Gospel Story Finder

Embarking on my education with BYU-Pathway Worldwide presented daunting challenges—power outages and unreliable internet connectivity which threatened to derail my academic pursuits, threatening my ability to complete the one-year PathwayConnect program. Despite my fears, I persevered, relying on prayer and faith. Miraculously, I witnessed divine intervention, which bolstered my confidence as an online student. A job opportunity, facilitated by a friend, provided the means to provide backup electricity and secure reliable Wi-Fi. It felt like a miracle! With these basic necessities restored, I felt a renewed sense of hope and determination to pursue my educational goals. However, my journey was far from smooth sailing.
Upon graduation from PathwayConnect, acceptance into BYU-Idaho’s online bachelor’s program brought renewed concerns. The unexpected loss of my job caused some financial hardship, which left me with no means to afford tuition and essential course materials. Depleted savings increased my worries, yet I knew that quitting school was not an option. As President Dieter. F. Uchtdorf once said, “For members of the Church, education is not merely a good idea—it’s a commandment”.
Amidst fervent prayers and contemplation, I saw a post on LinkedIn by Matt Richards, who works at BYU-Pathway. He talked about the Hall Foundation Scholarship. It was like an answer to my prayers! This scholarship helped me pay for school and books, so I could keep studying. Its promise of financial support was a lifeline in my time of need. Securing the scholarship eased the burden of tuition and expenses, allowing me to focus on my academic pursuits. Even when things seemed tough, I learned to trust that help would come when I needed it most. With faith and help from above, I’m about to graduate. It’s been a journey full of ups and downs, but I know I’m not alone. There are miracles all around us, if we just keep believing.

Five-year-old Cammie liked to color. When her brother Ryan was sick in the hospital, she drew a picture of a smiling nurse for him. The doctor hung it next to Ryan’s crib. “Ryan will feel better knowing you are thinking about him,” Mommy said.
Sometimes Cammie’s friends asked her to draw pictures for them. “Please draw a princess that looks like me,” Rachel said. So Cammie did.
Cammie even liked to color rocks. Grandma often came to see rows of Cammie’s colorful pebbles laid neatly on the porch. “Can I buy a few?” Grandma asked. She handed Cammie two coins, then picked up a big striped rock and a pebble with blue polka dots.
Cammie was glad that her artwork made others happy, but she wanted to make Heavenly Father happy too. One Sunday after church, she decided to draw a picture just for Him. First she drew her family. She colored green grass and flowers below their feet. Then she drew clouds and a big shining sun. Above the clouds, she drew smiling angels looking down on earth. She knew Heavenly Father was in heaven watching her too. Sighing happily, she put away the crayons.
Now what? Whenever she drew a picture for Mommy and Daddy, they hung it on the fridge or put it in a scrapbook. Cammie wondered how she could give her special picture to Heavenly Father.
That night before bed, she placed the drawing on the middle of her tidy bedroom floor. Then she said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, I made this picture just for you.”
The next morning, Cammie hopped out of bed, hoping the drawing would be gone. But there it lay, right where she had left it. She frowned, tears tickling the corners of her eyes. “Maybe Heavenly Father doesn’t like my picture,” she worried.
All day Cammie wondered. If Heavenly Father didn’t want a picture, how could she show Him that she was thinking about Him? Cammie thought and thought.
That night, she said her prayers again. She thanked Heavenly Father for a beautiful day and for her family and the fun things she did. She asked Him to watch over her as she slept, and she told Him she loved Him. Then she crawled into bed.
As she lay there, her blankets seemed to grow warmer. They grew warmer and heavier until Cammie realized the feeling wasn’t from her blankets at all—it was inside her heart.
“I can pray to show Heavenly Father I’m thinking of Him!” she realized.
And this warm feeling from the Holy Ghost was her answer—Heavenly Father was thinking of her too.

