Gospel Story Finder

Fu Bi Hsia (Foo Bee Shaw) sprinted the last block to her home in a small Taiwanese village. The August sun poured out of the blue-glass sky, and the humid air covered her body like a hot, heavy blanket. To escape the oppressive heat, she ran through the warm grass and along the edge of the benjo (open sewer) where an old woman was beating her clothes clean against a large rock.

Reaching her home, Bi Hsia paused in the front yard to look for her goose, Goldie. A few of her mother’s pigs snorted and rolled in the dirt, her father’s water buffalo lay partway in the benjo, and a stray dog nipped at her heels. But Goldie was not in sight.

Goldie and all the goose’s brothers and sisters had been purchased at the market on Bi Hsia’s ninth birthday. Over a period of many months, they had all been used for food—all except Goldie. Bi Hsia kept Goldie for a friend. They went on long walks together, clucking their way past rice fields and through ditches, walking barefoot in cold puddles, and chasing yippy little dogs down narrow alleys. She even gave her goose an American name, because America was so big and far away and because she believed that everyone who came from there was rich and important. Goldie was important too.

Bi Hsia bounded through the gate and up the stairs to her home. “Mother!” she called.

The two-room house was made of concrete, like most of the structures in the neighborhood. The main room (the living-sleeping area) was bare except for a few chairs, a television, and some rice-straw mats. These were rolled out at night and used for mattresses.

Bi Hsia found her mother in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken-egg soup. She stuck her nose over the rim of the pot and sniffed. “Smells good.”

Her mother’s elbow nudged her aside. “Get out of there. Your father has invited guests for supper.”

“Guests? Who are they?” She stuck her finger quickly into the broth as her mother’s eyes searched the cupboard for more eggs.

“They’re Mormon elders. One is from Taipei, and the other has come all the way from America. He will be staying in Taiwan for two years to teach people about his church.”

Bi Hsia’s finger was in her mouth. She sucked the soup juice off with a loud slurp. “How did Daddy meet them?”

“At the market, quite by accident. And don’t you dare stick your finger in there again, unless you want me to use a bamboo switch on your backside!”

Bi Hsia jerked her hand back. “When will they come?”

“Soon,” replied her mother. “Go get changed into your best dress. And get Sun Ming washed. He’s been trying to eat rocks again and is all covered with dirt.”

The missionaries arrived in a taxi. It had a dented fender and a motor that chugged louder and louder as the car drew near. The elder from Taipei stepped out first. “I’m Elder Lin, Lin De Fu,” he said, in the custom of saying his surname before his given name. (Fu is Fu Bi Hsia’s surname.) “This is my companion, Elder Wheeler.”

“Ni hau ma (How do you do)?” Elder Wheeler stepped forward and offered his hand to Bi Hsia’s father. The American’s words sounded strange and stilted, and his thin face appeared hard and expressionless. His hair was like yellow rice straw, and his pale eyes were cold and as far away as the country he came from. Bi Hsia felt her throat tighten with apprehension.

Her father spoke up boldly. “Ni tsung nali lai (Where are you from)?”

“Utah.”

It was a strange name. Bi Hsia said it quietly to herself, over and over, “Yu ta. Yu ta.”

Her mother smiled, saying in Chinese, “It’s a long way for anyone to come.”

The elder’s brow wrinkled as he studied her face. “Pardon me. I do not understand.”

Elder Lin put his hand on Elder Wheeler’s shoulder and said something to him in English too rapidly for Bi Hsia to understand. Elder Wheeler listened intently, then laughed at himself. “Yes. A long way.”

The adults moved into the kitchen. Bi Hsia sat on the back step to wait for them to eat their meal. It was not considered polite for children to be served with the guests. She held Sun Ming in her arms, listened to the murmur of their voices, and thought about the faraway places she had never been. She wondered if this elder would ever understand her country’s customs and accept her people as they were. She didn’t think so. After all, he’d come from America, where no one ever had to go without; people there always had lots of things of their very own. Bi Hsia sat and reflected, and in the distance a light evening breeze tossed a weightless white feather in the air. A feather! She got up, paused for a moment, then placed Sun Ming on the grass at her feet. “Now don’t go anywhere,” she said firmly. “I won’t be long.”

