Gospel Story Finder

When this pandemic began, I thought it would just pass quickly and would only last a few days. But as the days went by, we couldn’t have meetings, including seminary, youth activities, and sacrament meetings. We were told that we had to stay inside our homes for weeks, and we could only leave for essential activities.
While I’ve been home, I’ve seen that the Lord has given us all the things we need for this difficult time. We’re able to study the scriptures at home with Come, Follow Me, have seminary and school through video calls, and watch general conference from home.
One thing I’ve loved is that my family gets to be home more, and we’ve shared good moments as we’ve played games and spent time together. It’s usually difficult for us to come together during the week, so it’s been nice to all be home.
I’ve also been trying to develop spiritually. After conference, I realized we need to prioritize what’s really important—things like studying the scriptures, developing our faith and our testimonies, and helping strengthen those around us.
Just because we are going through difficult times doesn’t mean it has to be a bad time in our life. It just means that we have a chance to make ourselves better and go forward with faith. These adversities can help our faith grow, and we will have a much stronger testimony of the gospel when it’s all over.
Emma A., Spain

In South Africa I met the Cleverlys, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The mother of the family invited me to their home at various times. She always told me about young adult activities, but I could never attend due to my job schedule. Then she invited me to attend church, and I accepted. But before Sunday came, I had three nights of duty. I went downstairs to the embassy library where there was a computer with a huge search capacity. I just typed in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All kinds of information came up, and I read for eight hours the first night, eight hours the second night, and eight hours the third night. What I looked at most of all was what Latter-day Saints believed and how they applied it in their lives. Did they live according to what they had established as laws or standards of the Church?
The week preceding my visit to church, I had a dream. I was sitting at a table, and there were two young men with white short-sleeved shirts and black name tags. They were sitting at the sides of a table, and I was seated at the head. When I woke up, I didn’t think much about the dream.
The first time I walked into a Latter-day Saint meeting, I knew there was something different about this church. It happened to be the first Sunday of the month, which meant the members had an opportunity to stand and bear testimony. Now this is the true order of church, I thought.
I was introduced to two missionaries. One of the young men was one of those in my dream, the exact person. Sister Cleverly invited the missionaries and me to her home for dinner. She placed us at the table exactly as my dream had predicted. The missionaries began teaching me.
Later, when I learned the principle of baptism for the dead, I thought it amazing that one could go to a sacred place and do these things for people who had passed away. I thought about my two grandfathers and my grandmother who had passed away. That’s when I started to feel the Holy Ghost. The teachings sounded right to me.
We got to the next principle, which was about families, and I realized I had always known that was true. When I heard about eternal families, I told the missionaries, “I knew this existed.”
Then the missionaries taught me about the Word of Wisdom, and it was then I made a discovery. It felt as if my soul unfolded, and I shed a sort of shell and a new person came out. I felt like I was floating off the ground. I had always lived the Word of Wisdom, and I had wanted to know why I was the way I was. No one had ever had the answer for me. But the Lord did, and I learned that answer through the missionaries and the discussions. I knew everything they had taught me previously was true and everything they would teach me would be true. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly reading the scriptures as when I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21. I knew it was true. I always knew my body was important, and I knew it was never to be defiled.
From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t very happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of kilometers from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. A very clear voice said, “You are to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on 12 October 1995.
It was a year to the day of my baptism, 12 October 1996, that I entered the Washington D.C. Temple to be endowed in preparation for serving full time in the Spain Madrid Mission.
During the first year of my mission, my parents were not supportive of my missionary service. The Lord revealed to me while I was on my mission that my family was fine and they would be taken care of. Then things changed all of a sudden. The last six to eight months of my mission, my family was very supportive. They said they were receiving blessings, and they knew it was because of my mission.
After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before leaving to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and said, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know we owe it to the service you gave in Spain for two years.”

It was the day after Christmas, 1946, in Santa Clara, Utah. As a young nine-year-old boy, I asked my mother if I could take my Christmas gift, a new bow and arrow set, and go up on the hill behind our home to hunt for rabbits. It was late in the afternoon, and Mother was reluctant, but with my coaxing she agreed to let me go, but only if I was back home before dark.

