Gospel Story Finder

I was 15 years old, and that summer I wished I could stay 15 forever. I had two close girl friends, I was old enough to earn babysitting money so I could buy pizza and ice cream, and I could do the 600-yard run faster than anyone else in the school. What more could a girl ask for?
That last day of school I had worn my favorite broken-in jeans and had walked around proudly with my award for the 600-yard run tucked under my arm with my yearbook.
"Hey, Morgan!" I called when I saw Eric Morgan in the middle of a bunch of girls as usual. "Sign my yearbook!" I elbowed through the crowd.
"Hey, creep!" he said, with his usual punch to my arm. "You’ll have to wait in line," referring to his group of female followers.
"Aw, I’ll catch you later." Eric was the "boy next door" in my life. I’d known him just about forever, I guess.
Oh, it was a great feeling leaving the school that day. Everything was shiny and warm. I rarely wore shoes in the summer when I was outside, and the grass was warm and tickley under my feet. I felt free. I was ready for anything. Or so I thought.
Later that afternoon I ran out the front door of my house, jumped off the porch, yearbook in hand, on my way next door to Eric’s house. But I stopped in the middle of my yard, hair blowing in my face, bare feet suddenly immobile. Eric was sitting on his porch. Beside him sat a girl. I mean, not a girl like me, but a girl with long, rippling hair, shorts, and long smooth legs. They seemed to be engaged in something very confidential. And for the first time in my life, I felt that I did not belong.
I finally dragged my feet back to my front door. Who was that? I hadn’t seen her around. And where did she get that tan?
"Mary Jane!" I jumped at my mother’s voice. She carried a basket full of dirty clothes under one arm and my wriggly baby brother under the other.
"I need your help," she said.
Ugh. She always needs my help.
"Don’t pull a face. Go clean that room of yours."
"Oh, mom! Please! Have you seen that room?"
"Of course. That’s why I’m telling you to clean it."
"But, mom!"
"No buts. Just go."
No buts, no buts. Mothers can say things like that. I could see me saying that to her! I don’t think my mother was ever a teenager.
Friday night Jill and I slept over at Barbara’s house. We brought our yearbooks so we could all compare the fantastically dull things that perfectly intelligent people had written. "See you next year!" "Have fun this summer." "Algebra was fun."
Unbelievable.
I had at least tried to write things I really meant to people. Like, "Hey, funny face! Call me this summer and we can go water skiing together." Or "Hey, biology was a drag, but you’re the funnest person I know to dissect cats with."
"Listen to this!" Barbara said. "I love your foxy hair and captivating voice. Maybe I’ll come over this summer and swim in your swimming pool. Can’t wait to see you!" Barbara burst into giggles.
"Good grief!" I said. "Who wrote that?"
"Eric Morgan!"
Eric! I was stunned. And I saw a long-legged girl with rippling hair, and I saw Barbara with fantastic, shiny brown hair, and I saw Eric, and I saw me, and I saw something happening that I couldn’t understand. Yet Barbara and Jill sat munching potato chips and laughing as if nothing were happening at all.
"Eric is crazy," Jill laughed. "Look what he said to me."
She thumbed furiously through blue and white autographed pages, a grin crinkling her freckles, while Barbara’s eyes sparkled in anticipation.
I felt like I was sitting back in an easy chair watching a movie. I could see it, but I was not part of it. And the producer had done some awfully tricky things, and it didn’t seem fair.
"Here it is," Jill said. "I love your cute little nose and the way it wrinkles up your face when you laugh. And those dimples! I’ll see you this summer for sure!"
I sat cross-legged, hugging my yearbook up close against me. Barbara and Jill were very far away, their laughter distant. And they didn’t even realize that I was gone. They sat there in their lacy nighties, laughing like crazy. I, in my cut-offs and football T-shirt, crawled into my sleeping bag and slept.
Of course, Saturday morning Barbara and Jill had to rib me all through pancakes and bacon about being the first one to fall asleep. It was the usual thing, so I just ribbed them back, but they were strangers. I didn’t know them anymore.
I helped mom clean the house like we always did on Saturdays, but it wasn’t as painful as usual because my mind was somewhere else. I had plans for that afternoon. I was going to wash my hair and put some of that lemon creme rinse on it. Then, instead of just blowing it dry, I might try to do something with the curling iron mom had given me last Christmas. If it turned out okay, I’d go over to Eric’s. He still hadn’t signed my yearbook.
When I was ready, I went slowly around the bushes in the front yard to make sure that there wasn’t a girl on the porch with him. There wasn’t. He was washing his dad’s car in the driveway with a bucket of sudsy water and the hose. I took a breath, felt my hair to make sure it was still behaving, and strolled across his front yard.
"Eric," I said in his ear.
