone,” Emma said.
“Who’s gone?”
“Brittany.”
“Are you sure?” Andrew asked.
“I looked everywhere in the backyard. She’s gone!”
“We’d better tell Mom,” Andrew said, racing Emma to the kitchen door.
“Mom!” they yelled. “The dog’s gone!”
“Oh, no, not again!” Mom said. “We’d better go find her.”
Walking down their country road, Andrew looked. Emma looked.
“Look, Mom, a kitten found us,” Andrew said. “Can we take it home?”
“No, Andrew, we are looking for a dog, not a kitten.”
Next they walked by the lake. Soon two white ducks waddled up behind them.
“Look, Mom, ducks found us,” Emma said. “Can we take them home?”
“Oh, no, Emma. We are looking for a dog, not ducks.”
When they passed Mrs. Eggett’s yard, Emma waved and Andrew called, “Mrs. Eggett, have you seen our dog?”
“No, Andrew, but if you’ll wait a minute I could find you each a cookie,” she answered.
Andrew, Emma, and Mom said thank you. They munched on cinnamon cookies as they kept walking. They looked high and low, over and under, around and behind, but still no Brittany.
“We’re going home,” Mom finally said. “We’re tired and need to rest.”
Andrew was sad. As they walked home, he said, “We found one black kitten, two white ducks, and three cinnamon cookies, but no spotted dog.”
Walking in their front door, Mom suddenly stopped. “Andrew, do you and Emma know what we forgot to do?”
Andrew thought. Emma thought. Finally Andrew said, “We forgot to pray!”
Folding their arms, they bowed their heads and prayed. They asked Heavenly Father to please help them find their lost dog. Then they rested.
After rest time, Andrew and Emma were ready to search again. Just then Dad walked into the house. Emma told him the whole sad story.
Dad listened carefully. Then he said, “I have an idea. Wait here.” He walked back outside. A few minutes later he returned with Brittany!
“Dad, where did you find her?” Andrew asked excitedly.
“She was sleeping behind the neighbor’s house,” Dad said, smiling.
“Next time we need help we’ll pray first,” Andrew said. “It’s better when Heavenly Father helps, too.”

The call of duty came to John E. Page when the Prophet Joseph Smith extended to him a call to serve as a missionary. John E. Page “murmured” and responded, “Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”

The Prophet Joseph removed his own coat, handed it to Brother Page, and said, “Here, take this and the Lord will bless you.” John E. Page went on that mission to Canada and, during a two-year period, walked five thousand miles and baptized six hundred people. (See Andrew Jenson, “John E. Page,” The Historical Record, 5:57.)

Following the meeting on this beautiful morning, Elder Barry Bennett, Area mission medical advisor, and his wife, Christine, traveled with the mission president and his wife about 90 minutes on rough dirt roads out to the villages surrounding the city of Lae. It rains every day of the year here, and the area is spectacularly beautiful and green. The humble homes are often built on stilts so when the floods come, they don’t get washed away.
With the country’s growing population, there is one physician for every 20,000 people. Local medical challenges include tuberculosis, dengue, and malaria. The purpose of Elder Bennett’s trip to this country was to assess available medical care in Lae. He was pleasantly surprised with the capability of the three hospitals he visited.
During their visit, the Bennetts also met with missionaries and spoke to them about these medical issues and how to stay healthy.

