Gospel Story Finder

A member of the Church once befriended me even though I drank and swore. As a result of her friendship I attended church, seminary, MIA, and other activities. I received the missionary discussions and became a member. I didn’t associate with my old friends as I didn’t want to go back to my old ways. Actually I was afraid I wouldn’t be strong enough to stay away from those things. After some serious reevaluating I decided I wouldn’t be a good, true member if I couldn’t uphold my standards under any conditions. I’m glad I changed my attitude. I’m attending a college where I’m a religious minority of one. My true friends respect my standards and would be disappointed if I fell away from them.
Deby BartonChanute, Kansas

Imagine living so close to the ocean that sometimes you can see whales swimming by! For Vehina and Ranitea Teihoarii, that doesn’t take any imagining at all—it just takes a little effort.
“One of the best places to watch for whales is from the tower of our church building,” says Vehina. “So we get permission, and then you have to climb up the staircase.” She explains that from the tower you can see far out to sea. “And during certain seasons of the year, there are lots of whales that go by.” Vehina, age 9, and Ranitea, age 7, used to get permission to climb the tower, because their father, Thierry Teihoarii, was the district president. He was often in the building, and liked to whale-watch with them.
The white church with the red roof, known as the Takaroa chapel, was built in 1891 by Latter-day Saints who wanted a place to worship together. As the girls climbed the stairs with their father, they would often talk about the history of the Latter-day Saints in French Polynesia. They learned, for example, that Joseph Smith sent missionaries to the islands of the Pacific Ocean in 1844, and that there were members of the Church in French Polynesia before the pioneers arrived in Utah!
Marie, the girls’ mother, points out that when he was district president, Brother Teihoarii traveled to four islands besides Takaroa to meet with members of the Church. Vehina and Ranitea loved to hear about what he did on his trips. “They begged to talk with me as soon as I came in the door,” Brother Teihoarii says. “It seems like they got to know everyone in the islands!”
The girls also love to help their mother around the house. “They see me working and come and work with me,” she says. “If they see me out planting things in the garden, they’ll come and say, ‘Do you need help, Mama? I want to come and work with you.’”
Besides working, the girls spend time dancing, playing handball, riding bicycles, swimming, and helping their grandparents who run a store where people on the island stop for snacks and sandwiches. If you ask, they’ll show you necklaces of shells, souvenirs made with pearls, and fancy hats that people on the islands make to earn money. And they love to play with their cousins, Vainaiti and Shirley, who are also members of the Church. In fact, out of 1,000 people who live in Takaroa, 380 are Latter-day Saints.
Of course the girls go to school too. And it is at school that Vehina has learned some important things about living the gospel. “We study the scriptures together every morning,” Sister Teihoarii explains. “And that has helped Vehina to read well and to express herself. She feels at ease because she’s used to reading and discussing. We know the prophet has counseled families to read the scriptures together. And we see that it will help us not only spiritually, but in our daily lives as well.”
One time when Vehina was nervous about a test at school, she said to her father, “Papa, I’d like you to give me a blessing because I’m scared.” He gave her a blessing, and she felt more confident. When she did well on the test, she remembered to say a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father. Then she found her dad and thanked him too.
Every Sunday Vehina, Ranitea, Vainaiti, and Shirley go to their meetings in the white chapel. “Ranitea and I are sisters. Vainaiti and Shirley are sisters. But we are all sisters in the gospel,” Vehina says. All four girls like Primary because they get to sing, learn stories from the scriptures, and hear about the temple. “I want to go to the temple someday,” Ranitea says. “It’s a good place to be.”

In Brazil, Eduardo Naum and Evilasio Cavalcanti represent two perspectives on this gospel growth—the comparatively young member and the pioneer.
A mid-level manager in his late twenties, Eduardo is bishop of the Ferreira Ward, São Paulo Brazil Taboão Stake. Since he joined the Church in 1991, he has twice been called as a bishop. His extended family, who are not Latter-day Saints, wonder why he is not paid for all the hours he spends in his Church calling. “I work for the Lord,” he reflects. “What I have learned from my service is that Jesus lives—surely. He is there for each of us.” That assurance alone is a priceless blessing worth any sacrifice.
Approximately 1,600 kilometers north of São Paulo on Brazil’s beautiful coast is the city of Salvador, entry port in the 16th and 17th centuries for thousands of African slaves. There, a Brazilian pioneer, Evilasio Cavalcanti, serves as patriarch of both the Salvador and Salvador North stakes. He first met the full-time missionaries in 1971 in Maceio, a city about 500 kilometers north of Salvador. Sister Cavalcanti was baptized first, followed by Brother Cavalcanti and the children who were old enough. Within a year of their baptism, the family moved to Salvador.
“At that time, there was no Church organization here,” says Brother Cavalcanti. “We were the Church. It wasn’t until 1978 that a branch was established and I was called as the first branch president.”
In the intervening years, the Cavalcantis lived the gospel to the best of their knowledge. “We didn’t know everything about the Church, but we never denied our membership. We always told people we were Mormons.
“All the while, we kept looking for young men wearing white shirts, hoping they were missionaries. Once in a while we were able to hold meetings with Church members visiting the city. We had no formal teaching materials for the children, but we always tried to set an example for them by the way we lived.”
All four Cavalcanti children eventually received their temple endowments and served full-time missions. All are still active in the Church.