"Aaa," he yelped, jumping forward, drenching himself with the hose.
"Hey, you shouldn’t sneak up on a guy like that!"
I didn’t know what to say, but I felt my hair again, and it still felt good. I stood there waiting for something, I wasn’t sure what. Neither was he.
"Well?" he said.
"Oh." I cleared my throat. "Um … I wanted you to sign my yearbook."
"Oh, okay." He dropped the hose on the ground. "I’ll go get mine," he said, running to the front door. He was back in a moment. I sat on the shaded porch. I could feel the cool cement through my shorts. I stretched my legs out leisurely before me.
"Good grief," Eric exclaimed. "What happened to your legs?"
I looked at my stubby white legs, covered with nicks and scrapes, with a couple of bandaids hiding the two worst spots.
"Just forget it," I said.
Eric began to hoot and howl with laughter. I stood up and stalked across his front lawn.
"Hey, come back here." He swaggered after me. I briefly looked at him but kept walking. "Hey, come on," he said. He grabbed my arm.
"Don’t touch me, Eric Morgan!"
"Hey, I was just teasing. Come on, you don’t really look all that bad." I stood firm. "Come on, Mary Jane," he said softly. And something happened to me. A tingling in my arms and legs. A light-headedness. A temporary paralysis. Then I looked at him, and I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips.
"Okay?" he said gently. "Come on." I had to give in. I walked back to the porch. I had spent the whole day figuring out what I would write in Eric’s yearbook. I had repeated the words over and over again to myself at least a hundred times.
"Dear Eric," I began. "You know you’re not just the boy next door anymore. You’ve been a part of my life for almost 16 years." I hesitated before writing the last sentence. Between making beds and vacuuming and scrubbing floors, I hadn’t decided whether I was brave enough or not. What if he laughed? I looked at him. He was still busy writing in my book. His thick black hair was a little mussed up, windblown. His cheeks were sunburned. Just think, I told myself, I probably know more things about him than any other girl. Or anyone at all in fact. We spent our childhoods together. I kept his secrets; he kept mine. I’ve seen him cry. Other girls look at him and see a big husky guy. I look at him and see a vulnerable little boy.
He signed his name with a flourish. Looking up at me he caught me staring. For just a moment our eyes met in silence.
"Well," he said, "you done?"
My eyes lingered just an infinitesimal second longer. "No," I answered and scribbled, "Just remember, Eric, that you’re a boy and I’m a girl and that can lead somewhere." Blushing so hard I could feel it, I quickly signed my name and shoved his book into his hand, taking mine from him.
I hopped off the porch and thumbed through my yearbook as I walked. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d said to me. Wow, all those fantastic things he’d said to Barbara and Jill, and he’s known me longer than he’s known them. I finally found the page and I stood still to read it. "Hey, creep!" it said. "You’re not a bad kid. We’ll have to have some more of those great water fights this summer. See you around, Eric." That was it. All of it. Oh no, I thought as I felt the pressure building in my nose, in my eyes. I thought, I’m going to cry; I’m going to stand right here in his yard and cry. Yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run to the safety of my front door, to the privacy of my bedroom.
Suddenly an ice cold avalanche hit the back of my head and cascaded over my shoulders, freezing my back and my legs all at once. My breath seemed sucked into my stomach and held there. I screamed, tossing my yearbook aside, and charged at Eric and the water hose, 45 minutes worth of messing around with the curling iron down the drain. This was the last straw.
"Eric Morgan, you awful …" my words became lost in a torrent of hurt and anger. All I could see was cold, spraying water and a laughing sunburnt face. I screamed, I pushed, I knocked him down. "Hey!" he yelled. "Cut it out! What are you?" he panted. "Crazy?"
It suddenly occurred to me that I must be. I grabbed my yearbook and ran.
"Mary Jane!" Mom yelled as I ran through the kitchen. "Look what you’re doing. You’re getting water all over! I just did this floor. Do you hear me?"
"Leave me alone, mom!"
"What did you say?"
"I said leave me alone!" I slammed my bedroom door. I didn’t come out for the rest of the day. Even when mom knocked on the door and said we were having pizza for supper.
"What’s wrong, dear?" she kept asking. I just wanted to scream at her. She wouldn’t understand. She had never been a teenager.
I spent the next few weeks pretty quietly. Pretty alone. I sat in my backyard a lot and listened to my stereo; I mowed the lawn sometimes and drank lemonade. Jill and Barbara called me a lot at first. They asked me to go horseback riding or water skiing. But I usually said no, and after a while they quit asking me. Mom still kept asking me "What’s wrong?" and dad kept trying to tickle me and tease me or challenge me to a game of chess. Mom would ask me if I was sick, and I would say I didn’t know, because I didn’t.