“She’s just a better version of me.”
Months after coming home from my mission in California, this thought was still tormenting my mind. There hadn’t been a day that went by without me thinking about my mission and who I was while I was serving. “Mission-me,” as I called this past version of myself, was better than my current self. Mission-me prioritized the gospel over everything else. She was kind, selfless, and acted on what she knew was right.
The current me?
She was different.
My scripture study habits had all but gone out the window. My prayers were sporadic at best, and though I was still attending the temple and church weekly, I knew I could be doing better at inviting the Spirit into my life.
But no matter how many times I tried, it seemed I could only keep up my spiritual habits for a couple of days—a week at most—before failing. I knew how much I loved the gospel and my Savior, but for some reason, I just couldn’t grow into the person I wanted to be.
I finally felt relief after nine months of being home. I was attending an institute class, trying desperately to learn from The Divine Gift of Forgiveness, a book by Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Just then, a paragraph jumped out at me.
It reads, “If we find ourselves temporarily facing setbacks, we don’t become discouraged. We focus on our love of the Savior and His love for us, and we move forward. Week by week, year by year, our repentance and resolve draw us closer to Him.”
I froze—his words felt like they were meant specifically for me.
I knew that through His Atonement, Jesus Christ could help me. I had faith that He was cheering me on, but I’d been missing one key detail: timing.
See, God wasn’t expecting me to be perfect right then. That’s the whole reason Christ atoned for us. God knows that we will never be perfect in this life, and He loves us so much that He sent His Only Begotten Son to save us.
Instead of trying to become perfect right then, the Savior’s enabling power could help me continue to grow over the course of a lifetime. Week by week, year by year. The best version of myself was going to take my whole life to develop—that’s how it’s supposed to be, as we learn to walk with Him.
I started looking at life with this new perspective and tried again to build spiritual habits. I set goals to pray twice a day and to read my scriptures for 15 minutes at least once a day. These goals seemed small to me, but I told myself I was growing—and that’s what mattered.
One morning, I realized that I had missed my scripture study the day before. I initially felt disappointed in myself, but upon remembering Elder Andersen’s words, I was filled with assurance that I still had time to open the scriptures that day and try again.
I could feel my relationship with Heavenly Father growing. I had a stronger desire to put the gospel above other enticing things. There were days I forgot to pray before going to bed or I didn’t get a full 15-minute study. But there were also days that I prayed more, chose to spend extra time studying the scriptures, and created new goals, like journaling.
I’m continuing to grow, keeping in mind the perspective that every day I’m slowly growing into the woman God knows I can become. As our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, has said, “perfection is pending.”
As a returned missionary, I’m grateful for the shift in my perspective and for the knowledge that I can grow over time. Even though I slipped from my mission habits before, I know the Lord is pleased with my efforts today—however small they may be. I know that one day I’ll look back as a completely changed person and be grateful for the days that I chose to try again, read a little more, pray with more sincerity, and focus on Jesus Christ.
I hope you’ll do the same.

Kendra:
At the beginning of 2018, I kept hearing the name “President Monson.” At this time, I didn’t know this was the prophet. One night the missionaries came over and asked how I was doing.
“I’m doing fine,” I said, “but a person’s name keeps coming to my head, and I don’t know who it is.”
“What’s the name?” They asked.
“President Monson.”
“Kendra, that’s not just any name,” they said. “That’s the name of the prophet who just passed away. You should look at some talks he gave and see what the Lord wants you to learn from him.” I looked at some of his messages, and they were really touching and helped me. From there, it just seemed that the gospel kept coming back to me.

The warm sun came through Aaron’s bedroom window. “Today is going to be a good day,” Aaron thought. “I’m going to see Grandma and Grandpa.”
Grandma and Grandpa lived just down the road, and he usually visited them after breakfast. It was the best way to start the day. Aaron jumped out of bed.
After breakfast and chores, Mom smiled and said that he could go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. As he went, the late morning sun felt good on his back. The sand squished under his shoes. It made him laugh. “This is going to be a good day,” he said out loud.
He saw a shiny black rock with a stripe down the middle. “I bet Grandpa would like to see this.” Aaron slipped the rock into his pocket.
He checked the pine tree just outside Grandma’s back door. The robin was sitting on her nest. “I think she has eggs.” Aaron climbed the fence. Standing on tiptoes and stretching his neck as far as he could, he thought he saw something blue in the nest. “I’m going to tell Grandpa!” He slid down and ran to the kitchen door.
Grandpa thought he was right about the eggs. “Pretty soon there will be little birds,” he said. Grandma had made applesauce cookies. They were really good! Grandma and Grandpa both liked his rock.
On the way home, Aaron noticed that the lilac bush was covered with purple flowers. This was such a great day!
That night as Aaron got ready for bed, he thought about everything that had happened. He said his prayers, thanking Heavenly Father. “Thank Thee for the beautiful flowers, the warm sun, the sand, and the robin’s eggs. Thank Thee for Grandma and Grandpa. Thank Thee for this whole great day! Oh, and Heavenly Father, I love Thee.”
As Aaron climbed into bed, he remembered something his Primary teacher had said. When we feel love for Heavenly Father, that feeling is called reverence. Aaron fell asleep feeling very reverent.