After I had been living in Fairfield, Ohio, for about a year, the Nielson family moved into our neighborhood. It wasn’t long until Brett Nielson and I became best friends. One day he asked me to go to his church for a dinner. My parents said it was OK.
When we arrived at the Church, he showed me around the building. Later we saw a movie called Meet the Mormons, and he asked if I’d like to join the Mormon Church. I said I might, and when I got home I told my mom that I wanted to be a Mormon when I grew up.
My mom thought she’d better see what her son was getting into. So she went to see Sister Nielson, and asked her if she had any books about the Mormons. Sister Nielson gave Mom some books and pamphlets to read.
Pretty soon the missionaries gave us the discussions and we were baptized. Dad was baptized a year later and this year we were sealed together as a family for time and all eternity.
Even though we have since moved to St. Clairsville, Ohio, Brett and I are just like brothers. We plan to go to Brigham Young University together. I know that when you bring the gospel to someone, you grow closer to that person.

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to hold their attention, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally halted, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning toward one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.

It took nearly a year for Helio da Rocha Camargo, a former minister in another church, to decide to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A short while later, his wife, Nair Belmira da Rocha Camargo, decided to follow her husband’s example and be baptized as well.
At that time, Nair was pregnant with the couple’s son, whom they would name Milton. The Camargos’ unified decision to join the Church would forever bless future generations of their family.

One day I witnessed that great joy while casually sitting beside a friend. He had recently been called as a mission president, and I thought, “What could I share with him at this important time in his life? I endeavored to see in this friend what I thought the Lord might see in him. I desired to say something that would be of importance to him at this time. I had a wonderful feeling of love for my longtime friend and felt prompted to share the thoughts that came into my mind.
“I guess at a time like this,” I said to him, “one feels an increased urgency to be a pure vessel through which the Spirit can work unrestrained. Yet isn’t it a marvelous thing to know that you will have access to that great power, that inspiration, and even revelation every day while you and your missionaries are still striving for perfection?”
Almost immediately his eyes were moist. His chin quivered and he said, “You must have known I needed to hear that.”

In 1960 I met a young man at a party who told me that Jesus Christ had visited the Americas after His Resurrection. I found the idea incredible and wanted to know more, so I began searching in libraries and inquiring of the various religious denominations in my hometown of San Miguel, El Salvador.
I searched for almost three years but found nothing. When I mentioned to various religious leaders that I had heard of Christ’s coming to the Americas, they told me I had been deceived. Because my search turned up no information, I eventually came to believe they were right.
One day two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to my home and said they had an important message for my family. I immediately remembered my previous inquiries and asked them, “Do you know if Jesus Christ came to the Americas?”
One of the young men said, “We bear witness of that.”
At that moment I felt a great excitement in my mind and heart, and I asked, “How do you know that?”
He took a book out of his bag and said, “We know Christ came here because of this book, the Book of Mormon.”
What the missionaries taught me during that first discussion troubled me, and I doubted the account of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s vision of the Father and the Son. However, the Book of Mormon intrigued me, and the missionaries kept teaching me the lessons.
One afternoon, the elders asked me, “Have you prayed to find out if what we are teaching you is true?”
I told them I had done so but had not obtained an answer.
“You must pray with real intent,” they said.
I had been reading the Book of Mormon for several nights and had read about and believed in Jesus Christ’s appearance to the Nephites, but I still could not accept Joseph Smith’s vision. My internal struggle was terrible.
One night I knelt alone and opened my heart to God. I told Him that I needed to know if He had really manifested Himself to Joseph Smith. If He had, I promised Him I would be baptized into the Church and serve Him all my life.
When I arose early the next morning, the answer came to me through the Holy Ghost. My mind cleared, and my heart filled with peace. From that moment on, I have had no doubts whatsoever that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet of God, that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ, and that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer.
I know that Christ came to the Americas after His Resurrection. My soul delights in this marvelous knowledge, taught to me with certainty by the power of the Holy Ghost.