July was my birthday. But not till the end of July. I told myself at the beginning of July that I had a whole month to get used to the idea of being 16.
July was also the Young Artists’ Festival. That’s a program that my stake had been holding annually for some time. It wasn’t really a competition, or wasn’t supposed to be, but each entry was graded on a scale from one to ten, with one being the best you could get. It was an opportunity to "do your thing" in front of an audience and get some recognition for it.
Two years ago Barbara and Jill and I had asked another girl, Sandy, to enter the quartet division with us. We practiced hard and had a lot of fun. We even made costumes. We couldn’t believe that we were only given a rating of four. After all that practice! The next year we had taken a realistic look at it and had just about found the nerve to ask Jill not to sing with us, when she dropped out on her own. She wasn’t dumb. We asked a girl named Lori to take her place. That year we earned a two.
So when Brother Wood, who had been in charge of the festival for years, called up to ask if we’d be performing this year, well, it was the first thing since the day of "The Great Water Fight" that gave me a good reason to get up each morning. If there was one thing that I wasn’t confused about that summer, it was my love of singing. I’d been born with it, I guess.
So I quit sitting around, and we started having practices two or three times a week, with Jill watching to tell us what to do differently, or what to do more of. Another girl, Karen, played the piano for us.
It was after one of these practices that Barbara invited us all over to swim in her pool.
"Mary Jane," she said, "you haven’t been in my pool once this summer."
"I know," I said uncomfortably. "I’ve … been busy."
"Well, you’ll come today, won’t you?"
"Sure," I shrugged. After all the singing we’d been doing, I was feeling a little more human and it had been a hot summer.
"Good," she said. "Eric will be glad."
"What?"
"Eric. He’s been swimming at my house all summer. He’s always telling me to get you over there."
"He is?"
"Yes." Suddenly her voice was very soft. "He says he’s missed you."
"We have too," Jill added quietly.
I looked from Barbara to Jill then down at my hands. I didn’t know if I wanted to go swimming or not if Eric was going to be there. He’d probably make cracks about my one-piece swimming suit or about my legs. But they were really tan now, after sitting in my backyard all summer.
"Did he really say that?" I asked.
Barbara nodded solemnly.
"Okay, I’ll come," I said. But, I thought to myself, I sure won’t curl my hair for him.
The sun was extra hot that day. It seemed to bounce off the pavement and get caught in my eyes. The water was cold and delicious to my body. Under the water all was quiet, perfectly silent, perfectly solitary. That is, until I suddenly felt a tight clutch on my foot and I looked down to see Eric’s body moving gracefully up alongside mine. We both soared to the surface and our heads popped through, making bubbles and waves. Laughter from the other girls filled the air. I swam to the side and pulled myself out, then sat on the edge. I had already decided how to treat Eric the next time I was forced to be with him. Aloof. Very aloof. So when he pulled himself out and sat beside me I just kind of looked the other way.
"Race you across the pool," he said.
"Not now."
"Why not?"
"I don’t feel like it."
He didn’t say anything. I kept looking the other way. I wondered what he was thinking.
"Mary Jane," he said quietly. That soft voice again. It made me nervous. I looked at my legs. "Why do you hate me now?"
I stopped breathing and looked at him, my mouth hanging open. There were those blue eyes again. Then suddenly we were surrounded by the other girls.
"Mary Jane," Barbara said as they all sat down around us, "we’ve got it all figured out."
"What?"
"White formals."
"Huh?"
"For the festival. We’ll wear white formals."
"Formals?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I don’t know," I said. "I mean last year we wore checked gingham with pinafores."
"Well, Mary Jane," she said, "last year we were little girls."
Later that evening Eric walked home with me. We walked in silence most of the way, but I was troubled because I felt that I had to say something to him. I didn’t hate him, and I wanted him to know it. As we neared my house, I finally stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Eric."
"Mary Jane," he said at the same time. We both laughed just a little. Then we were quiet again.
"Go ahead," he said.
"I can’t."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know what to say."
Laughter. Silence.
"You were right you know."
"About what?" I asked.
"What you wrote in my yearbook."
"Oh that." I blushed.
"Really," he said. "I’m a boy and you’re a girl. A good-looking one too."
I grinned and stared at my terribly interesting toes.
"Well," he said. "I’ve got to go." I looked up at him, and once again our gaze was locked in time and space.
"Good-bye," he said suddenly and ran home. I stared after him. With him went something. A part of me. A part that I wasn’t sure I was ready to give up just yet. Did I want to grow up? Was I ready?