After a recent stake conference meeting where I had discussed the role of the family in the Church, I was approached by a sweet woman who said: “Bishop, I’m a widow and I really appreciated everything you said today. I have a lovely family, but I have many problems and I do need help. My priesthood leaders have families of their own and they have lots of problems and I don’t want to bother them and add to their problems. So what should I do?”
I asked her, “Do you have a good home teacher who really cares about you?”
She said, “Yes, I have a home teacher and he comes by every month or so; but he isn’t very involved with our family.”
Then I asked, “Well, do you have a visiting teacher who visits you and understands you?”
She said, “Yes, the Relief Society sometimes comes.”
At this point, I was praying for a right answer, when a lovely sister, who was standing nearby and heard our conversation, said, “Excuse me, but I was a widow; and even though I have just remarried, I know how you feel and I understand your problems. Please let me drop by. I’d like to visit with you.”
Dr. Tom Dooley offers some interesting insights regarding those who have known difficulties and can now share the burden of another. I quote:
“One of Dr. (Albert) Schweitzer’s most important concepts is that of the Fellowship of Those who Bear the Mark of Pain. … Who are its members? Those who have learned by experience what physical pain and bodily anguish mean. These people, all over the world, are united by a secret bond. He who has been delivered from pain must not think he is now … at liberty to continue his life and forget his sickness. He is a man whose eyes are opened. He now has a duty to help others in their battles with pain and anguish. He must help to bring to others the deliverance which he himself knows.
“Under this Fellowship come not only those who were formerly sick, but those who are related to sufferers, and whom does this not include?” (Thomas Dooley, “A Worldwide Fellowship,” Words of Wisdom, ed. Thomas C. Jones, Chicago: J. B. Ferguson, 1966, p. 150.)

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.

On my mission in Europe, people that I met in the streets would ask me this same question - but I didn't have an answer and so I searched for the answer very sincerely.
I remember a man I met named Bakari. Bakari was a refugee from Sudan. The neighboring tribe was trying to kill all the men in his tribe. The United Nations took Bakari and many of the men of that tribe to Switzerland to keep him protected until things were sorted out. In the meantime, Bakari's wife and 7 children were in Sudan all by themselves. Laws in Switzerland prevented refugees from working. This meant Bakari could not save money up and send it home to his family. He just had to sit there and wait. His wife could not make enough money to feed herself or their kids and 5 of their kids died of starvation. If anyone was having a tough time, it was Bakari. The most incredible thing about Bakari was that he still believed in God. He lost 5 of his children to starvation. Not one, not two but FIVE! How would you feel if this happened in you? I don't have any children, but I have nieces and nephews who mean so much to me. If I were to lose them I would be crushed, yet Bakari - here is a man that still believed in God and trusted in Him with all of his heart. Of the hundreds of people that I met during my time in Switzerland and France, Bakari was the most inspirational man that I met throughout all of my mission experiences. He knew he would see his children again and he knew that someday, everything would work out. I felt the same way as Bakari. So my quest to answer the question why do bad things happen to good people like Bakari became increasingly important to me and I came across three answers.