When Sister Burton and I were first married, we lived in the southeast part of the Salt Lake Valley. On occasion, as we bought groceries from a small neighborhood store, we saw President and Sister Joseph Fielding Smith in the same store, making their purchases. President Smith (1876–1972) was the tenth President of the Church.
I finally mustered the courage to ask President Smith why he traveled all the way from downtown, past a dozen grocery stores, to shop at this one. Looking over the tops of his glasses, he declared, “Son! Sister Smith and I patronize establishments that keep the Sabbath day holy.”

At an Aaronic Priesthood encampment testimony meeting, the boys formed a long line waiting for a turn at the microphone. As they bore their testimonies, a nonmember boy, sitting by the Scoutmaster, kept saying, out loud: “How can they say that?” “They don’t know it’s true!”
About an hour later, caught up by the spirit of the meeting and the sincerity of the boys, the nonmember friend found himself in line, waiting to bear his testimony. When his turn came, he declared: “I’ve got to join this Church! I know the gospel is true!”

When Relan G. Macam (third child of Yolanda Gayatin and Reuel F. Macam of 39-F Tabayok, Sta. Mesa Heights, Quezon City) was born on September 17, 1975, his father and mother gradually fell away from the Church, after being members for only three months.
It was a situation difficult to understand. Both were active in the beginning. Ruel expressed spiritual joy to relatives present during his baptism at being born again together with Yolanda. He developed new interest and experienced excitement in reading and pondering upon the Scriptures. He avoided friends who were inclined to passing time with drinking and smoking sessions. Upon the birth of Relan, his life began to change. Sabbath day did not anymore provide him with a feeling of spirituality.
Home teachers called on the family, only to be turned away by Yolanda with the shallow excuse that household duties occupied her time and that Reuel was busy with provincial assignments. A group from the Elders Quorum of his branch paid a special visit, but Yolanda was prepared with the excuse that her husband was still in the provinces on business (he was in fact upstairs, impatiently waiting for the group to leave). As a last resort, the missionary elders who baptized them tried to bring them back to the Church—without success—as Reuel reverted to his old ways of smoking, drinking and carousing with friends.
Not long thereafter, strange occurrences began to disrupt the family life of the Macams. Relan became sickly, and his parents had to bring him to the hospital at frequent intervals. Unpaid bills and household expenses began to mount, and Reuel soon found himself heavily in debt. He, too, looked pale and sickly. The burden of motherly chores also exacted heavy toll on Yolanda, looking after the other kids in between hospital visits to Relan. Life for the two of them began to look like a trail of thorns.
Then, during one evening of soul-searching, Reuel was jolted by a thought in his mind. Could it be that son Relan was protesting in his cradle of innocence over the wayward life of his father? Could it be that Relan, in his guiltlessness, was telling him that turning his back to the covenant he made was not pleasing in the sight of God?
For, Relan had an extraordinary experience while still throbbing with life in his mother’s womb. On June 21, 1975, when Reuel and Yolanda were baptized by Elder Round in the Quezon City chapel, Yolanda was heavy with child, in fact, six months in the family way with Relan. This baby boy was immersed in the baptismal font with his mother even before he was born into this world!
The second day of January, 1977, a repentant father entered the Quezon City chapel. A cry of joy came from one of the members. “It’s Brother Macam, it’s Brother Macam! Welcome back!”
After having been away from the Church one year and three months, Reuel F. Macam returned like the prodigal son—silently nurturing the thought that his infant son, Relan, showed the way back.—P. Ocampo, Jr.
Editor’s Note: Bro. Macam is now Sunday School President, Quezon City III Ward, Quezon City, Philippines Stake.