All of Goldie’s feathers were there in a little pile by the garden. She knew that they were eating her goose for supper. It was not her place to object. Her family was very poor, and her mother needed meat to serve to the guests. Chinese custom was very strict about children honoring and obeying their parents. And Chinese pride was firm on the point of offering the best that one could.

Bi Hsia did not cry. She walked heavily, as if her limbs were lead weights. She sat on the porch for what seemed like forever and watched the sun die in the sky above Taiwan.

When the elders were ready to leave, Bi Hsia followed them out to the front of the house. The elder from America offered her his hand, and she wanted to hold hers back. He took it and squeezed, and she pulled quickly away. He reached down and lifted her chin. “I hope we can become friends,” he said haltingly.

Bi Hsia kept her eyes averted from his face, and she looked past him to where the lights from the houses on their street shone smaller and smaller as they receded into the distance. Her mouth remained silent, but her heart thumped loudly inside her ribs. Never! Oh, never, never, she thought, knowing that if it weren’t for him and his companion, she would still have Goldie. She watched the elders get into a taxi, and she was glad when it drove away.

Bi Hsia awoke early the next morning. The sun was just peeping through the sugar cane, and her parents and brother were still asleep on their mats. She rose quietly and tiptoed to the door. Outside there was a small scrape, the sound of quick footsteps on the porch, a whisper, and a wild, hissing sound. She opened the door.

At her feet lay a huge white goose, the biggest that she had ever seen. It was bound so that it could hardly move, but its head was free, and it was hissing and trying to flap its wings. As she bent to free it, out of the corner of her eye she saw something move down by the benjo.

It was Elder Wheeler! He was sprinting across the grass toward Elder Lin, who waited on the road with two bikes. As Bi Hsia watched, Elder Wheeler reached his bike, paused for a breath of air, and glanced back. Their eyes met across the distance and held. Then a smile spread slowly across his somber face. It was a sad, happy smile, a smile filled with understanding. That’s when Fu Bi Hsia knew for certain that she and the American, Elder Wheeler, would be friends.

But God does not work this way. The father in this story does not tantalize his children. He does not mercilessly measure them against their neighbors. He doesn’t even compare them with each other. His gestures of compassion toward one do not require a withdrawal or denial of love for the other. He is divinely generous to both of these sons. Toward both of his children he extends charity. I believe God is with us the way my precious wife, Pat, is with my singing. She is a gifted musician, something of a musical genius, but I couldn’t capture a musical note with Velcro. And yet I know she loves me in a very special way when I try to sing. I know that because I can see it in her eyes. They are the eyes of love.

Susanna’s mother, Eeva, joined the Church in 1989, before Susanna was born. Sister Ståhle had a good friend who was a member of the Church, but they never talked about religion until Sister Ståhle’s sister was in a bad car accident. Soon after that, Sister Ståhle went with her friend to church. Immediately she felt that she had come home. She was baptized a month later, and Susanna’s father, Sven, was baptized a few years later.

With limited space and resources, it’s not easy to have a garden or a supply of food. But “our bishop told us that it’s not a matter of having a place to garden—it’s a matter of finding a way to obey the principle,” Lindo says. So he improvised. “I got some wood and made a box. Then I took several bus trips out to the country and brought sacks of soil back with me. I planted some vegetables.”

When the 1990 earthquake hit, they were glad they had put some rice and canned foods in a closet. Although their apartment building was destroyed, they were able to salvage and use some of their supply.

“We do our best,” he says in his unassuming way. “The Lord knows whether you’re doing all you can do.”

“This is my second trip,” says Charlotte Marie Lundkvist, 12. “The last time we came with the whole stake, and I was baptized for 45 people. Then we went to the temple president’s house and had a fireside. He told us about a man who was paralyzed and couldn’t do things for himself. He had to rely on other people. That’s what we’re doing here. People in the spirit world can’t do this for themselves. They have to rely on other people.”