As I reached the top of the hill, I put an arrow on the bow and started walking quietly through the sage and chaparral bushes, hoping to see a rabbit feeding at the base of the brush where the tender grass was still green.

I was startled by a large jackrabbit that jumped out from a sage bush right in front of me. I pulled back on the bow, taking a quick aim, and let the arrow fly at the fleeing, darting rabbit. The arrow missed, and the rabbit disappeared through the brush ahead.

I went to where I thought the arrow had hit the ground to retrieve it. Only three arrows came with the bow, and I didn’t want to lose this one. I looked where the arrow was supposed to be, but it wasn’t there. I looked all around the area where I was sure it landed, but I couldn’t find it.

The sun was setting in the west; I knew that it would be dark in about 30 minutes, and I didn’t want to be late getting home. I searched again the area where the arrow should have been, looking carefully under every bush, but it was not to be found.

Time was running out, and I needed to start for home to get there before dark. I decided to pray and ask Heavenly Father to help me find the arrow. I dropped to my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed to my Father in Heaven. I told Him I didn’t want to lose my new arrow, and I asked Him to show me where to find it.

While still on my knees, I opened my eyes, and there in the sagebrush immediately in front of me, at eye level, I saw the colored feathers of the arrow partly hidden by the branches. I grabbed the arrow and began to run for home, arriving there just before dark.

I will never forget that special experience. Our Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. That was the first time I had prayed for Him to help me, and He did! That evening I learned to have faith and trust in my Heavenly Father.

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joule’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how hard she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the best students in the class. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing ballet turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joule would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joule,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big box full of slippers that she kept for such an emergency. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joule, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joule responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she is one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joule even called on her to demonstrate a particular dance step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joule and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joule. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time Lisa went to class she exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of ballet steps and turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl around like a toy top.
As dance recital time drew near when all the students in the class would present what they had learned before an audience of parents and friends, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink any more. The ribbons became unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joule did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joule.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joule. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn out.”
“Mrs. Joule,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joule. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joule? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joule? Her classmates were talking and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa put on her dance dress and checked around for her teacher.
“Don’t worry, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joule hurried down the hall. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are dancing first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a big embrace. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into the dance line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the more difficult dance steps that they did. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her.
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joule.
“Thank you again for repairing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done well without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joule as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn shoes.
Mrs. Joule continued, “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I just sewed ribbons on them for you to use tonight.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers she had been wearing out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very same pair that I exchanged for those of the ballet star! she said to herself in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it? Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!”
And she did.