Audrey liked to be awake. She liked to play with her friends Karen and Sue. Her mother and her grandmother were fun to be with too. Audrey liked to run and jump and chase her shadow. Some days she even liked helping with chores around the house.
The one thing Audrey didn’t like, though, was taking naps. Every afternoon when Mother suggested that Audrey lie down for a little while, Audrey would pout and say, “Do I have to?” Audrey was afraid she might miss doing something she enjoyed while she slept.
“Audrey, it’s time for your nap,” Mother announced shortly after lunch one day.
“Oh, Mother, could I skip my nap just this one time?” Audrey pleaded.
“But if you do, you’ll feel cranky and tired later on,” Mother warned.
“No, I won’t. I promise, Mother. Just let me skip my nap for today,” Audrey persisted.
“Well, OK, just this once,” Mother agreed, but Audrey noticed she didn’t look very pleased.
As Audrey raced over to Karen’s house, she felt very grown up.
“Where’s Karen?” she asked Karen’s mother.
“Karen is napping,” her friend’s mother answered.
Audrey felt disappointed as she walked next door to Sue’s house. She knocked on the back door and asked if Sue could play with her.
“I’m sorry, Audrey,” Sue’s mother said, “but she’s in her room taking a nap. Perhaps later.”
Unhappily, Audrey started home. Maybe Mother or Grandmother will play with me, she thought, rubbing her eyes.
When she was home again, Audrey looked up at Mother, who was busy sewing.
“Mother, will you play a game with me?” Audrey asked.
“Honey, I can’t now,” Mother told Audrey, glancing at the clock. “I’ve promised to hem this dress for your grandmother. She needs to wear it tonight.”
“Where’s Grandmother?” asked Audrey.
“She’s taking a nap,” Mother explained.
“But Grandmother is too old to take naps,” Audrey said in surprise.
“Audrey, people don’t take naps because of their age. They take naps because they’re tired and need to rest,” Mother explained, smiling.
Audrey knew what Mother said made sense, for already she was beginning to feel tired. She let out a yawn and then said, “Mother?”
“What, Audrey?” Mother asked.
“I don’t think I want to skip my nap after all. I think I’ll go lay down for a while like Grandmother. I’m sort of tired too.”
Then Audrey kissed her mother and hurried off to her room.

“I don’t want to take piano lessons anymore,” I told my mother. I had been taking lessons for several years and was tired of all the practicing. I was ready to quit. I wasn’t very good anyway. Because I suffer from moderate hearing loss and wear hearing aids, I have never considered myself a person with musical talent. It always took a lot of practice to learn the tune of a song.
My mother didn’t say much but simply told me that I should keep taking lessons until I could play the hymns. After much complaining on my part and much encouragement from my parents, I decided not to quit.
Fast forward several years and thousands of miles to a chapel in the mountains of central Guatemala. As a missionary, I was attending a district conference. I had arrived early and found a piano there, so I sat down and started playing hymns. Most of the wards and branches had small electric keyboards that were hard to play, so I was very excited to play a real piano. I ended up being asked to accompany the congregation for the conference.
What changed my attitude between my younger years and my time as a missionary? I felt the power of the Spirit through music.
While serving a mission, I had many opportunities to use the musical skills that I had learned. I relished the many opportunities to sing and play the piano and played nearly every week in sacrament meeting. I will always remember listening to those faithful Guatemalan members singing the hymns. I taught members new hymns that they weren’t familiar with. I taught some basic piano lessons. My companions and I would sing to the people we were teaching. Even if we sang off-key, the Spirit was always there to touch the hearts of the people.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter what your talents are; you can still learn to develop musical abilities. I’ll never be a world-class pianist, and many of the members in Guatemala will never be in the Tabernacle Choir. But it didn’t matter. We could still enjoy feeling the Spirit through music. I’m so grateful that my parents encouraged me to keep taking piano lessons, and I’m grateful that I kept practicing.