Today is starting like any other day, eight-year-old Gage thought as he slipped into his cotton shirt and pulled his suspenders into place. Why does it feel different? Gabriel, the rooster, crowed like always to wake up the sun. The sun peeked through the curtains and lit up the face of Roosevelt, Gage’s old, worn panda that sat on a chair by his bed, as it always did.
Yet things seemed different. Gabriel’s crowing was easier to tolerate, somehow. The light seeping through his worn curtains looked … brighter. And this morning Roosevelt’s stitched-on smile appeared happier than ever. He looked the stuffed bear straight in his black button eyes. “What’s going on, Roosevelt?”
Gage pulled on his boots. Papa would be out in the barn by now, hitching the field horse to the plow. It was Gage’s job to walk behind him and plant the seeds, a chore that somehow never ranked as high on his list of things to do as fishing or playing marbles with Ansel Clanton. But now the thought of spending the whole day in the field, seeding the dry earth, didn’t rouse even one sigh. In fact, he discovered himself looking forward to it!
“What is going on, Roosevelt?” he asked again as he started for the door, stuffing his shirt into his trousers. He paused in the sunlight that inched its way through the shadows of his room. “At least the morning is cold, like it’s supposed to be,” he told the old bear. “Except,” he added, his face puzzling up again, “today it doesn’t make me wish I was still in bed under Mama’s comforter, like it usually does.” He faced himself in the little dresser mirror. “Yep, it’s me all right. It’s just everything else that’s changed.” He scratched his head. “Maybe I’m dreaming or something, Roosevelt.” He pinched himself. “No, it’s real enough all right.”
Gage quickly ate the two eggs, biscuit, and glass of goat’s milk that Mama had waiting for him. He hated goat’s milk, but today it seemed easier to swallow.
Mama turned from her work at the butter churn and looked at her son. “Is anything the matter, Gage?”
“Mama, do you feel any different this morning than you did yesterday?”
“Feel any different about what?”
“About … everything?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. I don’t really understand it myself.” He set his empty glass on the table and ran out the door.
Mama watched him as he crossed the yard toward the big field. Then she smiled, shrugged, and turned her attention back to the churn.
As Gage walked behind his father, depositing seeds into the newly plowed furrows, he glanced at the old scarecrow that stood a short way off. He had seen it a thousand times before. It looked just like it always had—a straw man dressed in ragged clothes. So why did it seem that Gage was looking at it for the first time? “Do you notice anything different about the straw man, Papa?”
Papa glanced at the ragged figure with the lifeless stare. “Yes,” he responded lightly, squinting from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, “now that you mention it, Son.”
“Really, Papa?” Gage exclaimed. “I was starting to think that I was the only one who—
“No, no,” the tall farmer with the dark, laughing eyes interrupted teasingly “I’d say that scarecrow looks at least a day older!” he chuckled.
Gage sighed. “That isn’t it, Papa. Can we talk a minute?”
Papa looked over his shoulder at the boy and stopped plowing at the end of the row. “I suppose I could give Thaddeus here a little rest.” He patted the big field horse on the rump and sat down. “What is it, Son?”
“I wish I knew what words to use to explain it, Papa.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, Papa—I just don’t understand it.”
Papa looked relieved. He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “You asked me a moment ago if I noticed anything different about that scarecrow over there—”
“It isn’t just the straw man, Papa,” Gage interrupted. “It’s everything.”
“What about everything, Gage?”
“It’s like I’m feeling and seeing and tasting and smelling and hearing everything for the very first time. It’s like I was a different person or something. The sky looks bluer. The scarecrow looks more … interesting.” He lifted a handful of dirt and let it sift between his fingers. “The dirt even feels good. What’s the matter with me?”
Papa’s eyes misted over. “I remember when I first felt the same way.”
“You did? When, Papa?”
Papa gazed off across the field into the morning light that covered the hills. “The same day I was baptized.” His eyes returned to his son’s. “I felt alive all over, just like you.”
“I was baptized last night,” Gage uttered softly, his eyes rounding even more, like the sun above the hills.
“Yes,” his father said softly, “and you said you woke up this morning feeling different—about everything.”
“Will it be like this every morning, now that I’ve been baptized?”
“No,” Papa answered. “Not every morning.”
A tear slid down the boy’s dusty cheek. “I don’t ever want to stop feeling like I do. Never.”
“You made some very important promises to Heavenly Father at your baptism, and he made some to you. Be true to those commitments, Son, and your life will stay full, bright, and alive. It’s like this field—the harder we work to do everything right, the bigger and better and more beautiful the harvest. We can’t just sit here with our hands in our pockets and expect the corn to reach the clouds, now can we?”
“Nope—we can’t!”
The two continued their slow journey down the lengths of the field, the tall man guiding the plow, the small boy seeding the furrows.
At the end of the day, Papa and Gage made their way back to the farmhouse. Even though Gage was tired, he wore a dusty smile. He had worked hard, and it had been a good day. Tomorrow would bring another beautiful morning.

I first met Luan in February 2001 at a Young Men camp in Recife, Brazil. In Brazil, it was the time of Carnival—a holiday that has become four days of unruly partying. During Carnival, stakes often hold youth conferences and camps to give Latter-day Saint youth a fun and wholesome alternative. In my assignment as President of the Brazil North Area, I was visiting one such Young Men camp in the Recife Brazil Boa Viagem Stake.
When I first saw Luan, I noticed that he was quite thin and did not have even a single hair on his head. I also noticed that he had many friends. And I learned that he had just turned 12 and was going to be ordained a deacon during the camp.
I also learned that Luan had bone cancer in his left leg. In fact, just before camp he had learned that the cancer was progressing so rapidly his leg needed to be amputated immediately. But because Luan wanted so badly to receive the Aaronic Priesthood at camp and to play soccer with his friends one last time, his doctor had agreed to postpone the surgery for a week.
Now, surrounded by his brothers in the Church, Luan literally beamed with happiness. After his priesthood ordination on Sunday, Luan bore a beautiful testimony about his faith in the gospel and his gratitude for the Savior’s love.

The influence of your mother will bless you throughout life, especially when you serve as a missionary. Long years ago, Elder Frank Croft was serving in the state of Alabama. While preaching to the people, he was forcefully abducted by a vicious gang, to be whipped and lashed across his bare back. Elder Croft was ordered to remove his coat and shirt before he was tied to a tree. As he did so, a letter he had recently received from his mother fell to the ground. The vile leader of the gang picked up the letter. Elder Croft closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. The attacker read the letter from Elder Croft’s mother. From a copy of that letter, I quote:

“My beloved son, … remember the words of the Savior when He said, … ‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for my name’s sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad for you will have your reward in Heaven for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.’ Also remember the Savior upon the cross suffering from the sins of the world when He had uttered these immortal words, ‘Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Surely, my boy, they who are mistreating you … know not what they do or they would not do it. Sometime, somewhere, they will understand and then they will regret their action and they will honor you for the glorious work you are doing. So be patient, my son, love those who mistreat you and say all manner of evil against you and the Lord will bless you and magnify you. … Remember also, my son, that day and night, your mother is praying for you.”

Elder Croft watched the hateful man as he studied the letter. He would read a line or two, then sit and ponder. He arose to approach his captive. The man said: “Feller, you must have a wonderful mother. You see, I once had one, too.” Then addressing the mob, he said: “Men, after reading this Mormon’s mother’s letter, I just can’t go ahead with the job. Maybe we had better let him go.” Elder Croft was released without harm.