Outside the temple, there were both Church members and nonmembers who sensed that something sacred was happening. Even little children. For example, Prescindia Huntington recalled: “On one occasion I saw angels clothed in white walking upon the temple. It was during one of our monthly fast meetings, when the saints were in the temple worshipping. A little girl came to my door and in wonder called me out, exclaiming, ‘The meeting is on the top of the meeting house!’ I went to the door, and there I saw on the temple angels clothed in white covering the roof from end to end. They seemed to be walking to and fro; they appeared and disappeared. The third time they appeared and disappeared before I realized that they were not mortal men. Each time in a moment they vanished, and their reappearance was the same. This was in broad daylight, in the afternoon. A number of the children in Kirtland saw the same.” When her fellow Saints returned from the temple that evening and reported that during the meeting someone had said that “the angels were resting down upon the house,” Prescindia understood.

There were three major obstacles to quinoa research in 2000. First, there was hardly any information in the scientific literature on the species, especially in botanical taxonomy. Second, there was only a meager amount of genetic material—we call it germplasm—available in publicly available gene banks. And third, even worse, there were a series of very restrictive international seed-exchange laws enacted beginning in the early 1990s, and the Andean countries were not very willing to share their materials with U.S. scientists.

From the limited amount of taxonomic information that was available, I noted that there appeared to be a larger number of unique species within North America, especially the United States, than in other parts of the Western Hemisphere, so by 2004 we decided to assemble our own seed collections for researching quinoa’s ancestry and biogeographical diversity. Thanks to a growing array of strong international collaborations as well as tens of thousands of road miles on seed-collection trips, my colleagues, my students, and I have been blessed to uncover many fascinating aspects regarding the quinoa genome and its ancestry. We have identified one of quinoa’s most likely wild diploid ancestors, sandhill goosefoot from western North America, which is therefore the most likely region of the Americas where the wild allopolyploid first appeared. We discovered that quinoa’s wild North American allopolyploid ancestor was independently domesticated in ancient Mexico as well as in the Andes, that it is exceptionally diverse, and that it can be bred with quinoa to improve the crop’s adaptation for production in lowland tropical regions of countries such as Malawi and Guyana. We have also learned that the quinoa genome, like the oat genome, has a highly dynamic chromosome structure with interchanges, inversions, and repetitive element expansions.

In the spring of 1987, I was living in Orange County, California, in a city called Brea. U2 was very popular, The Cosby Show was a top TV series, the New York Giants were the Super Bowl champions, and hair styles were mullets for boys and again big hair and wings for girls.
At that time I was introduced to a transfer student from Australia named Steve.* Steve was full of life and became quite popular at my high school. Some of the friends he made happen to be in my home ward. Steve came to church activities, which led to an invitation to learn about the restored gospel from the missionaries. He accepted and began the missionary discussions. Soon after, Steve entered the waters of baptism and was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
A few weeks after his baptism, Steve celebrated his 17th birthday. I was invited along with a bunch of his friends to come down to Huntington Beach for a bonfire, hot dogs, and s'mores. The night of the party came, and as I was walking out of the house, my father said something to me that I had never heard him say before, nor will I ever forget: "Remember who you are and what you stand for."
By the show of hands, how many of you have heard the phrase, "Remember who you are and what you stand for"?
Upon arrival at the beach, I was greeted by a bunch of friends, along with the birthday boy. Immediately, it became clear that this was not like other LDS parties that I was accustomed to. Alcohol was present. It seemed like everyone had a plastic cup full of beer and were well on their way to getting drunk. Immediately my dad's statement, "Remember who you are and what you stand for," came rushing to the forefront of my mind. Other thoughts that came to my remembrance were the Sunday School and Primary lessons taught to me about the Word of Wisdom and how to "choose the right." I wished Steve a happy birthday, said hello to a couple of friends, then quickly and quietly left the party and safely returned home.
Brothers and sisters, there will be times in life where you will be placed in situations where you have to make a stand for what you believe-even here at BYU-Idaho. What lessons do you remember from Sunday School, Primary, seminary, family home evening, even Young Men and Women classes and activities that will help you choose the right when faced with adversity? As these lessons come to your mind, I invite you to write them down in a journal and reflect on them from time to time. I have found needed answers and great comfort in remembering lessons from the past.