A few years ago, Jill and I were speaking with President Russell M. Nelson. He asked us if we would be willing to accept a different assignment. President Nelson has always been so kind to us and has treated Jill with great love and respect. After he asked the question about our willingness, Jill said, “We’d do anything for you, President Nelson.” He immediately responded, “Do it for Him.” This was striking for both Jill and me. He taught us a great lesson. President Nelson wanted us to have the proper motives and to keep our eyes where they should be directed.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be buried alive? I have to admit it was never exactly on my top ten list of things to think about, until it actually happened.
And if it weren’t for a troop of LDS Boy Scouts and Hoover the Wonder Dog, I’d probably still be buried six feet under snow today.
Of course, if it weren’t for the Scouts, I wouldn’t have been buried in the first place. On one of the coldest, snowiest days Salt Lakers can remember, Scouts from Parleys First Ward and members of Utah area search and rescue units helped each other stage an avalanche rescue drill. I volunteered to be one of the victims. (Okay, so I didn’t actually volunteer. I got talked into it.)
We all met in the church parking lot early one Saturday morning, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the dark skies, subzero temperatures, impassable roads, and snow flurries would postpone our little exercise. No way. These Scouts were Wasatch Mountain born and bred. They live for snow. They ski, snowshoe, and snowboard on it all winter long. The things they were about to learn would be extremely useful to them. And they knew how important it was that the search and rescue dogs get some practice.
“We’re always in the mountains in the winter,” said Dan Kaelberer, 15. “It’s important to learn about the threat of avalanches and what to do if one happens.”
Tyler Olsen was especially unaffected by the bad weather. This would be the culmination of his Eagle Scout service project. He’d already been to sporting goods stores in the valley, distributing free backcountry safety literature for their customers. He’d helped at a special prep seminar for the Scouts, where they watched an avalanche video and received special instruction from Dan Davis, their Young Men secretary and owner of Hoover, a search and rescue dog.
So about 25 of us, including Scouts, their leaders, and a few news people, piled into four-wheel drive vehicles and headed for the hills—make that mountains. We’re talking Rockies.
Once we got up out of the Salt Lake Valley and up to Guardsman Pass where the drill was to be held, the weather wasn’t half as bad, and the scenery was incredible. Snow was everywhere, generously frosting the trees and covering the ground in a great, thick blanket. It looked soft and inviting—harmless, even. That’s probably what a lot of people think just before they put themselves in avalanche danger.
“A lot of people don’t realize that avalanches can happen so easily,” said Clark Whisenant, 13. “This project made me want to do a special research project on them for school. Avalanches are really dangerous.”
The search and rescue people had already arrived at the site. They’d brought dogs, snowmobiles, and an intimidating snow cat that moved like a tank, made strange noises, and seemed to be able to transport a number of people just about anywhere.
Before I could pull on my gloves, the Scouts were out running around with the dogs, leaping into huge snow piles and throwing snowballs at each other. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” I thought, as I took a big juicy snowball right in the back of the head.
It was about a half-mile hike from the area where we left our cars into the site where the search and rescue people decided to stage the drill. Some of the Scouts walked, carrying the shovels and other equipment they’d brought along. Some went ahead on snowmobiles to prepare the site. As for me, I decided to ride the snow cat in. The dogs were riding in on it, and I wanted them to get acquainted with my scent so it wouldn’t take them long to find me when it came time for the rescue.
Once we got to the site, everyone went to work. The area was large and flat, with snow piled deep. They had been careful to select an area that really would be free of avalanche danger. The first order of the day was testing the snow, cutting a big, vertical block of it and looking at the layers for instability. If the boys were just out for a normal day of cross-country skiing, this would have determined where or if they would go in that area.
Next, they had to make the area look as if an avalanche had just occurred. That meant smearing injury makeup all over some faces, partially burying some people, and digging snow caves in which to bury others.
“It’s kind of fun to have injury makeup on your face and then be buried in the snow up to your shoulders,” said Andy Brinton. Now that’s an attitude for you! Since I was one of the lucky others who would be buried completely, I’d have to see if I could start thinking like Andy.
I’ll say this for the Scouts. All that snow camping they do every winter pays off. They dug me a snow cave about six-feet deep that was actually rather comfortable—just big enough for me to lie in. I crawled in, and then they handed me a walkie-talkie “just in case.” “Just in case of WHAT?” I wanted to ask. But they had already started filling in the entrance with snow blocks, followed by loose snow.
Now, it’s really not that bad in a snow cave. The natural insulation keeps you pretty warm. And since the snow usually has a density of 40–60 percent, there’s plenty of air. Still, I was depending on Dan to keep his promise that Hoover would have me out of there in 20 minutes at the most.
Dan O’Conner of American Search Dogs, Inc., whose dog Anderl would sniff out some of the other boys, explained to us that a dog could pick up a scent after a person has been buried only a few minutes. “The dog thinks, ‘I can smell the person, but I can’t see him, so I’d better go find him.’ That’s the name of the game.”
It wasn’t long before I heard feet crunching in the snow above me, and muffled voices talking in an excited tone. Soon I could hear frenzied digging, and then I saw the welcome sight of a pair of brown paws, then a black nose, breaking through the ceiling of my snow cave. In no time Hoover was all over me, licking my face and playing tug-of-war with my glove. He was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. He’d won the game. He scooted back up to the surface where the others were waiting, my glove in his mouth, proving that he’d found me. The others congratulated him, then helped me up and out.
What I saw when I got to the surface fascinated me. With remarkable precision, the Scouts and rescue people had organized themselves so that almost every inch of the avalanche area was being covered. The scenario was that a group of Scouts had been in the area when an avalanche occurred.
In one area, the avalanche “witnesses” were being interviewed, and the “injured” victims were being treated nearby. Another part of the area was being swept by people bearing electronic devices that would pick up signals from the transceivers that the Scouts might have been wearing at the a time of the disaster. In still another area, they’d organized a probe pole line, in which the members sank long, thin metal poles into the deep snow every foot or so, waiting for someone to sound the ominous cry, “I’ve got a hit,” if they struck something.
“I’d never been in a probe line, or anything like that, and it was really interesting,” said Joseph Mecham. “If there really was an avalanche, like at a ski resort, and you were a bystander, chances are they’d recruit you to help in the probe line if you knew what you were doing.”
When all the “victims” had been found, we gathered back at the snow cat to go over what we’d learned that day. The Scouts had been shown how to avoid avalanche-prone areas, how to be safer in winter sports, and how to assist search and rescue units if they need help when an avalanche occurs. The dogs had learned a lot too—it always helps them to sharpen their tracking skills and to be around groups of people in a rescue situation.
I’d learned all of the above, plus I’d gained a little confidence, knowing that I could handle some rather severe winter conditions.
But even with our newfound knowledge and skill, we agreed with Hoover when Dan asked him what it’s like to be caught in an avalanche.
“Rough!” Hoover responded. Or maybe that was “Ruff.”