Oh, I thought as I slowly walked into my house, this whole crazy summer is too much. I decided to take a nap.
Something was shaking me, and my head slowly cleared as I opened my eyes. It was mom.
"It’s almost time for supper," she said.
I just lay there.
"Honey," she said, feeling my forehead, "are you sure you’re all right?"
I still just lay there. She looked completely frustrated. She began to leave the room.
"Mama," I said. She stopped and turned to look at me. I hadn’t called her mama for years, but I suddenly felt so little. "Do you remember when you turned 16?"
For a moment mom just looked at me, as if she didn’t understand. But slowly a dreamy look came over her face. Her eyes sparkled, and she gazed across the room as if I weren’t even in it.
"Yes," she said slowly, walking to the window. There she rested her elbows on the window sill, her chin on closed fists. "I do remember something like that." She smiled wistfully. I had never seen her like this. Maybe she had been a teenager. I was suddenly speechless. But she finally came back to the present and looked at me.
"It’s hard, isn’t it?" She was very quiet. That was all it took to bring on the tears that had been stored up inside me for weeks. I was quickly in my mother’s arms, small and vulnerable, warm and protected.
"Oh, mama," I sobbed, "I don’t know what I want or who I am or what I’m good for. What am I doing here? I want to live in summertime forever. I want to go barefoot and be happy. I want to care about someone. I want someone to care about me. But I’m scared." I looked at my mother. "Do you know what I mean?"
Again she spoke slowly, distantly.
"Words don’t come easy to me as they do to you. But I remember feeling … well, as if someone had placed me in the wrong world. And it did no good to cry."
"Why does it have to be this way, mom?"
"Oh, don’t get me wrong," she said, smiling. "I mean, it’s for sure we’ll never be 15 again. But I have you, don’t I? And I have your father, and your baby brother. And a lot of other wonderful things that I can’t even describe. You’ll know someday."
Will I? I wondered. Will I really? But mom did look happy. For the time being, I would just trust her.
The Young Artists’ Festival was the night before my birthday. We had worked hard for this one. We wore our white formals. I spent all day doing my hair and getting ready. I arrived in time for the last-minute flurries that always go on before these productions can begin. Brother Wood was running around trying to get everything organized. Barbara, Sandy, Lori, and I were almost jumping up and down with excitement. The audience began to arrive, things began to settle down, and with the opening prayer, the program started.
Everyone was good. They always were. In fact, the four we earned two years ago was probably the lowest score that had ever been given in the history of the Young Artists’ Festival. So that everyone could fit into some category, pluses and minuses were also given.
As the judges began to read the scores, everyone was silent. Brother Wood gave his usual speech about how everyone had been so good. Then the scores were read. A two. A one. A three +. And on and on. Squeals and sighs.
"Quartet." He read our names. Tension. Heart pounding in my ears. Hands gripping my chair.
"One +."
Shock for a moment. Then shrieks!
At the reception afterward we were all standing around drinking punch and talking and laughing. The feeling of knowing a job has been well done was still lingering in my chest and bursting out of my eyes and out of my mouth, making me sound like someone else. It came out so smoothly, so … well, almost sophisticated. But easy. My arms were warm and brown next to the white of my dress. My hair felt clean and swingy. I almost didn’t recognize myself. I felt as if I had, in my hurry, left myself at home.
I was casually looking from one side of the room to the other to feel my hair swish across my neck when I saw Brother Wood coming toward me.
"Excuse me," he said, breaking into our little group. Something about him wanted to make me nervous, but my new self refused to cooperate, and I looked at him steadily.
"Yes?" I said, since he seemed to be addressing me.
"I hope I don’t embarrass you, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you."
I looked quickly around at Jill, at Barbara, and an assortment of curious faces. I felt my face flush slightly, but still I refused to flounder. I turned cool eyes to Brother Wood and smiled.
"What is it? I hope my slip isn’t showing."
"No, no. It’s just that I hope you know that you are a beautiful young lady."
What happened after that is not completely clear in my mind. I vaguely remember a circle of softly smiling faces. And I barely remember the still serious face of Brother Wood. But I very clearly remember the sincerity in his eyes.
At 11:00 that night I stood in front of my dresser mirror, still in my white dress, gazing into a thousand faces of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
That night at the stroke of midnight, while I was sound asleep, I turned 16. And I’ll never be 15 again.