Micki Adams, West Point Stake Young Women president, and Annice Nixon, her second counselor, spearheaded the bear project. They approached Captain K. D. Simpson of the Davis County Sheriff’s Department with the idea of placing teddy bears with the sheriff’s paramedic and patrol units.
Captain Simpson told them that children are involved in approximately 45 percent of all the calls for services by the Davis County Paramedics.
Sister Adams read a newspaper article about a Montana group who donated teddy bears to a paramedic organization. She brought up the idea at a Young Women presidency meeting, and the theme “Teddy Bear Picnic” was selected for the Young Women birthday party.
Knowing how anxious children are when confronting a policeman or a paramedic, the Young Women decided that they would create teddy bears to help. “We wanted to give the child something to focus on beside his pain,” Sister Adams said. “We wanted to give him something to hold on to and to love.”
When the young women gathered for a stake Young Women birthday party, they met to begin clipping, turning, stuffing and hand finishing 285 bears.
Lori Ellsworth, a Beehive in the West Point Third Ward, said, “The first bear was hard to make until I got the hang of it. But it was worth it because it would help someone in pain.”
Ninety bears were completed that evening. The girls took the rest of the bears home to finish on their own.
The bears are eight inches tall and made from scraps donated by the stake Young Women presidency. The West Point Stake Relief Society donated most of the stuffing.
The Davis County Sheriff’s Department received 100 teddy bears. Captain Simpson said it is policy now for a paramedic or a sheriff on a call to give any child involved under the age of ten a bear. However, young children have not been the only recipients. The paramedics gave a bear to an 80-year-old woman who suffered a stroke. “It was the only thing that calmed her down,” said Captain Simpson. “She wouldn’t let go of the bear.”
The local hospital received another 100 teddy bears that were hung on a Christmas tree. Children admitted to the hospital were able to choose which one they wanted.
Captain Simpson said, “At first the paramedics weren’t too sure about using the bears. It wasn’t macho. It took two or three times using the bears before they realized how well they worked. Now if they don’t have enough, they get more. They count on them when working with children.”
Captain Simpson, who is also a flight paramedic, saw firsthand how effective the bears can be. Twelve-year-old Nicole Wallace had to be flown by helicopter from one hospital to another. She was bleeding internally from a lacerated kidney and liver suffered in an automobile accident. She refused to give up her bear even when the paramedics needed to transfer her from one gurney to another. She finally gave it up just before undergoing surgery.
Nicole lives in the West Point Sixth Ward but had not yet turned 12 when her friends had made the green spotted bear the paramedics gave her after the accident.
“The paramedics had to take the seat out. Then they took me out of the back window. When they put me in the ambulance, they gave me this cute little bear,” Nicole said. “It kept me from getting scared. I would hold on to it, so I wouldn’t hurt so bad. In the hospital it stayed right by me in my bed.”
Jennifer Techmeyer, a Beehive in the West Point Seventh Ward, said, “I thought it was really great to make something to put in the ambulance for the kids. I thought it was special to donate our love to them.”

Christopher was lucky enough to be caught in an elevator with the girl of his dreams during an earthquake that knocked out power for the city. The elevator came to a sudden stop between floors. At first they were totally in the dark, but then an emergency light came on.
“This could be the Big One,” Christopher said with a sigh, shaking his head.
“You mean the major earthquake they’re always predicting for Los Angeles?”
“No, the Second Coming,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s a clue, isn’t it? Because it’s supposed to happen when you’re not expecting it. You’re not expecting it, so this could be it.”
She shook her head and mumbled to herself in a teasing tone, “Ten million people in this town, and I get stuck in an elevator with a nut case.”
“I heard that. Go ahead, make fun of me. I don’t mind a little persecution,” Chris said, pretending to be injured.
“I wasn’t exactly persecuting you.”
“Well, you would if you could. You see, I’m a Mormon. So go ahead, say something bad about our beliefs. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Look, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m a member of the Church too.”
“You are?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I’m not like you.” She added quickly, “At least I hope I’m not. I hate to be critical, but you seem a little paranoid.”
“My mom says that too. Look, we’re probably going to be here for a while so we might as well introduce ourselves. I’m Christopher Wilson.”
“I’m Mackenzie Baxter.”
“Good to meet you.”
“What do you do when you’re not stuck in an elevator?” she asked.
“Well, I’m just finishing my first year of college. Right now I’m living with my parents.”
“Are you going on a mission?” she asked.
“What’s the use?” Anxious to change the subject, he said, “What do you do?”
“I’m a freshman at UCLA majoring in computer science,” she said. “I work in an office in this building about ten hours a week.”
“You sound busy. That’s good I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t sound too convinced,” she said.
“I just can’t see going to all that trouble, that’s all. I’ve been watching the news a lot lately, and I think the Second Coming is going to happen real soon. I mean real soon.”
“How soon?” she asked.
“Well, let me put it this way—I wouldn’t bother to preregister for classes next fall.”
She laughed, but stopped when she saw he wasn’t entirely joking. “Nobody knows when the Second Coming is going to happen,” she said.
“Yeah, I know that. But it’s got to happen sometime, so why not next fall?”
“But also why not a hundred years from now?” she said.
“Yeah, I suppose. The trouble is, whenever I decide to do something with the rest of my life, I start thinking, What’s the point? The world could end tomorrow.”
“But that’s just it—it’s not going to end totally. Life is still going to go on. The way I see it, we should be the most positive of anybody about the future, because we know some of what’s going to happen. We know there’s going to be a thousand years of peace. Whatever knowledge or intelligence we get now won’t go to waste no matter what happens. So, no matter what, even if this is the Big One, you and I will still have a future.”
He smiled. “You really think you and I have a future?”
“I meant that individually.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Suddenly the power came on and the elevator began its descent to the first floor.
“I guess it wasn’t the Big One,” she said with a slight smile.
“I guess not. Look, I really enjoyed talking to you. Would you ever consider going out with me?”
She paused, then decided to be straightforward. “No, I’m sorry.” Cute or not, she couldn’t picture herself with Mr. Doom and Gloom.
“Why not?”
“Well … how can I explain this? You remind me of a stagnant pond—nothing comes in and nothing comes out.” The elevator door opened. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.” She paused as she walked out of the elevator, then turned to say good-bye, “Good luck, okay?”
“What if I change?”
“Don’t change just for me.”
“What if I change because I decide you’re right?”
“From what I can see it’d have to be a pretty big change.”
“Well, it could happen, you know. It could happen.”
It was over two years later that Mackenzie stepped into the same elevator on her way to work. Just before the door closed, Christopher stepped on. She didn’t recognize him. Somewhere between floors, the elevator came to a sudden stop.
“This could be the Big One,” he said quietly.
She turned to him. “It’s you again! I remember you!”
“Yeah, it’s me. I just got in town last night.”
“Where have you been?”
“I served a mission. Then I spent fall semester on a ship in the Pacific studying the effects of pollution on coastal waters.”
“You look a lot happier.”
“I am. I’ve never been happier in my life. I just wanted to come back and thank you for all your help. You inspired me to get going and do something with my life.”
“You look so good,” she said. “Actually you look like a commercial for Old Spice aftershave.”
“Thanks. It’s all that sunshine and seawater.”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s your attitude about life too,” she said.
“Probably so. I’ve found something I love to do.”
“That’s the most important thing. Are we really stuck here?”
“Not really. I asked the building superintendent for a favor. All we have to do is push the Start button and he’ll bring us down.”
“I’m not in as much of a hurry this time to get away from you,” she said.
“Good, because I brought you a present.”
He handed a small box to her. She opened it up. It was a necklace with a single pearl.
“Compliments of the sea,” he said. “I found it in an oyster while I was diving off an island in the South Pacific. The moment I saw it I thought of you.”
“This must be worth a lot. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said softly, “this could be the Big One.”