Many years ago 11-year-old Cori sat in front of the television listening to general conference. When she was younger, she drew pictures, but today she was listening closely for the things the prophet wanted her to do. President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) asked everyone to read the scriptures, go to the temple, spend more time with their families on Sunday, and have family home evening. Cori knew that if she followed the prophet, she could help make her family stronger. Today Cori knows that following the prophet’s counsel increased her family’s love for one another and for Jesus Christ.

Let me tell you about Noelle Pikus-Pace, one of those Latter-day Saint athletes. Her event was the skeleton. Imagine traveling headfirst with your face inches above the ground down a winding, icy track at 90 miles (145 km) an hour, all on a small sled! In the Olympics, Noelle had only four minutes—four 60-second runs—to win her medal.
For Noelle, this was not the first time she’d tried for the Olympics. In 2006 she broke her leg and couldn’t compete in the Olympics. In 2010 she missed winning a medal by one-tenth of a second. But she didn’t give up. She trained for hours, days, weeks, and months. In the 2014 Olympics, her runs were flawless! She won the silver medal!

As young parents, Brother and Sister Samad learned the gospel of Jesus Christ in their simple two-room home in Semarang, Indonesia. Seated around a small table, with a dim light that seemed to provide more mosquitoes than illumination, two young missionaries taught them eternal truths. Through sincere prayer and the guidance of the Holy Ghost, they came to believe what they were taught and chose to be baptized and become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That decision, and their pattern of living since, has blessed Brother and Sister Samad and their family in every aspect of their lives.
They are among the early pioneer Saints in Indonesia. Later they received the ordinances of the temple, and Brother Samad served as the branch president and then district president, driving throughout Central Java to fulfill his responsibilities. For the past decade, he has served as the first patriarch of the Surakarta Indonesia Stake.
As one of the missionaries in that humble, faith-filled home 49 years ago, I have witnessed in them what King Benjamin taught in the Book of Mormon: “I would desire that ye should consider on the blessed and happy state of those that keep the commandments of God. For behold, they are blessed in all things, both temporal and spiritual.” The blessings that flow into the lives of those who follow the example and teachings of Jesus Christ, who choose to be counted among His disciples, are numerous, joyful, and eternal.

Many years ago, our 15-year-old son Eric suffered a serious head injury. Seeing him in a coma for over a week broke our hearts. The doctors told us they were uncertain about what would happen next. Obviously, we were thrilled when he began to regain consciousness. We thought now everything was going to be fine, but we were mistaken.

When he awoke, he could not walk or talk or feed himself. Worst of all, he had no short-term memory. He could remember most everything before the accident, but he had no ability to remember events after, even things which had happened only minutes earlier.