My freshman year at university, I was sitting in Relief Society when someone shared an experience where she felt impressed to write down how she thought God felt about her.
This struck me.
When I got home, I felt impressed to do the same thing. But after 10 minutes of sitting there with nothing written down, I burst into tears. I felt like a fraud. So much of my testimony was based on God and His perfect love for us. And yet I couldn’t even write anything down.
I knew that God loves all His children, but for some reason I felt like the exception.
How could that be?
When I began attending therapy the following year, I was able to start working through my thoughts. My therapist pointed out that I had a tendency to be an all-or-nothing type of person. I believed that either I had to be perfect at keeping the commandments or I wasn’t strong enough. And I realized I had decided that because I couldn’t feel God in my life, He didn’t exist. But looking back on my life, I knew that couldn’t be true. And so I realized the issue was me, not God.
Ever since I was little, I had engraved into my mind this idea that if I wasn’t perfect, I would never be good enough. Of course, because no one is perfect, I found myself swimming in a sea of insecurities. I was uncomfortable with the idea that I could be worth something. It was because of this that I always felt like I didn’t measure up and didn’t deserve anyone’s love—including God’s.
For a while, I had tried to combat my loneliness and feelings of inadequacy by trying to be everything. I busied myself with every activity I could find to keep my mind off the real issues in my life. And I spent an excessive amount of time considering others’ needs as a way to avoid having to focus on my own. I tutored, played tennis, baked for all my friends and neighbors, and became a teaching assistant. I also worked part-time, took a lot of classes, and was the president of multiple clubs and groups on campus.
To those looking from the outside, I was the girl who had it all together. What they couldn’t see was that inside, I was desperately searching for something to make me feel good enough. But always trying to do more and more only brought added confusion into my life as to who I was and who I wanted to be.
Toward the end of my freshman year I realized how badly paralyzed I had become by my feelings of worthlessness. I had allowed myself to be so overwhelmingly insecure that I denied myself all the amazing things life offered and was becoming numb to my own life.
I stepped back and wondered why, despite doing so much, I still felt nothing. This sent me into a dark depression. What do you do when you feel absolutely abandoned by God?
Anxious to move forward but feeling empty as I wondered how God really felt about me, I realized that something inside of me needed to change. This realization started me on the path to feeling God’s love for me.
At first, I didn’t know how to start; that task alone felt daunting. But over the next year, I relied on the Lord and His infinite goodness to get me through each day. I found so much strength and peace of mind in reading the messages of prophets, pondering the temple covenants I had made, setting even just 10 minutes aside each night to read the scriptures, and communing with Heavenly Father in prayer throughout the day.
As I did these things, I began to see His hand in my life. I didn’t know who I was or what path in life to choose. I didn’t know what path could ever make me feel good enough. But I soon realized that what I really needed was to know who I was to God.
I am now in my last semester at university. Among all the stresses of being a student, employee, daughter, sister, and friend, I have realized that knowing my worth and understanding how God feels about me are vital to my success in all that I do.
There are still many unknowns about my future, and that’s OK.
For me, knowing that I don’t have to be perfect right now helps get me through each day. I know that God is aware of me. I also know that even when I can’t feel His love, He still is patiently working with me.
Over the past few years of this struggle, God has helped me discover qualities and talents in myself that I would have never noticed before. Most importantly, in time, through personal revelation and daily efforts to understand God’s will for me, I’ve learned how He feels about me. I’ve been able to draw liberally on the Savior’s power and the blessings of His Atonement in my life. This has helped me to feel God’s love and know that I am His beloved daughter.
In reading the messages of the prophets, I was touched when I read these words from President Russell M. Nelson: “Feelings of worth come when a woman follows the example of the Master. Her sense of infinite worth comes from her own Christlike yearning to reach out with love, as He does.”
He also noted, “[A woman’s] self-esteem is earned by individual righteousness and a close relationship with God.”1 From this, I have come to understand that who I am is more than the combination of the things I do or say. I am an eternal being with an extraordinary calling to lead with love and compassion, just as the Savior did. And that understanding transcends anything my depression may try to tell me.
Even now, I still find myself sometimes forgetting what God’s love feels like and what lasting joys there are in the smallest and most ordinary moments of life. But the miracle of Christ’s Atonement is that it is not only for repentance; His grace also enables us to get through each day and to love ourselves. I forget that fact a lot, but it is still true.
There is no escaping that we are prone to human nature and that these moments of divine clarity and inspiration may not always feel so true. So to help us, we can write down and look back on the times when we have felt God’s love. We can keep trying to seek ways to feel that love. Our daily worship and continued efforts to deepen our personal holiness will not only strengthen our relationship with our Heavenly Father but also increase our personal happiness and self-esteem. Christ can magnify these efforts to help us become who our Father in Heaven wants us to be.
I am determined to keep trying because I have hope in Christ. I know that life will continue to get better and that I will grow as I rely on Him. Once I discovered how infinite God’s love for me was, I was able to find greater strength each day to push past heartbreaks and overcome my feelings of inadequacy and my need for perfection.
When I find myself falling back into my insecurities, I remember that God thinks that I am funny, kind, giving, and beautiful. Most of all, I remember that He sees me trying.
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) declared: “God’s love is there for you whether or not you feel you deserve [it]. It is simply always there.”2 I am so grateful for this truth. In our deepest struggles, we can see God’s glory in helping us move forward. He is always cheering us on.