Hi! My name is Brady. I live in California, USA. I shine my light by helping other kids.
My friend Ryder wanted to earn money to buy toys for children who need extra love and help. I wanted to do something to help too. I decided to make cards. I could sell them to friends, neighbors, and even people I didn’t know.
My whole family helped me with the cards. My mom has cancer, but she still helped a lot. My brothers helped make new designs. My favorite cards had ghosts on them for Halloween.
With the help of my family and friends, I raised a lot of money! I gave most of it to help foster kids. Then I heard about some refugees. They had to leave their countries to find safety. My family and I bought art supplies, water bottles, balls, and other things for them.
We got to meet some of the refugee children. They showed us on a map where they were from. Many even had to leave their families! It made me feel thankful for my blessings.

This is the only Christmas song in the hymnbook written by a Latter-day Saint author. In 1869, John Macfarlane of St. George, Utah, wanted his choir to sing a new carol for their Christmas program. After struggling to write one with no success, John awoke from a dream one night and wrote the lyrics and melody to “Far, Far Away on Judea’s Plains.” Even though most shepherds in Judea herded their sheep on rocky hills, not plains, the song is still a beautiful addition to our Christmas carols and is popular both in and out of the Church. (See Hymns, no. 212.)

To the full-time and service missionaries, and senior missionaries, Elder Bednar reiterated the importance of listening to the Spirit. To those gathered at the Philippines Missionary Training Center (MTC), Elder Bednar requested the missionaries to prepare to be ‘taught by the Spirit’ by studying five articles. Instead of just writing down what he would say, Elder Bednar invited them to write their impressions as given by the Spirit. As he spoke to them, he invited them to ask questions.
Sister Asis, who is assigned to the Japan Kobe Mission, realized that such preparation and study was crucial to inviting the Spirit before the devotional began. “Without studying his previous talks,” she noted, “comprehending everything he says would have been difficult.” Elder Ruiz of the Philippines Iloilo Mission gained a deeper understanding of the word conversion: “As a missionary, if I am converted, I can follow the Missionary Standards and [the Savior’s] example and rely on my testimony to teach by the Spirit.”
At a similar devotional at the historic Buendia Chapel with missionaries from four missions (Philippines Antipolo, Philippines Manila, Philippines Quezon City and Philippines Quezon City North), Elder Bednar asked the Elders and Sisters to prepare themselves and to learn by the Spirit—to hear not just what had been said but also what was taught to them individually by the Holy Ghost.

Craig Wright from Norwich Stake has been called as the new British Pageant president to preside and organise the third British Pageant musical production starting in the summer of 2022.

Area Seventy Elder Roy Tunnicliffe recently extended the call to Brother Wright to serve as president of the pageant. Commenting on the calling, Brother Wright said he was overwhelmed with humility and was in awe of the responsibility. “In proportion to this feeling of inadequacy was a powerful spiritual confirmation that the call was inspired by the Lord, and as such, I felt confident the Lord could make me equal to the task, with my precious Sarah supporting me. I am also aware that the British Pageant is made possible through the commitment and faith of hundreds of volunteers in cast and crew! Having attended previous pageants, I know what a transformational spiritual experience they can be for all who come and see,” he said.

Bishop Edgley: Young people have to be led to spiritual experiences at that age. The experiences are not just going to happen on their own. I remember my father taking me to witness a priesthood blessing of a less-active member. I couldn’t participate other than being there and feeling the Spirit, but my dad explained the ordinance and led me to that spiritual experience.

From a stand of trees on the Hill Cumorah, I watched as Anna knelt in the mud. She was praying. I was too far away to hear what she said—but I sensed what was in her heart, because we had been working together for a week.
I was a missionary, called to serve in what was then the Cumorah Mission. As part of our service, for two weeks every year, we missionaries joined volunteers from the area and elsewhere in preparing for and then presenting the Hill Cumorah Pageant. Anna (name has been changed) was one of these volunteers.
The day I met Anna was the first day of preparing for the pageant. I was immediately struck by how unhappy she was. I assume she had not volunteered for this two-week mission; more likely, her parents had drafted her. She made it clear she would rather be anywhere else than here. She was grumpy, uncooperative, unfriendly—your basic pain in the neck.
Like the full-time missionaries, the volunteers followed a missionary routine. We all rose early and had a morning devotional. We read the scriptures. We prayed. We bore testimony to one another. In addition, since part of our duties during pageant week was to greet visitors at the hill, the volunteers were taught how to approach people and invite them to learn about the Church.
Anna was assigned to our work group. At first, she was miserable to be around. But sometime during that week of preparation, she connected with a power greater than herself. She received a witness, borne by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Book of Mormon really is God’s word, and that the church she belonged to truly is the restored Church of Jesus Christ. Anna’s heart softened, and her mind opened.
The transformation was amazing. By the time the pageant began, Anna was the happiest person there. Our group was posted at the angel Moroni monument at the top of the Hill Cumorah. We would normally wait for people to walk up to the statue from below before introducing ourselves and explaining what the statue represents. Anna couldn’t wait. She would literally run down the path to greet those toiling up the hill. They connected with Anna and her message so quickly that by the time they reached us, she had them nearly ready for baptism. She did so much talking that, by the time the pageant started each night, she was hoarse.
One day during pageant week it rained. The water came down in buckets, and we were afraid the pageant would be cancelled that night. This experience was not unusual. New York in July gets rain. When it happens during pageant week, the missionaries and members always ask the Lord to intervene. And the rain usually stops, at least during pageant time.
That day the rain was so fierce we wondered whether prayer would be enough. So we started a fast. We knew from experience what a great missionary tool the pageant is, and we didn’t want anyone to miss it. Just before the pageant was to start, the rain stopped.
That’s when Anna went to her knees in prayer. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I was sure she was thanking the Lord for His mercy—to her, to all of us.
I don’t know what happened to Anna after the pageant was over. I imagine she returned home, finished school, and married. I have no doubt she remained faithful to the gospel, a beacon of light in a worried world. I can see her now in my mind, running down life’s path to greet some troubled soul seeking an angel—and finding one in Anna.