For a time, we worried we would have a son locked in the mind of a 15-year-old. Things had come very easily to our son before the accident. He was athletic, popular, and did very well in school. Before, his future seemed bright; now we worried he may not have much of a future, at least one he could remember. He now struggled to relearn very, very basic skills. This was a very humbling time for him. It was also a very humbling time for his parents.

Honestly, we wondered how such a thing could happen. We had always strived to do the right things. Living the gospel had been a high priority for our family. We couldn’t understand how something so painful could happen to us. We were driven to our knees as it soon became apparent his rehabilitation would take months, even years. More difficult still was the gradual realization he would not be as he was before.

During this time, many tears were shed and our prayers became even more heartfelt and sincere. Through the eyes of humility, we gradually began to see the small miracles which our son experienced during this painful time. He began making gradual improvement. His attitude and outlook were very positive.

Today, our son Eric is married to a wonderful companion, and they have five beautiful children. He is a passionate educator and contributor to his community, as well as the Church. Most important, he continues to live in the same spirit of humility he gained long ago.

Lee was a member of his high school track team—he both sprinted and high-jumped. During the 1968 Summer Olympic Games held in Mexico City, the world became enamored with a little-known high jumper named Dick Fosbury. He had experimented with a new high-jumping technique that involved sprinting diagonally toward the bar, then curving and leaping backward over the bar. It came to be called the Fosbury flop.
Like many others, Lee was intrigued by this new technique, but until the new school year started, he didn’t have a place to practice it. I came home one evening to find him practicing the Fosbury flop in our basement. He had set up two makeshift standards by stacking chairs, and he was jumping over a broomstick set on the chairs, using a sofa to cushion his landing. It was very clear to me that the sofa would not hold up under such treatment, so I called a halt to his indoor high-jumping. Instead, I invited him to go with me to a sporting-goods store, where we purchased some foam padding to use for landing and high-jumping standards so he could move the activity out of doors.
After experimenting with the Fosbury flop, Lee decided to return to the western-roll technique that he had used previously. Still, through the end of the summer into the fall, he practiced high-jumping for many hours in our backyard.
One evening as I returned home from work, I found Lee practicing his jumping. I asked, “How high is the bar?”
He said, “Five feet, eight inches.”
“Why that height?”
He answered, “You must clear that height to qualify for the state track meet.”
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I can clear it every time. I haven’t missed.”
My reply: “Let’s raise the bar and see how well you do then.”
He replied, “Then I might miss.”
I queried, “If you don’t raise the bar, how will you ever know your potential?”
So we started moving the bar up to five feet, ten inches; then to six feet; and so on, as he sought to improve. Lee became a better high jumper because he was not content with just clearing the minimum standard. He learned that even if it meant missing, he wanted to keep raising the bar to become the best high jumper he was capable of becoming.