I worked at Disney Interactive Studios for about 13 years as an artist and producer, and one day when I pushed the elevator button to go up to work, I felt that I wasn’t supposed to be there. Well, I put that thought on a mental shelf and continued to work. How could I leave a stable and desired career? How could I leave the good people I loved and had worked with for the last decade or so?

But it pressed upon me, and I knew this feeling wasn’t going to go away. I tried to put together a plan so I had something in place before leaving, but no matter how I tried, it didn’t materialize. So I left without a job or opportunity in place. I cried and had many deep, heartfelt discussions with my Heavenly Father during this time.

What I learned was the plan was not to have a plan. I learned who I was minus any title, career, or status. Though painful as this change was, it was an invaluable space for me to learn about me and my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Just two months after I left, that studio that I thought was stable shut down out of the blue and without warning.

Throughout my experience in leaving Disney, I pondered and searched this quote from President Spencer W. Kimball: “Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith.”1 Our true security and peace is born of faith in Jesus Christ. That faith in Christ is a choice we can make. I’m grateful He let me choose Him.

When Panda Greene tried out for the girls’ one-mile run, she didn’t think she had a chance. She’d been running all her life, but never in formal competition. It had always been just for fun. The students and teachers at Andrews School had been buzzing about the race ever since she enrolled there in the sixth grade three months ago, and she knew that the very best runners would be competing. She could hardly believe it when she finished well ahead of her classmates. And when everyone at school suddenly knew who she was, and even the teachers stopped to chat with her in the halls, she couldn’t help but be pleased.
“Go, Panda! Go! Go!” the students cheered as she crossed the finish line ahead of the other runners during practices.
Andrews School’s biggest rival was Washington School. Every year for the past five years the winner of their track meet had finally been determined by the winner of the two-mile race, and each time, Washington had walked away with the trophy. But enthusiasm was running high at Andrews this year. And their hopes were set on Panda. Winning had never seemed important to Panda before, but now she wanted very much to win—not for herself, but for her classmates, for her teachers, for Andrews School!
When Panda’s parents heard about the track meet, they were just as excited as she was.
“We’ll be sure to be there,” her mother said, giving her a big hug. “We’re so proud of you!”
“When Grandpa Greene hears about it,” her father added, “I’ll expect he’ll make a special visit just to see you run.”
Billy, Panda’s eight-year-old brother, looked at her through squinted eyes. “Well, I hope you win, but I saw Washington’s team last Saturday. Their runner looks tough, and she runs like a cougar.”
Billy’s warning only increased Panda’s determination to win. Every afternoon, right after school, she hurried to the track at the neighboring high school and practiced running until her brown hair was damp with perspiration and the muscles of her legs cried out for rest.
Panda felt good the morning of the race. She stood at the top of the grandstand in the warm sun and looked down at the track. “You’d better go sit with Mom and Dad and Grandpa, now,” she said to Billy, who had been following after her all morning. “I have to go to the girls’ locker room and get ready for the race.”
As she spoke, Marianne Harper, her rival from Washington School, came over to her. Billy was right. Marianne looked strong and fast. She also looked unfriendly.
“I just wanted a closer look at you,” she said to Panda. “Everyone’s been telling me that you’re quite a runner. But you don’t looked like much to me.”
Billy scrambled up on to a seat until he was at face level with Marianne. He stuck out his chin and glared at her. “Well, that’s OK, because you’re going to see nothing but her dust once the race starts!”
Marianne merely looked past Billy at Panda. “You don’t stand a chance of winning,” she said coolly as she walked away. “You don’t need to win the race bad enough.”
Billy turned to Panda. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t have time to figure it out now,” she said as she headed down toward the track. Turning to wave to Billy, Panda caught the toe of her running shoe on an uneven step and pitched forward. She quickly regained her balance, but she felt a sharp pain in her right ankle. After gently testing it, she decided there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with her ankle and she hurried off to the locker room.
The race was eight laps around the school’s quarter-mile track. Six girls, each one from a local elementary school, were lined up across the track in starting position. Panda was in the inside lane, Marianne Harper in the lane next to her. The starting pistol was fired, and Marianne instantly led the group.
Panda paced herself, concentrating on her breathing. Relax, she told herself. Take deep, even breaths.
At the end of the second lap, two girls were ahead of her: Marianne Harper, and Sue Winton from Longfellow School. Panda continued her steady pace. The whole school was counting on her, and she wasn’t planning to let them down. By the third lap, only Marianne stood between Panda and victory. But her near fall in the grandstand had been more damaging than Panda had suspected, and the pounding of her feet against the hard surface of the track was taking its toll on her ankle. Each step filled her leg with fiery pain. Got to win! she thought. Forget the pain. Run! Run! Run!
Panda saw her chance for victory midway in the last lap. Marianne was showing signs of fatigue. Panda increased her speed, closing the gap until the two girls were running side by side. Marianne glanced at Panda, her eyes hard and cold. It was clear that she would not take losing lightly.
There were only fifty yards to go when seating pain ripped through Panda’s leg; she felt her ankle twist beneath her body as she plunged toward the ground. Her hands plowed up the track, scraping them raw. Blood trickled from her knees, and the gritty sand filled her mouth as she saw Marianne sprint across the finish line.
A party had been planned at the high school auditorium for all the contestants, winners and losers alike, immediately following the meet. Panda really wanted to attend it, so despite her injuries, her parents drove her there directly from the doctor’s office and helped her into a chair. She was immediately surrounded by concerned friends, determined to console her and cheer her up. Billy stood at her side, while her parents and grandfather talked with several other parents and some teachers.
“Does your leg hurt a lot?” Billy asked when her classmates temporarily drifted away.
“No, not too much,” Panda said. “The doctor says it’ll be fine in a week or so. I just have to let it rest.”
Billy was the first to see Marianne Harper heading their way. “Oh, oh. Here comes trouble!” he whispered.
Panda expected a sneer from Marianne, but her face was serious. “I’m sorry about your leg,” she said. “I wanted to win awfully bad, but not this way.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Panda said. “You beat me fair and square. You’re the winner.”
“Am I? Look around.” Marianne motioned to the many parents, teachers, and students in the room. “Your whole family’s here … and so many friends! They don’t care that you lost. They’re still cheering for you.” She shook her head sadly. “I thought it might be different if I won, but it isn’t. My classmates only came because we’re getting the trophy, and my parents didn’t show up at all.”
Marianne turned to walk away, and Panda reached out and grasped her arm. “Wait,” she said. “You’ll be going to Jefferson Junior High School next year, won’t you?”
Marianne nodded.
“I will, too,” Panda said. “Maybe we can be on a relay team together. We’d make great partners.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course,” Panda said.
“Then you have yourself a partner!” Marianne smiled a half-smile as she left, but her eyes were wet with tears.
“I don’t get it,” Billy said. “She’s the winner. Winners don’t cry.”
“Sometimes they do, Billy,” Panda said thoughtfully. “I guess there are lots of things more important than winning.”
“Yes,” Billy said. “Like having a brother.”
Panda put her arm around Billy’s shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed with a broad smile. “Like having a brother.”