The Christmas Junk Box
Every year Mr. Bones gave his family a family present at Christmas. In past years he had given them “a wooden pony and cart big enough to ride in, a swing set with rings and a slide, a canoe, and an electric organ.” This year he gave them a box of junk!Tony King

My best friend Brad had just found out that his parents were getting a divorce, and we had spent the last several hours talking about the problems he was facing.
Then I looked at my watch. It was past 1:00 A.M. “Oh no,” I said, “I was supposed to be home long ago. My dad’s going to be angry with me.” I wished Brad luck in the coming days, said good-bye, and ran home.
The front porch light was still on—a bad sign. It meant Dad was waiting for me.
I opened the front door cautiously and stepped inside.
“Do you know what time it is?” he shouted. “It’s after one o’clock. Didn’t I tell you to be home earlier than this?”
“Yes, but …”
“There are no ‘buts’ about it. I’ve told you before about coming home late.” He shook with anger. “You won’t be going out visiting your friends again for a long time, young man.”
I felt like I was being convicted without a trial. I didn’t like it. “That’s not fair. At least give me a chance to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” he said. “You’re late. That’s all there is to it. Now get to bed.”
“Dad,” I argued, “that’s not fair.”
Our conversation got worse from there as Dad and I argued and made accusations against each other. He never listened, I said. I had no respect, he said.
By the time I finally did go to bed, I was too upset to sleep. I was worried about Brad, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t talk to my dad about Brad’s problems. I wished things were different, that I could have come home and told him about Brad’s parents. But instead of talking, we only argued about my coming home late—for the hundredth time it seemed.
I really wanted to be able to communicate with my dad, and sometimes I sensed that he felt the same way, but for some reason, we were never able to get together.
I wish now that I had handled that incident with my dad regarding my being out late a little differently. He was so angry at the time that it would have been useless for me to argue with him that night. But I could have approached him later, when we were both feeling less emotional, and tried to explain my feelings to him.

But the brothers will have to put future goals of making another CD on hold for a couple of years because Guy Richey, who goes by both his first and middle names, recently left to serve a full-time mission in Toulouse, France. In this family of musicians, serving the Lord is more important than music.
“Even if we had a top record in America right now, we would still go and serve the Lord. We know that serving is the most important thing,” Michael says.

Brother Bonabol was among those who took heed of the bishop’s call. He took the responsibility to ensure there was food enough to provide for the members. He saw it as his priesthood duty, and he fulfilled it with honor.

February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

One morning I was rushing through a busy airport on my way to attend a stake conference. Just after I went through the immigration formalities, an announcement was made that my flight was delayed. I stood there watching many people rushing up and down and just as I turned around to continue walking towards my boarding gate, someone tapped me gently on the shoulder and said, “Sir, let me polish your shoes for you”. Before I could protest, he pointed out that my shoes were dirty, and it looked like I was heading out for a very important meeting.
I looked down and realized that he was right, and since I now had some extra time, I walked with him to his chair and sat down. As he polished my shoes, he asked me where I was heading to; I explained to him that I had a church engagement. He commented, “we live in a very busy world… everyone is rushing up and down and people just don’t have time for others and for God.” He told me how he used to make time to pray and to read his Bible. I asked him why he had stopped, and his answer was, “I am busy, we are busy, the world is busy as you can see. Everyone has somewhere to run.”
As I walked away from him, I thought to myself, “are we too busy for each other, for our loved ones and for God?” I have ever since pondered this question. How well am I doing in inviting all to come unto Christ, make and keep sacred covenants and become His lifelong disciples? Our Area vision asks that we extend this invitation to Father in Heaven’s children, who may be at different stages along the covenant path.