The Russian guard lifted the gate blocking the way from the old pre-World War II Russian military hospital to the main road. The girls and their leaders drove through the gate in silence. They had all been excited for the service project, but none of them had imagined how thankful they would be feeling after the project was over.
The young women of the Berlin Servicemen’s Ward in Berlin, Germany, had just spent the afternoon with thirty-two Russian children who had been exposed to radiation during the Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion. The children had been sent to Beelitz, which was part of the former East Germany, for thirty days of treatment, and then another group of children would be sent in.
The girls had played with hula hoops with the children. They bounced foam rubber balls on a parachute, and then, in another game, they tried to clear all the balls from one side of a room to the other before the whistle blew. Before they left, the girls gave each child a little bag of fruit, a stick of gum, and a small present which contained a notebook, pen, and three colored pencils.
Once they were on the main road, the silence broke. But the car wasn’t filled with the loud noises of happiness that usually accompany groups of girls. The voices were hushed, and everyone was feeling tender about what they had just experienced.
They had gone to uplift the ailing children. But much to their surprise, the children had done the same for them.
The children sang songs, danced, and even put on a skit of “Cinderella” for the girls. Although they couldn’t understand the children, that didn’t slow things down. Seventeen-year-old Elisabeth Farnsworth says, “The language barrier didn’t matter because we were able to communicate through our spirits.”
When the children finished their program, they asked the young women to sing for them. “As we stood to sing ‘I Am a Child of God’ to these children, who didn’t understand English, tears came to my eyes,” says Elisabeth. “I received the feeling that what we sang was true and that, even though we speak a different language and come from different countries, we all are children of the same Heavenly Father who knows what each of us needs. He does love each of his children. These children were away from their families, and they needed to know that they were loved.” The Lord had provided that love through the young women.
“I learned a lesson that will certainly stay with me through the rest of my life,” says Tina Dorny, 17. She made friends with an eight-year-old boy named Sascha, who clung to a piece of a toy train track the entire time the girls were there. “For just a moment, Sascha taught me to find happiness in the little things we are given and not to be so caught up in the world that we forget each other.”
The children as well as the doctors and nurses were delighted with the visit and asked the girls to please come again. So they made arrangements to come the following Friday, only this time they would bring food, clothing, and copies of the Book of Mormon in Russian. The project turned out to be such a success that the young women of the stake have continued visiting the Russian children each month, and will do so as long as the children are receiving treatment in Beelitz.
Each of the girls left the hospital that afternoon having felt the Spirit in some way. Elisabeth wasn’t the only one to say, “While I was serving, I felt the Spirit as strongly as I have ever felt it.”
The car turned; the girls could see their own meetinghouse in the distance. Spontaneously, they began singing “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). They now understood what King Benjamin meant when he said, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

Friendly Indians came—Samoset, Squanto, and Hobomack, all of whom knew some English. Chief Massasoit also came to make a peace treaty with the colonists.
Squanto and Hobomack remained in Plymouth. Squanto went to live with William Bradford, who was now governor. (John Carver had suddenly become ill and died.) Hobomack went to live with Miles Standish.
One day Squanto was visiting with Ellen and John Howland. “This was once my home,” he explained. “Plymouth, as you call it, was a Pawtuxet village. When I was a papoose like you, Ellen, I played in the meadows. When I was a young brave like you, John Howland, Captain Hunt invited me and some other braves to go aboard his trading ship. When we were at sea, strange sailors boarded our ship and tied us up. They took us to Spain and sold us as slaves. I later escaped to England and lived there a long time with good people. Finally, I became a seaman for Captain Dermar. He brought me back to America. At Pawtuxet Harbor, I ran swiftly to see my people, but they were gone—no braves, no women, no papooses! I was sad and alone; my eyes filled with tears. I went to the Sowams, and Chief Massasoit took me in. He said all my people died in a smallpox plague. You came, and my village has people once more. I will be your son. You will be my people. I will teach you Indian ways, and you will become strong.”

Spring was on its way. Flowers pushed their way through the thin layer of snow on the ground. Lyndsey’s mom hung a yellow berry wreath on the front door.
One day, Lyndsey came into the kitchen where Mom was cleaning. “Mom, what are those scratching sounds?” Lyndsey asked.
“I don’t hear anything,” Mom said. “Where do you hear them?”
“They’re coming from the front door,” Lyndsey said.
“It’s probably just the wind blowing our wreath against the door,” Mom said.
Over the next few days, mysterious noises kept coming from the front door. Lyndsey’s sister, Sarah, noticed a couple of robins flying back and forth from the front porch carrying twigs and bits of paper. Lyndsey’s brother, Westley, noticed the birds chirping loudly at him whenever he played basketball in the driveway.
A couple of weeks later, the weather outside grew warmer. Daffodils nodded their golden heads. The strange noises stopped. Everyone forgot about the mystery.
Mom wanted to replace the berry wreath on the front door with an Easter decoration. She lifted the wreath off the door and carried it inside. Lyndsey was coloring at the table. Mom started to lay the wreath on the table when she suddenly stopped moving.
“What’s the matter?” Lyndsey asked.
Mom gently put the wreath on the floor and leaned it against the wall. “Lyndsey, there is a bird nest on top of the wreath,” she said.
Lyndsey hopped out of her chair to look. As she stepped toward the wreath, she saw something at her feet. On the floor lay three tiny blue eggs. But there was still one egg that hadn’t fallen out of the nest. Mom put on her cleaning gloves. She carefully picked up the three eggs and put them back into the nest with the fourth. Then she hung the wreath back on the front door.
Over the next few days, Lyndsey, Sarah, and Westley peeked into the nest. They noticed that there were only three eggs. When they asked what had happened to the fourth egg, Mom said she would explain during family home evening that night.
After dinner, the family gathered in the living room. They were going to have a lesson about Easter. Dad explained that Jesus Christ died so we might live again with Him and Heavenly Father someday. Heavenly Father loves all of us, including all of the creatures on the earth. He even notices when a little bird falls from its nest.
Dad asked Sarah to read Matthew 10:29–31: “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”
Mom explained that when the eggs fell out of the nest, one of them had broken and the bird was not able to survive. But the other three eggs were fine.
“If Heavenly Father loves that little bird that died, imagine how much He must have loved us to send His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ,” Mom said. “He sacrificed His perfect Son so we could live with Him again someday.”
Lyndsey, Sarah, and Westley watched the birds hatch and grow strong. The mother and father robins helped their babies learn to fly. Finally, they left the nest. But the little robin family stayed in their yard all summer, singing happily to Lyndsey’s family.