Illustrations by Roger Motzkus; photographs courtesy of Keaton Allen
Time machines have been dreamed up in all shapes and sizes. Such fantastical devices have been represented on screen and in books as everything from hyped-up supercars to phone booths.
For a large group of youth from Arizona, USA, their blast to the past took place inside their local stake center.
This particular journey began after President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, told youth, “You may wonder, at my age what I can contribute to your lives. I have been where you are and know where you are going. But you have not yet been where I am” (“Counsel to Youth,” Ensign, Nov. 2011, 16). These words prompted leaders in one stake to start thinking about ways to help youth connect with elderly people in their area.
As youth and leaders began planning, they decided to put together a program in the spirit of The Lawrence Welk Show, a popular American TV show featuring music and dancing that ran from the 1950s through the 1970s. This was a show many of the seniors in the stake knew and loved well.
Most of the youth, however, had never heard of it, and at first some of them didn’t know quite what to think of the idea.
“I was unsure,” says Lisette L., a Laurel from the stake. Adds Slade C., 15, “Honestly, I thought it was going to be kind of weird.”
After all, we’re talking about barbershop quartet music, dance styles from decades past, and the hope to form close friendships across wide generation gaps. Still, the youth jumped in with both feet and started preparing.
“We wanted the youth and the elderly citizens to get to know each other,” says Pam Nielson, one of the leaders. “We wanted them to realize they have a lot in common.”
This wasn’t an activity that could be thrown together in a few days. Preparation involved weeks of rehearsals. There was an all-youth orchestra, an all-youth barbershop chorus, an all-youth band, and all-youth dance teams who learned songs and routines from the 1920s through the 1960s. That takes time to create. “These kids were amazing,” says Pam.
For their part, Slade and Lisette were both chosen as part of an advanced dancing team. “There were lots of rehearsals,” Slade says. “After Mutual, we went down to the stake center and practiced.”
As the show began coming together, the excitement grew. “It was really fun,” says Lisette. “For most of us, it was our first time hearing any of this kind of music.”
When the big day arrived, the surprise highlight—for many—took place before the first note of music even rang in the air.
The activity was scheduled in two segments. For the first part, the 200 youth from the stake were divided into groups of four, and then each group was assigned to visit an elderly man or woman in his or her home for an hour and a half.
“That was definitely one of my favorite parts,” says Slade. He wasn’t alone, either. For many of the young men and young women, these get-to-know-you sessions were fascinating as well as inspiring.
Slade’s group was assigned to visit Hazel Cameron, a widow in their stake who lived through the Great Depression. “I never guessed at all the things she’s been through,” Slade explains. “She told us a few stories that I thought were pretty exciting.”
Slade and the others in his group spent 90 minutes getting to know Hazel, asking her questions about her life. They all enjoyed one another’s company—and none of them minded a bit when Hazel shared a few treats she’d made. It turns out baking cookies and making candy is one of her favorite hobbies!
Another of Hazel’s favorite hobbies is dancing, including the fox-trot. “She taught me a few moves,” Slade says.
At the end of their time together, the elderly members in each group shared a few words of advice with the youth. These messages were recorded and later compiled and handed out as treasured DVDs.
When visiting time was over, the youth said good-bye to their new friends and got ready for the performance later that night. They could hardly wait to put on the performance.
After all the hard work, The Lawrence Wright Show was ready to begin. The event was named for the stake president, Lawrence Wright, who played the role of host Lawrence Welk, complete with a flurry of bubbles like they had in the original show.
The youth went all-out in performing for their new friends. All night long, the stake center became a time machine as song after song turned back the years for the guests of honor. “I loved seeing how happy they were as we performed for them and brought back memories,” says Lisette.
After the grand finale—a song and dance routine to the traditional closing song from The Lawrence Welk Show—music continued, and the youth invited their friends from the audience to join them for more dancing. “It was super exciting,” says Slade, who shared a dance with Hazel.
The friendships formed that day have lasted well past the show’s closing curtain. The youth enjoy seeing their new friends at church and around town. Slade, for example, drops by Hazel’s house now and again just to say hello. He often thinks of ways to brighten her day. “I didn’t think this activity was going to be amazing, but it was,” Slade explains.
Pam hears all the time from senior members in the stake who tell her how the youth will come up and talk with them at church. “They truly made friends,” she says.
This activity ended up providing much more than entertainment. By getting to know those they served, the youth formed friendships they never knew they were missing. “No matter what age we are,” says Lisette, “we’re all part of the same family.”