Sarah watched everyone gathered around her baby sister, Hannah. The baby was wearing the lacy white dress that Grandma had made. It was so long that when Sarah first saw it, she thought it must be for her. But no, like everything else, it was for the baby.
The doorbell rang. Sarah’s face brightened when she saw Aunt Karen at the door. But then she saw the gift her aunt was holding.
“Another present for the baby,” Sarah thought. She slumped down on the sofa.
When Mom and Dad first told her there was going to be a new baby in the family, Sarah was excited. When Dad took her to the hospital to see her new baby sister, she was thrilled.
But now Sarah wasn’t so excited. Whenever she wanted Mom to help her with something, Mom was taking care of the baby. Everyone wanted to see the baby and hold the baby.
Sarah frowned. It wasn’t fair. No one noticed her anymore. Now Aunt Karen was talking to the baby in a silly, babyish voice.
“She doesn’t know what you’re saying,” Sarah muttered.
“You were sitting so quietly that I didn’t even see you,” Aunt Karen said.
“I always have to be quiet, or I’ll wake up the baby,” Sarah complained.
Aunt Karen sat down by Sarah. “It’s not always easy being the big sister, is it?”
Sarah shook her head.
Aunt Karen handed Sarah the present she was holding. “I brought something for you.”
Sarah’s eyes opened wide. “For me?” she asked.
“It sure is,” Aunt Karen said.
Sarah pulled the ribbons off the package, tore off the paper, and lifted the lid off the box. Inside she found a hair bow, a coloring book, and a pink shirt with glittery letters.
“What does it say?” Sarah asked, holding up the shirt.
“It says, ‘I’m the big sister,’” Aunt Karen said. “I have one for Hannah that says, ‘I’m the baby sister.’”
Sarah gave Aunt Karen a big hug. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re the best aunt.”
“I’m also a pretty good big sister,” Aunt Karen said.
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.
“When I was about your age, my mom had a baby,” Aunt Karen explained. “And do you know who that baby was?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Your mom.”
“Really?” Sarah said.
“It’s true,” Aunt Karen said. “Most of the time I liked being a big sister, but sometimes I felt like the baby was getting all the attention, and I didn’t like that.”
“I feel that way too,” Sarah admitted. She picked up her new hair bow and coloring book. “All the other presents are for Hannah.”
“That’s not true,” Aunt Karen said. “Your mom and dad gave you a great present.”
Sarah was puzzled. “What did they give me?”
“They gave you a baby sister,” Aunt Karen said. “My baby sister was the best gift I ever had, until I got a wonderful niece.”
Sarah giggled. “I’m not just a wonderful niece,” she said. “I’m also a pretty good big sister.”