Illustration by Ben Savage
Last February, one of our Sunday lessons was about the importance of making wise choices. My class discussed the value of deciding now what we will and will not do in several situations. We learned that by making our choices before the moments of decision arrive, we’ll have a stronger commitment to do what’s right.
At the end of the lesson, our teacher invited us to go home and make a list of things we will do and a list of things we will never do. I completed the assignment and made two simple lists. As I continued pondering, however, I felt the Spirit prompting me to add to my list by setting personal guidelines for dating. I want to get married in the temple someday—it’s something I’ll never be willing to sacrifice. So with that goal in mind, I added to my two lists, including that I’ll date only people with high standards.
Soon after, one of my great friends asked me to go to prom with him. Even though he wasn’t a Church member, I knew he had high standards and would help me keep my standards. So I said yes. We went as friends and enjoyed a fun night together. Since we both had high standards, I wasn’t tempted to do anything I’d decided I would never do.
Because I followed the Spirit and set these standards for myself, I’m able to look back on prom and be happy about the choices I made. I’m so grateful for my teacher’s invitation, because it’s helped me keep the temple as my focus.

A Journey of Hope and Healing
A husband and wife share how pornography affected them and how they are addressing it:
Peace Will Come
After years of fighting a pornography addiction, I learned that repentance isn’t an event but a process. Looking back, I see God’s hand in my life, leading me along. The faith, prayers, and support of my wife and family helped me more than they will ever know. With God’s help, I hope to become the husband and father they have always deserved.
Through my struggles, Heavenly Father was preparing me and my family to receive greater joy and healing. I learned that the Savior alone is the source of strength and refuge that will provide healing and recovery. It was only when I turned to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ with full purpose of heart that I was strengthened to overcome my addiction. It’s a daily exercise to put on the full armor of God and to fill my life with things that invite the Holy Ghost, but doing so has brought me peace and joy.

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our saints. They had placed his body in front of the big house, as they call it, the house where the people come to wail and weep and mourn over the dead, when in rushed the dead man’s brother. He said, “Administer to him.” And the young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that. He’s dead.” “You do it!”

This same old man that I had with me when his niece was so ill was there. The younger native got down on his knees and he anointed this man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to rise. You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter. He sat up and said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.” Of course, all of that was just psychological effect on that dead man. Wonderful, isn’t it—this psychological effect business? We told him he had just been administered to, and he said, “Oh, that was it.” He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.” He outlived the brother that came in and told us to administer to him.