On the six Saturdays prior to Christmas, the Solihull businesses use the parking area adjacent to the Church area offices in Birmingham, England, as an overflow for Christmas shoppers. The young men of the Birmingham Second Ward saw it as a prime opportunity to have a special fund raising project for charity. They set up a car wash.
“The car wash was the idea of the youth,” said David Cook, Young Men president, “and I was proud not only of the effort they put in, but their dedication and high standard of performance.”
The young men took great care, and some car owners were so impressed they had their cars washed each week. And even though the young men were cold and wet at the end of each Saturday, they did not complain. They used half of their earnings to buy new sports equipment for youth activities and donated the other half of the money to three charities.

You see, I am a Mormon. When I was 13, I had lived with a foster family in Salt Lake City and, after receiving permission, had been baptized into the Church. Upon returning home I found my family very much against my new religion. They forbade me to attend or participate in Church activities, and I obeyed. During the last half of my senior year in high school, however, I was contacted by two missionaries, Elder Michael Morris and Elder Gene L. Peterson, and was retaught the gospel. They encouraged me to seek further education and even go on a mission if it was my desire. It was ironic that now these two options were being offered to me—but in a different way than I had expected.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.

My father-in-law, Blaine Twitchell, one of the best men I have ever known, taught me a great lesson. Sister Rasband and I went to visit him when he was nearing the end of his mortal journey. As we entered his room, his bishop was just leaving. As we greeted the bishop, I thought, “What a nice bishop. He’s here doing his ministering to a faithful member of his ward.”
I mentioned to Blaine, “Wasn’t that nice of the bishop to come visit.”
Blaine looked at me and responded, “It was far more than that. I asked for the bishop to come because I wanted my temple recommend interview. I want to go recommended to the Lord.” And he did!

Eighteen-year-old Annie Smith wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and looked back across the railroad bridge she and her students had just crossed. The students were from her one-room schoolhouse in Porterville, Utah. They were a variety of ages and sizes; some students were even older than she was. She was glad to see the older ones helping the younger ones along the tracks. It was a beautiful winter day in 1892, a perfect day for their school outing. She and her students had already enjoyed dinner at her house and a sleigh ride.
Annie felt a small hand slip into hers. She looked down into the face of her youngest student, little Hughie. His brown eyes were large with excitement.
“Do we really get to walk through the tunnel?” he asked nervously.
Annie nodded. “I have special permission from the railroad. They said no trains are scheduled for today, so it will be perfectly safe.” She looked at the dark opening of the mountain tunnel ahead. “It’s a long, dark tunnel, Hughie, and there are no lights inside. But on the other side is a beautiful view of the rockslide and the valley.”
Hughie gave a little sigh and smiled. Annie’s words had put his fears to rest. Now he tugged on her arm. “Come on, Teacher. Let’s go see the valley.”
Soon they were all inside the tunnel. It took a while for their eyes to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. “Go slowly,” Annie said. Her voice echoed in the tunnel. “Stay on the tracks and hold hands so you don’t fall.”
At first the children were laughing and joking, but they soon grew quiet as they concentrated on keeping their footing. Their footsteps grated on the gravel as they guided each other over the railroad ties.
Annie knew they were about halfway through the tunnel when she saw a small circle of light in the darkness ahead. “We’re almost there,” she told her students. “Look at the light.”
As they paused to look, they heard a rumbling noise behind them, and then a sound that terrified them—a train whistle.
“Teacher?” It was Hughie’s voice. “Did you hear?”
Annie hushed him quickly. She stood frozen on the tracks, not daring to believe her ears. But then the whistle sounded again, nearer this time. There was a train rounding the point of the mountain and coming very fast toward the bridge they had just crossed!
Annie prayed silently for help. Please, Heavenly Father, what should I do? Tell me what to do.
“Teacher?” an older child asked. “Should we run?”
The tracks were starting to vibrate under their feet.
“No!” Annie commanded. The words seemed to spring from her lips of their own accord. “Lie down at once as close to the wall as possible. Don’t move or try to get up until I say you can. Now, go!”
She had to shout the last word over the sound of the approaching train. She pulled the nearest child with her to the wall of the tunnel and held him tight. As the train roared into the tunnel, many of the children screamed in terror. Sparks flew from the smokestack, and the smoke almost suffocated them. The train seemed to go on forever. Annie trembled and tightened her grip on the child she was holding, afraid she might lose him in the hot, rushing wind that swept through the tunnel with the train.
When the train was finally gone, she helped the child up and hurried toward the light. She went as swiftly as she could, tripping on stones and helping her students, who were also rushing to get out of the dark.
Once outside the tunnel, one of the older children asked, “Where’s Hughie?”
Taking some older boys with her, Annie returned to the dark tunnel, afraid of what she might find. The boys ran ahead calling Hughie’s name. “He’s here!” a boy called, relief in his voice. “He’s still lying facedown by the wall.”
Annie heard another boy comforting him. “It’s OK, Hughie. The train is gone. You can get up now.”
Hughie turned his face toward them and said in a brave but frightened voice, “Did Teacher say I could?”
Annie hurried over and put her arms around him. “Oh, Hughie,” she said with tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you for being so obedient. You did the right thing, and you are safe. You can get up now. Teacher says so.”
Hughie got to his feet, and Annie took his hand and led him toward the light. She silently thanked Heavenly Father for watching over this little boy who had such faith in his teacher. She hoped she would always live worthy of that trust.
Annie also knew her trust in Heavenly Father had been rewarded. Her prayer had been answered when she told the children what they needed to do to be safe. They were spared because they immediately obeyed those instructions. There is safety in obedience. That was a lesson Hughie, the other students, and their teacher never forgot.