As 14-year-old Boy Scouts from Troop D in Burley, Idaho, my friends and I were camping in a beautiful pine forest nestled into the canyon of the middle fork of the Boise River.
We had just finished exploring the area with our leaders when we decided our next experience should be fishing.
“Let’s go up above the rapids this time,” Paul suggested. “If we fish the deep-water holes, we’ll probably catch a lunker.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed, “and we’ll cook it tonight for dinner.”
After we’d gone about a fourth of a mile from camp, we found an eddy with a water hole deep enough to catch a whale. But before we could get our fishing poles ready, I saw a log about 20 inches in diameter and what I guessed to be about eight feet long. It was magnificent. It floated high in the water and was still covered in bark. It was the type of log that cries adventure to three 14-year-old Scouts.
“Hey, guys,” I called to Richard and Paul. “If we don’t ride this log, we’ll miss out on the thrill of a lifetime. Just think of the story we can tell the other guys when we get back to camp.”
At first we all agreed that riding the log would be fun. But as Richard and Paul watched the swift-moving river run over the tops of boulders, they saw how steep the rapids were below us. Paul said, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Francis. We might not make it through in one piece.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed. “This might not be the smartest thing we’ve ever done.”
“Come on,” I coaxed. “Don’t let a little fast water stop you. We’ll be fine.”
“Nah,” Paul said. “I don’t think I’m going.”
“Me either,” Richard said. “It doesn’t look safe.”
“Well, I’m going,” I said stubbornly. “And if you don’t go, I’ll be the only one at camp tonight with a great adventure story.”
Insisting I was crazy to try, Richard and Paul watched with concern as I gripped the log and steered it into the river. Immediately I noticed the river was deeper than I thought it would be. Just as I was about to climb onto the log, a voice came into my mind.
“Don’t do this thing! The tree trunk will roll as it goes through the rapids, and you will be thrown off into the churning water. What appears to be a thrilling and exciting experience could cost you your life. Your friends on the shore will think you are wise if you just let the log go and return to safe ground.”
The voice went on to say, “If you die, your mother will be left alone and brokenhearted. Even now she is praying for your safety.” Then an image of my mother kneeling in prayer came into my mind.
I let the log go and watched it slowly drift with the current. Then suddenly it appeared to be sucked into the top end of the rapids. The large trunk was tossed like a matchstick among the jutting rocks. Splinters were knocked off and large chunks of bark were stripped from the log.
A very clear picture formed in my mind as I realized the life-and-death situation I had been contemplating. If I had gone with the enticement of only living life for fun, I would have been destroyed just like the log.
I knew I would always remember those two very different urges. The first, to live only for the fun, thrill, and adventure of life. That appealed to my pride and vanity. My perception had been clouded. Selfishness was the engine that drove this desire.
The second, a prompting to listen to reason, was life-giving and life-sparing. It stood in opposition to selfishness. It helped me realize the cause and effect of the situation I had placed myself in. I was impressed that life is important and I should not take chances with it.
In the years since this experience, I have rafted on swift-running rivers and gone over many white-water rapids. But I have never forgotten my first experience with life’s rapids.
I learned that making right choices comes from heeding the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Now when a decision needs to be made, I examine closely how I feel. I listen for opposing arguments and do my best to choose the one that leaves me feeling light, warm, responsible, and unselfish. Whenever I feel this way, I know I’m on the right track.