When I was 10 or 11 years old, I had an experience that helped me see the reality of Elder Holland's statement that God truly is there to receive us with open arms if we will come unto Him. It was nearing Christmas time and my older brother Matt and I were trying to find the Christmas presents that our parents had hidden. It had become a kind of unwritten challenge to find the presents and see what we were getting before Christmas morning. Whenever our parents were gone or otherwise occupied, we would search the house, but this particular year, Mom and Dad had done a great job of hiding the gifts and they were nowhere to be found.

One afternoon, however, I was in our garage and I happened to look up. There in the ceiling was an access hole to the attic space above the garage and as I peered into that hole, I could see some boxes. I realized that Mom and Dad had hidden the presents up there. I ran into the house and told Matt what I had discovered. We checked to make sure Mom was busy in the kitchen and then we snuck into the upstairs bedroom of our house where there was an attic access. We crawled into the attic making sure to step on the wooden joists so we wouldn't fall through the ceiling. We worked our way over to the space above the garage and there we found all of the Christmas presents carefully stacked on a piece of plywood that spanned across several joists.

As we were looking at the presents, Matt stepped to the other side of the gifts and missed stepping on a joist. Instead he stepped directly onto the sheetrock that made up the ceiling of the garage.As he stepped down, the sheetrock gave way and Matt fell through the ceiling. Luckily, he caught himself on the joists and I was able to help pull him back up. We hurriedly worked our way out of the attic and ran outside. We grabbed a ladder, a hammer, and some nails, and between the two of us, we were able to put the sheetrock back up before anyone saw what had happened. We convinced ourselves that our Dad wouldn't notice that the sheetrock was broken and we promised one another that we wouldn't say anything about what had happened.

A few days after the ceiling incident, it was Christmas Eve and our entire family was over at my Aunt's house here in Rexburg for a family Christmas party. Toward the end of the party, Santa Claus showed up and he gave every one of us kids a bag of treats. The treat bags had one or two pieces of candy, an orange, and a whole bunch of unshelled peanuts. Matt and I weren't terribly thrilled with the peanuts so we, along with a couple of our cousins, went outside and we started throwing the peanuts at the cars driving by, an activity that I would not recommend! This was great fun until one of the cars stopped. We all ran and hid, but a woman got out of the car just as my mom came out of the house. From our hiding spot we could hear the woman give our mom an earful about what was taking place and how dangerous it was and how irresponsible those boys were and she went on and on. Our Mom apologized profusely and said she would take care of the situation.

After the woman left, my mom started crying. She had been yelled at, was deeply embarrassed, and now she had to deal with her delinquent sons. When we finally came out of our hiding spot, all Mom said was, "Get in the car." We knew we were in serious trouble. That short drive home of just a few miles was the longest drive of my life. Mom didn't say a word. When we finally got home, we were sent directly to our room and mom told us that Dad would be coming to talk to us because she was too upset to deal with us. Dad came in and calmly talked to us about what we had done and why it was wrong. When he finished talking, Matt looked over at me and said, "We had better tell him everything." I wanted to scream "No," but we told him everything about looking at Christmas presents and falling through the ceiling in the garage. When we finished our confession, Dad just slowly shook his head and told us to go bed. It was the first Christmas Eve where I went straight to bed because I figured there was no point in getting up the next morning because surely, there wouldn't be anything to celebrate.

But morning came, and when I went out into our living room, there sat my Mom with outstretched arms. I walked over to her and told her I was sorry. She gave me a hug and told me that she still loved me. For all the mistakes I had made over the past few days, my Mom was still there waiting with outstretched arms. Just as my mom was there waiting for me to come to her, our Heavenly Father is waiting to do the same thing. He is patiently waiting for us to come to Him where He can embrace us and tell us that He loves us.