About two years ago, when I was 16 years old, I noticed that one of the value experiences in my Young Women Personal Progress book was to learn about the importance of patriarchal blessings.
I began to study everything I could find on patriarchal blessings. When I finished, I realized that by receiving a patriarchal blessing I could know my lineage and learn what the Lord desires of me, the blessings he has prepared for me, and what I have to do to receive them. I decided to ask my bishop to interview me for a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.
On 19 April 1995, I went to the patriarch’s home in our stake in Buenos Aires, Argentina. As he put his hands on my head, I felt absolute peace. A shiver ran through my whole body, and I felt great joy. Many times I had used the word joy as a synonym for happiness, but at that moment, I realized that joy is much more than mere happiness. Joy is a feeling so different from all others and so special that it cannot be imagined. To know what it is, one has to experience it.
When the patriarch finished the blessing, one tear after another ran down my cheeks. The patriarch, too, had tears in his eyes. I thanked him for having served as intermediary between the Lord and me. As I left, I couldn’t stop feeling how beautiful the experience had been and how I wanted everyone to have it.
I am grateful for the responsibilities the Lord has given me. I know the promises and warnings in my blessing are the will of my Father in Heaven for me, and I know that as I am faithful he will be at my side, helping me to overcome my weaknesses.
I know now that patriarchal blessings can be guides for our lives, just as the Liahona was a guide in ancient times. If we follow the instructions we are given, we can “continue in the way which is narrow, until [we] shall obtain eternal life” (Jacob 6:11).

One of my favorite things is soccer. I participated in a soccer challenge. We demonstrated our skills, and then winners were chosen. I qualified to go to the state competition. I was so excited and really wanted to go, but it was on a Sunday. My mom and I talked about it one morning before school. We had a prayer, and she asked me to think about it. After school, my mom met me at the bus stop. I told her I was going to go to church instead of the state competition. I know I made the right decision. Every time I look at my trophy from the local competition, I will remember that it means more than winning at soccer.

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, 18-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous chore of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert or came to the end of the street.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a dry cleaning store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The dry cleaners faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows off the walls inside. The shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we’d realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to “go call somebody.”
I kicked open the front door and hurdled the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the dry cleaners and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof I could see smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the kids down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect basket catch.
The smoke was so thick now I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and run over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to keep my head and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

More than a hundred years ago President Brigham Young counseled mothers and fathers in the Church this way:
“If the little girls want dolls, shall they have them? Yes. But must they be taken to the dressmaker’s to be dressed? No. Let the girls learn to cut and sew the clothing for their dolls, and in a few years they will know how to make a dress for themselves and others. Let the little boys have tools, and let them make their sleds, little wagons, etc., and when they grow up, they are acquainted with the use of tools and can build a carriage, a house, or anything else.” (Discourses of Brigham Young, p. 210.)

On the scheduled, frosty Saturday morning, 16 carloads of LDS youths from the Brigham Young University 36th Branch met at 8:00 A.M. dressed in uniforms of bib overalls and work gloves. Their project?—six homes of senior citizens in surrounding towns that had yard cleanup and painting jobs to be done.

“We are hoeing, daily hoeing” and “Put your shoulder to the wheel, push along,” rang through the air as the service project got underway.

Window frames took on a new coat of paint, garden plots were cleared for spring planting, and apples and walnuts were gathered from trees while the homeowners smiled and offered encouragement and thanks.

A quarter-acre field of tall weeds looked a little awesome to another group, but three hours later, when bare soil could be seen, one proud worker pointed to the pile of weeds and exclaimed, “Isn’t it lovely? Our own personal haystack.”

One widow invited her young workers in for hot chocolate, popcorn, and homemade rolls when they finished their job. “This is what I miss,” she said. “We had a family of seven children.”

“This type of activity really unites us in the true spirit of helping each other,” commented a worker. “Working side by side with people helps you to get to know them a lot better than you could through a social activity.”

When the jobs were completed, the dusty work crews went picnicking in the canyon.

“These priesthood activities act as lab periods to teach individuals what they ought to do on their own,” explained the head of the planning committee. “They are even more meaningful when the participants go home and, on their own, quietly help their neighbors.”