Katya listened to the sounds of the train. The iron wheels rolled with a fast, rhythmic music: clackity, clackity, clackity, clack.
The train moved quickly toward the big city of Moscow, toward the airplane that would take Katya to her new home. Soon she would be flying away from Russia, away from her school and her friends, away from her orphanage, and language, and—and everything she had always known.
Her new parents sat beside her on the train. As her new mama asked her a question in English, the interpreter translated. “Are you hungry, Katya?”
“Dah (yes),” Katya said in her quietest voice.
Her new papa pulled out a package of crackers from his travel bag. They munched in silence, their eyes meeting from time to time. Whenever Katya looked up from her cracker, she found her new mama always smiling at her. So far, their only “words” to each other were smiles and nods.
Katya wanted to ask all kinds of questions, but she was afraid. How long will it take me to speak and understand this new language? She wondered. Will my new brothers and sisters like me? Will the children in my new school make fun of me?
Through the window, the villages seemed to race by. She smoothed the skirt of her new dress, then hugged her doll closer. Filled with all her fears, she started crying softly.
She felt her mama’s hand move gently onto hers. Katya watched while her mama pulled a small tape recorder from the travel bag and turned it on. The music was gentle, and when the singing began she was glad to hear that the words were Russian.
“Ya Gospodnia dietia (I am a child of God).” She had never heard such ideas. The song continued, “And he has sent me here, Has given me an earthly home With parents kind and dear.”*
As Katya listened to this new song—with its ideas she had never before thought about—the words seemed to melt through her, slowly finding their way to her heart, until she felt as if her whole self, inside and out, was covered with a warm quilt.
As the music continued, she smiled at her new parents and they smiled back.
The new song had chased her fears away.

A man came in to see me some time ago. He was in his 40s, I suppose, and he said, “Brother Dunn, I want to tell you a story.” As a child, he grew up in a poor family. He said he was eight before he knew what the taste of fresh milk was because his family was so poor they bought canned milk and mixed it with water to make it go further. He told of how he went down to the welfare agency with his sister one fall, and they issued two girls’ coats to them. All they had left were girls’ coats. As he got into his teenage years, he began to work very hard, and for a boy who didn’t have anything, the greatest desire of his life was a new car. He wanted a 1947 Chevrolet. It was a great obsession with him—he wanted that car. So he worked and sacrificed until he had enough for a down payment, and he got his car.

After sacrament meeting one Sunday, the bishop came up to him and his friend and said, “I’d like to see both of you for a few minutes in my office.” First, his friend went in, and the bishop said, “We’d like you to prepare to go into the mission field.” They talked about it for awhile, and finally the boy said, “Yes, Bishop, I’ll prepare myself to go.” And then this boy went in next, and the bishop asked him also to prepare for a mission. His answer was, “Bishop, I can’t go on a mission; I’m buying a car.” The car was the greatest thing in his life.

He then said, “You know, Brother Dunn, that’s not the end of the story. One thing or another came up, and I never did go. As the years went on, I used to go to elders’ quorum meetings, and I’d sit next to those returned missionaries. I don’t know if they knew any more than I did, but I thought they did. And I felt a little bit uncomfortable sitting with them in those meetings because I didn’t feel that I knew as much about the gospel as they did.” Whether he did or not, at least that’s how he felt. He said, “As time went on, I began to realize the bad decision I had made and how it stays with you. It got so that every time I’d see a 1947 Chevrolet it would give me a black feeling inside because it represented to me a decision I made that took me away from the Lord and, in the long run, hurt me. And to this day, I can’t see such a car without remembering that experience, and I ache inside because of it. The car didn’t last. The benefits of a mission go on forever.”

When my bishop asked if I would accept a calling as Young Women president, I wanted to say no. I felt inadequate to preside over the young women. But three months after I had accepted, I was heartbroken to learn that our ward boundaries were changing and I would be released.
I prayed to know why the Lord would allow me to come to love the young women only to say goodbye so soon. My answer came unexpectedly during a ward council meeting.
Council members had been asked to share stories at stake conference about helping members of our ward, but I was concerned that some people might feel like ward projects. After I had voiced my concern, however, the Spirit told me that Heavenly Father is concerned about all His children.
Some years ago my husband and I were the focus of a ward council, and we knew it. I returned to activation after our first child was born, but my husband did not. For years, stake presidencies, bishoprics, and home teachers tried to help us.
Then we moved into a new ward. A patient and loving bishop and a home teacher became my husband’s friends. This time my husband was receptive to the Spirit. He was prompted to read the Book of Mormon, and he started going to church. Slowly he regained a testimony. I will never forget the beautiful day our family was sealed in the temple.
It wasn’t until I was called as Young Women president and had the opportunity to serve on a ward council that my eyes were opened to what it means to be the focus of a ward council. I learned that ward councils focus on certain people not because they care about numbers but because they, and the Lord, care about individuals. When we serve in our callings, the Lord fills us with His love for those we serve.
Thinking back to when my family was the focus of ward councils, I realized that we were not just the ward’s concern—we were the Lord’s concern. They cared about us because He cares about us.
The truth is, we are all the Lord’s concern. Out of love, He has designed a plan to strengthen us and, if necessary, activate us—a plan often carried out by people like the bishop and home teacher who helped my husband.