We were as tough as they come. In just a couple of weeks my friends and I would be graduating from eighth grade and be on our way to high school. One day during music time toward the end of that year, the teacher thrilled the boys by announcing that the high school freshman football coach was coming to talk to those interested in trying out for the team in the fall. Gladly, every boy in class joined the mass exodus into the gym.
We sat noisily on the floor, poking and jabbing each other when this mountain of a man walked in. He squared off, faced us, and said, “Men, if you want to play high school football, there are a few things I want you to do.” He outlined some basic conditioning techniques and cautioned us against eating too much candy and drinking too much soda pop. He told us to run every day and ride our bikes as often as possible. He even suggested we lift weights and find jobs that required discipline, strength, and stamina. He talked of the fun and thrill we could get by playing and winning but reminded us that the opponents were out to win as well.
As you might guess, the coach’s counsel went unheeded. We ate candy, goofed off, and took full advantage of a leisurely summer. Before we were ready, the summer was over and a letter came advising us where and when to pick up our football gear. On a hot August afternoon a rough-looking group of kids appeared at the gym door.
When all the equipment was issued, we were ordered onto the field, where the coach had us warm up by knocking shoulder pads with each other. We were then assigned positions according to size and where we happened to be standing. We were taught a few plays, which we practiced for about 30 minutes. By then we were all hot and tired.
The coach then blew his whistle and lined us up on the goal line. We expected a short pep talk before we headed for the welcome cool of the showers. We were mistaken. The coach said, “When I blow the whistle, run full speed to the 20-yard line, and line up there.” I didn’t see much sense in that, but we all obeyed. At the 20, he blew the whistle again and had us run back to the goal line. Now things were beginning to get ridiculous. Why would he want us to just run back and forth?
On the second sprint from the goal line to the 20, several of my friends ran to the sidelines, ripped off their helmets and began throwing up. I guess the combination of heat, physical exertion, and the poor shape we were in had taken its toll. On the way back from the 20 to the goal line, several more dropped out. Back to the 20 we went, only this time I started feeling sick. On my way back downfield to the goal line, I dropped out and joined my friends. The coach finally called us all together and rather sternly chewed us out for not taking seriously his challenge to prepare. He finished his speech by informing us that we would meet at 6:00 a.m. the next morning for a three-hour workout and more wind sprints. Several players assured the coach they wouldn’t be there. They walked to the locker room and turned in their gear.
True to the coach’s word, we started practice at 6:00 a.m. It wasn’t nearly so hot, but the wind sprints made a bunch of us sick all over again. When the coach announced another practice at 4:30 that afternoon, another half dozen guys quit.
The 4:30 practice was terrible. My muscles were sore. I even had soreness where I didn’t know I had muscles. By the next morning almost half the team had dropped out. But after a week the soreness was gone, the practices started to be fun, and the anticipation of the first game increased our excitement. By the end of the season we determined that the coach was right. Football was fun.

With help from an inspired group of young women in Oregon, USA, a certain refrigerator box rose to its full potential: it helped bring about an entire season of Christmas miracles.
When the Young Women organization was put in charge of their ward’s Christmas party, they decided early on to have a Light the World theme. The first giving machine in their area had shown up a year earlier. “I thought it was so cool to be able to serve in such a simple and easy way,” says Kisiah H., one of the young women.
So the young women wanted a customized giving machine for their ward and stake. One of them, Rita P., offered to help build it. The machine would contain “service opportunities that anyone could do, no matter their age,” says Rita. They included such services as “Make dinner,” “Pray for someone in need,” or “Go caroling.”
Thanks to a Young Women president who had just purchased a refrigerator, they had a perfect box to wrap in red paper and tape. Then they added stickers with service opportunities and placed small business cards beneath for people to take. Once somebody completed their task, they could hang the little red business card as an ornament on the ward Christmas tree.
“It was really cool to see the tree fill up over time,” says Kisiah.
“Do something small, and it will bring the joy of Christmas.”
After the ward party, people wanted to use the giving machine at a stake Light the World activity. And so the light continued to spread. “Somebody said they wished we could have one of these in every ward in the stake,” says Kisiah.
A small idea, a big box, and some hard work led to a much brighter Christmas for all.