I really appreciated the Q&A in the March issue about keeping a clean room. I have had a hard time keeping my room clean, especially since I have four siblings running in and out of there. The article encouraged me to keep trying to keep my room clean. Thanks.Jessica Scott, Clarksville Branch, Fort Smith Arkansas Stake

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted a brother—someone to play with and talk to, someone to share hiding places and cookies with. I can’t count the number of times I asked Heavenly Father if He would please, please send a little brother to our house. So when I found that my mother was going to have a baby, I was overjoyed. I knew it was going to be a brother. I just knew it. And I was right!
Daniel Benjamin was born kicking and screaming on February 14. For a while we called him our special valentine, then just Benny. I got to hold him when he was only three days old, and I was so proud that I nearly popped the buttons right off my shirt! Lots of days, I rocked him in the rocking chair after school. Sometimes I told him about things at school, but most of the time I sang to him. Mom said I was a lot of help, and Dad said I was a great brother.
When the snow melted and the tulips came up, I was allowed to take him outside and push him in his stroller. I was given a new baseball mitt for my birthday, and I let Benny try it on, but he just chewed on it. “When you get big enough, I’m going to teach you to be the best shortstop ever,” I told him. Every day I showed him new things and waited for him to get old enough to play with me. But he never did.
He did get bigger and stronger. He learned to roll over and sit up and finally to walk. But something was wrong. Sometimes he sat on the floor for hours, staring into space and rocking back and forth. I tried to teach him to play with blocks and to roll a ball, but he just pushed the ball away. The blocks he lined up on the windowsill over and over again, always exactly the same way. If I tried to move them, he screamed and kicked. When I talked to him, he looked right through me as if I weren’t there. Mom and Dad tried over and over to get him to say “Mama” or “Daddy”—anything at all—but he just popped his thumb into his mouth and looked away. Once in a while he let Mom or Dad hug him, but whenever I put my arms around him, he pushed me away. That made me feel really sad.
By the time Benny was two years old, Mom and Dad had taken him to nearly every doctor around, but nobody seemed to know what was wrong. Finally they took him to a big hospital far away to see a special kind of doctor. He said that Benny was severely autistic. That meant that he might never be able to talk, or play with me, or be in Cub Scouts, or do any of the things that regular brothers do.
The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. There was a big, empty place somewhere inside me, and an aching that wouldn’t go away. I guess Mom could tell I was hurting, because one day when I was sitting on the couch, she came over and sat beside me. “Want to talk?” she asked quietly.
For a minute I just kept looking out the window; then I swallowed hard and looked up. “Mom, does Heavenly Father really love us?”
“Of course He does,” she answered, putting her arm around me.
“Well, sometimes … sometimes I wonder. Why did Heavenly Father let Benny be autistic? Doesn’t He love Benny?”
“Yes, David,” Mom said, pulling me closer. “Benny is very special to Heavenly Father, just as you are. But I know how sad and confused you must feel, because sometimes I feel that way too. But sad times happen to everyone. They’re part of living. And learning. They can teach us things we never knew before—things about ourselves and about what’s really important in life. Even though they’re painful, these times can help us grow.”
“But Benny’s the only brother I have,” I said, blinking to keep the tears from falling.
“Wait here a minute.” Mom stood up and left the room. When she came back, she had something in her hand. “I want to tell you about another Brother, a Brother who loves you and cares about you and who will help you and be a Friend to you all your life.”
“Another brother?”
She held out a small picture of the Savior. “Our Elder Brother, Jesus Christ, knows how sad we sometimes feel. Sad things happened to Him too. But He has given us a reason to have hope and to live our lives with joy.”
I didn’t see how I could ever feel really happy again, but I kept listening.
“We have a great opportunity to follow the Savior’s example by loving Benny and helping him in a kind and patient way. Sometimes it will be hard, and we’ll get discouraged. But if we keep trying, we’ll grow to love Benny more and more. And we’ll become more like Jesus.”
“I already love Benny a lot,” I told Mom, “so I guess I’m already a little like Jesus.”
Mom nodded and gave me an extra squeeze. Then she told me something I’ll never forget. “Because Jesus loved us so much, He made it possible for us to be resurrected. Do you know what that means?”
“I think I do. It means that when we die, we won’t have our bodies for a while, but then we’ll have them again.”
Mom nodded. “And in the resurrection there will be no crippled bodies or minds. Can you imagine what that means?”
For a long moment I didn’t answer. I was thinking of things I had never imagined before, and a warm feeling was growing inside of me, crowding out the empty, aching place. I looked at Mom. “It means that someday Benny will know me! He’ll talk to me and be my friend and hug me back.”
“Yes,” Mom answered. “And he will love you for all you’ve done for him.”
For a few minutes Mom and I sat there, thinking our own thoughts. Then I went to Benny’s room. He was sitting on the floor in a pool of sunshine, rocking silently back and forth. I knelt beside him, and for a while I just looked at him. His soft hair glistened in the sunlight, but his eyes were empty and far away.
“I love you, Benny,” I said softly. “And Jesus loves you too. We’ll always be your friends, because that’s what brothers are for.” I put my arms around Benny’s shoulders, and for just the smallest moment he stopped rocking and let me hold him.