Nature provides some striking parallels. The late film producer Cecil B. DeMille shared this experience:
“One day as I was lying in a canoe, a big black beetle … climbed up to the canoe. I watched it idly for some time.
“Under the heat of the sun, the beetle proceeded to die. Then a strange thing happened. His glistening black shell cracked all the way down the back. Out of it came a shapeless mass, quickly transformed into beautifully, brilliantly-colored life. … There gradually unfolded iridescent wings from which the sunlight flashed a thousand colors. … The blue-green body took shape.
“Before my eyes had occurred a metamorphosis—the transformation of a hideous beetle into a gorgeous dragonfly. … I had witnessed … a miracle. Out of the mud had come a beautiful new life. And the thought came to me that if the Creator works such wonders with the lowliest of creatures, what may not be in store for the human spirit!”

Shortly after Joseph F. Smith’s birth, a group of men broke into the Smith home. His mother Mary was ill at the time and his father Hyrum was in jail. Ransacking the house, the men entered the room where the baby slept and, without realizing it, threw sheets and blankets on top of him. They would have been surprised if they had known a baby was hidden by their actions.
Everyone was relieved when the men finally left the home. After a few minutes Mary remembered Joseph, and she and her sister Mercy ran to check on him. When they saw what had happened they were fearful the baby had smothered. Fortunately, their frantic efforts to revive him were successful.

Having to defend their choices to live gospel standards is a regular part of school life for the teens in the Concord New Hampshire Stake. Many are just one of a few members in their schools. Some of the standards outlined in For the Strength of Youth pamphlet are easy to defend, while others end up being hard to talk about with friends.

The girls overwhelmingly found modesty to be one standard that they had little trouble defending. Jessica Payne, 17, of the Laconia Ward, says, “Modesty is easy. I do sports, but I’m the goalie, and I wouldn’t wear tank tops anyway. It has never been a subject I have to talk about with my friends. They like to wear long pants or long shorts. We’re used to dressing that way.”
“Modesty and no drinking are easy to explain, and people understand. But language is tough,” said Arica Chatterley, 16, of the Manchester Ward.
But for Sarah Ayer, 16, of the Laconia Ward, the subject of drinking has become a sticking point with some classmates. “Someone in my chemistry class asked me what would happen if I drank.
“They asked, ‘Would your parents disown you?’
“‘No, they wouldn’t do that,’ I answered.
“‘Then why don’t you just try?’
“‘First of all, it’s bad for you. God gave us the Word of Wisdom, so we can know what is good and bad.’
“‘Would you go to hell if you were swearing and drinking?’”
Sarah stopped for moment in her story and shook her head. “It’s weird how extreme some people get. I had to explain about repentance.”
Then Sarah said something that truly answered her classmates’ questions about standards. “Living them daily makes it easy to continue to live them.”

Sandy was a Primary child who showed that she could be a missionary too. When she was five years old, she invited her best friend, Craig, to go to church with her on Sunday. Craig wanted to go with Sandy and was excited to ask his mother. But Craig’s mother had other plans, and she said no. When Craig asked his mother the next week if he could go to church, she said no again. Because Sandy was a good missionary, she asked Craig a third time to go to church with her family. Craig got up early on Sunday morning and put on his best clothes. Then he woke up his mother and asked if he could go to church with Sandy. When she said no for the third time, Craig started to cry. Craig’s mother decided that if he wanted to go so badly, maybe she should go too. Craig and his mother went to church that day with Sandy and her family. That evening they began learning about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from the full-time missionaries, and soon they were baptized.
More than 20 years later, when Craig tells this story, he likes to count all the people who are members of the Church because of five-year-old Sandy, who invited a friend to church. He can count more than 100 people. Craig says, “I don’t know how many others Sandy invited to church. … I do know that I owe her more than I can say” (Friend, Oct. 1998, 36–37).