Several years ago our sons would spend their time during the summer on their grandfather’s ranch. Twelve years ago one of our sons had a horse. It had been given to him when it was born. It had been running with a wild herd of horses on the ranch. It was now two years old, time that it could be broken to ride. Early one summer we went to the ranch. It took all day to get the horses into the corral. Finally we had my son’s horse in a chute and put a heavy halter on it. We put a big rope on it and tied it to a big post. “Now the horse must stay there for two or three days,” I told him, “until it quits fighting the rope, until it becomes calm.” We worked with it during the morning, and then we went in to eat. He hurried with his meal and then went out to his horse. He was 14. He loved that horse.
Just as we finished the meal, I heard a noise, and I heard him shout. I knew what had happened. He had untied the horse. I had told him not to, but he was going to work with it. In order to hold the horse, he had wrapped the rope around his wrist. As I came out the door, I saw that horse run by. My son was running after it with great big steps, pulled by the horse; and then he fell. If the horse had turned right, it would have gone out the gate into the mountains. It turned left and was cornered by two fences. While it was trying to find its way out, I got the rope off my boy’s wrist and the end of the rope around the post. He was bruised but not badly hurt.
In a little while we had the horse tied up again, and we sat down for a father and son lesson. I said to him this: “My boy, if you are ever going to control that horse, you will have to use something besides your muscles. The horse is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are. Someday you can ride that horse, but it will have to be trained. You cannot train it with your muscles. It is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are; and it is wild.”
Two years later we went to the ranch in the spring. This horse had been running all winter with the herd. We went to find it. We found the herd of horses down by the river. I knew if we went too close, they would run. So this boy and his sister took a bucket with some oats and walked quietly to the edge of the meadow. The horses began to move away slowly. Then he whistled, and his horse came out of the herd and trotted up to my boy. We had learned a great lesson. Much had happened in those two years. He had used more than his muscles.
After the experience when he had untied his horse, he was frightened. He had disobeyed, and he said, “Dad, what should we do?” And I said, “This is the way we will do it. And one day that horse will run up to you.” He had been prepared and had learned a great lesson.

On one occasion, I was to interview a man on behalf of the First Presidency for the restoration of his priesthood and temple blessings.

After his marriage in the holy temple, and after having three wonderful children, the man was unfaithful to his wife and his sacred covenants. A single woman became pregnant and wanted an abortion.

The husband’s saintly wife pleaded with the woman to have the baby and promised that she would raise the child, once he was born, with her own children.

The single woman thoughtfully agreed not to end the pregnancy.

It had now been 10 years. The humble sister sitting in front of me loved the boy as her own and told me of her husband’s efforts to make amends and to love and care for her and the family. The father wept as she spoke.

How could this noble woman of God take a child as her own who could be a daily reminder of the unfaithfulness of her husband? How? Because she found strength through Jesus Christ and she believed in the sacredness of life, the holiness of life. She knew the unborn child was a child of God, innocent and pure.

Many years ago, I went on assignment to Brazil. As part of the trip, I was to travel by car from São Paulo to a conference in a city about two hours distant. A member of the Quorum of the Twelve was going to preside at that conference. I hoped to ride in the car with him so that I might learn. But he suggested that I make the trip in another car with missionaries. He said, “Teach them while you travel.” So, when I climbed into the front seat of the car, I learned that two young lady missionaries, companions, were going to that city for a transfer.
After we had become acquainted, I leaned back over the seat and asked, “What would you like to know about?” Both of them, eagerly and almost in chorus, said, “Tell us how we can become more humble.”
You might have struggled with that as I did. I only remember the green hills of Brazil going by as I tried to reply. And the feeling at the end that I failed. If only I could have the chance to answer again, I would share some things I have learned about their question since President Hinckley issued the call to this sacred office as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. I think I could help them a little more now.
First, I would have realized that they already had the first lesson in their hearts. The fact that they even asked meant that they had gone beyond being overwhelmed by their doubts about themselves to hope that if they would just submit, if they could just learn what to do, they could be better. If I had the chance again, I would have told them that. And then I would have given them just this one bit of counsel, counsel about what to do. I would have said just this: “Always remember him” (Moro. 4:3; Moro. 5:2; D&C 20:77, 79).
I would have tried to help them to do that by taking them in their minds to a garden where they would hear the Savior’s words: “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42).
And then I would have taken them to that glorious day reported in the Book of Mormon when the resurrected Lord appeared to the people in the Americas and said: “And behold, I am the light and the life of the world; and I have drunk out of that bitter cup which the Father hath given me, and have glorified the Father in taking upon me the sins of the world, in the which I have suffered the will of the Father in all things from the beginning” (3 Ne. 11:11).
I know from the softness I heard in their voices and saw in their eyes that those missionaries would have then, and perhaps always, remembered him. And from his perfect example they would have felt their hearts breaking and received the answer to their pleading, “Tell us how we can become more humble.”
When we drove away from them in the city of our destination, they were standing waiting for a bus. I looked back. There they stood alone. I wish I had known what I learned when I received this call so that I could have read to them while they were in the car these words from the Doctrine and Covenants: “That the fulness of my gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world, and before kings and rulers; …
“And inasmuch as they sought wisdom they might be instructed;
“And inasmuch as they sinned they might be chastened, that they might repent;
“And inasmuch as they were humble they might be made strong, and blessed from on high, and receive knowledge from time to time” (D&C 1:23, 26–28).
They would have known the Savior spoke of them. And then in their humility they would have found that they were given power to proclaim his name.

One youth Sunday School teacher wondered how to help two young men with autism act for themselves. When she invited class members to share what they were learning, she worried that these two young men might refuse her invitation. But they didn’t. One stood to teach what he had learned and then invited his classmate with autism to help him. When the first began to struggle, his classmate stayed with him and whispered in his ear so that he could feel successful. They were both teaching that day. They were teaching what the Savior taught, but they were also teaching how the Savior taught. When the Savior taught, He acted out of love for the one He was teaching, just as this classmate did for his friend.5

President McKay recalls another vivid lesson from youth:
“I thank my earthly father for the lesson he gave to two boys in a hayfield at a time when tithes were paid in kind. We had driven out to the field to get the tenth load of hay, and then over to a part of the meadow where we had taken the ninth load, where there was ‘wire grass’ and ‘slough grass.’ As we started to load the hay, father called out, ‘No, boys, drive over to the higher ground.’ There was timothy and redtop there. But one of the boys called back, (and it was I) ‘No, let us take the hay as it comes!’
“‘No, David, that is the tenth load, and the best is none too good for God.’”