It started out as an ordinary Primary lesson. I was standing in front of my class of eight-year-old boys and girls, telling them a story about one of the latter-day prophets. When I finished, I began to question them about the moral the story taught. Everyone in the class wanted to answer my question—everyone, that is, but Robert.
I thought nothing of it. He was new in the class, and I thought he was probably just shy about speaking out on his first day. But as the answer was given and as we talked about it, I noticed that Robert’s face got more and more troubled. He wasn’t understanding the idea.
The week before, I hadn’t had time to finish the lesson I had prepared. I knew there wasn’t much time again now, and so I told myself I couldn’t make the other children wait until I had explained it again for Robert’s sake. I decided to go on. After all, I told myself, we will probably go over this idea again some other time.
I made one quick look around the room to make sure the rest understood. As my eyes passed by Robert’s, my heart froze. In an instant it seemed as though his face faded away and in its place I saw that of my three-year-old son, Sam. Startled, I just stood there, staring at Robert as if I expected the transformation to happen again. It didn’t then, or ever again.
Later that evening as I thought about the incident, I began to feel guilty about what I had done. Suddenly I was looking ahead five years from now; Sam was sitting in what had been Robert’s chair, and I had been replaced by another teacher. She was telling the same story I had told and was getting the same response from my son that I had received from Robert.
She looked at Sam and saw that he didn’t understand. But she proceeded right on with the lesson anyway, saying to herself, “We will probably go over this idea again some other time. Maybe he’ll understand it then.”
I watched Sam sitting alone on his chair, his feet not even touching the floor. I watched him as the rest of the class hurried on with the lesson, leaving him bewildered.
Then I realized the impact of what I had done. I had passed over a child of God simply because I couldn’t be bothered. I had lost an important teaching moment. I had been given the opportunity to place a child closer to his Father in Heaven, but had turned my back.
I’ve never forgotten the lesson I learned that day—that only when I have done my best on behalf of all the children I teach can I pray for the best from another teacher on behalf of my own child.

Soon we began learning about the restored Church of Jesus Christ with the missionaries. I shed beautiful tears because I was so happy to be coming back to my Savior. I had no questions about what they taught us until we came to the Book of Mormon. I had a hard time believing anything about it. The missionaries, however, asked me to read the Book of Mormon and pray about it. I prayed sincerely every day for weeks to know if it was really the word of God, but I never read it.

After several weeks without an answer from God, I boarded a train for a trip to Stockholm. On the way, I pulled out the Book of Mormon and began to read.

I read the introduction and the Testimony of Three Witnesses and Eight Witnesses, and I read about Joseph Smith. I was reading it and reading it and reading it. By the time I got to Stockholm, I was crying, shivering, and covered with goosebumps. I felt overwhelmed with the Spirit of God. I knew from personal revelation who Joseph Smith truly was—that he was a prophet and a servant of God. I knew that the Lord had restored the gospel of Jesus Christ to the earth through him.

I then believed all that the missionaries had told me. Once I had read the Book of Mormon for myself, I knew it was true. I told the missionaries I wanted to be baptized. My husband brought our whole family to show their support for me.

“Kent?” I whispered into the dark, but my brother was already asleep. Just minutes ago we had raced downstairs, said our prayers, and hopped into bed. How could he fall asleep so fast?
“Kent!”
Still nothing.
I squirmed down under my covers until my eyes barely peeped out above my cowboy blanket.
I glanced to the left. There was my favorite stuffed animal. It should have made me feel better. But my stomach flip-flopped inside of me. What if a tiger crept out of the laundry room next door?
I glanced to the right. There was the hat I got at an amusement park this summer. But my heart was thump-thumping. What if spiders attacked from under the porch?
I glanced up. Hanging from the ceiling were the model airplanes Dad and I had pieced together and painted so carefully. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined them flying above me at night, warning me of danger.
My eyes popped open. I had an idea! On the dresser by my bed was a picture of Jesus that I had gotten in Primary. Slowly I reached out and propped up the picture. The light from our nightlight seemed to make the words at the bottom of the picture glow.
I am the way. Come and follow me.
I rolled onto my side so that I could see the picture and read those words again and again. I looked at Jesus’s hands and thought about how He blessed little children. My stomach stopped flip-flopping. I looked at Jesus’s feet and thought about how He went to find people who needed help. My heart stopped thump-thumping. I looked at Jesus’s face and thought about how He knew my name.
Tigers and spiders faded from my mind as I snuggled into my blankets. Heavenly Father and Jesus loved me! I felt warm and peaceful and safe.
And very, very sleepy.