Easton’s first Church meeting in Germany had just ended. He thought it would be really different, but it was a lot like church where he used to live in the United States. Only here he got to wear headphones to listen to the talks being translated into English.
Mom and Dad had started talking to the family sitting behind them. It looked like they had a boy his age!
“These are the Finottos,” Mom told Easton. “GianMarco will be in your class at school.”
“Cool!” Easton smiled at GianMarco. His name sounded kind of like “John” and “Mark” squished together—with an “o” at the end. “So where are you from?”
GianMarco smiled back. “We’re from Italy. But we just moved here from China.”
“Wow!” said Easton. “I’ve never been to China.”
The next day Easton went to his new school. He was a little nervous. But then he saw GianMarco waving at him from across the classroom. At least he had one friend already. There were kids from all over the world in his class. Maybe he would like this school.
“Good morning!” The teacher smiled at everyone. “I’m Ms. Albano. To start off, can anyone tell me what identity means?”
A girl raised her hand. “It means who you are. What’s most important to you.”
“Exactly!” said Ms. Albano. “So let’s get to know each other. What are some things that are part of your identity? What things make you you?”
“I like video games!” said a girl in the front row. Ms. Albano smiled and wrote hobbies on the board. “What else?”
GianMarco raised his hand. “I’m from Italy.” Ms. Albano nodded and wrote down country.
Easton tried to think of something to say. “I go to church,” said a boy in the back.
“That’s a good one!” Easton thought. “I should’ve said that.”
Someone laughed. And then a lot of kids were laughing. Easton looked at GianMarco, confused. GianMarco looked confused too. Why would they laugh?
When he got home, Easton told Mom what happened.
Mom frowned. “Some people don’t understand why church is important. They think it’s silly.”
“Oh,” said Easton. He didn’t think church was silly at all.
A few weeks later, Ms. Albano asked the students to do a presentation with a parent about their family’s identity.
“What should our project be?” Mom asked as they set the table for dinner.
Easton thought about how the class had laughed. “I think we should do it about the Church,” Easton said.
Mom smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
“And could GianMarco and Sister Finotto do it with us?”
“Great idea. I’ll call them after dinner.”
The next day GianMarco and Sister Finotto came over. First they all talked about what they thought was most important about the Church. Mom wrote down all their ideas in a notebook. Then they got poster boards and found pictures of Jesus and prophets and temples to glue on.
Finally it was time for the presentation. Easton stood with GianMarco and their moms at the front of the class. He took a deep breath.
“We are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he began. They each took turns explaining things about the Church. GianMarco talked about scriptures. Mom talked about prophets. Sister Finotto talked about family home evening. Easton talked about baptism. It was really cool!
Easton felt pretty good when they were done. Nobody laughed—the kids actually seemed to like it! He was glad he could share something so important with his class. He smiled. He knew his identity. He was a child of God!

“When I was baptized in Ammon, a strong feeling of having my sins literally washed away came over me, and I knew that from then on I needed to be more careful in my thoughts and actions.

During that week the missionaries’ preaching brought success. On Wednesday they interviewed a Mr. Wilkeson, who was a leader in the Mount Pleasant Methodist group. “He could not stand our words,” the diary reads. “Whether he will receive the truth the Lord only knows. He seemed honest.” Thursday, a wet day, their preaching at Weathersford drew only a small congregation. But at Mount Pleasant that evening a fine meeting developed: “One man, [Eleazer] Nickerson declared his full belief in the truth of the work. Is with his wife who is also convinced to be baptized on Sunday. Great excitement prevails in every place where we have been. The result we leave in the hand of God.”

My family was going camping that weekend, and I had a problem. My big brother, Neil, told me that toy rabbits are not allowed to go on camping trips, and I always sleep with Mr. Long Ears.
Neil said that stuffed bunnies are for babies. He said to take a flashlight instead. But a flashlight isn’t cuddly like Mr. Long Ears.
My little brother, Benjy, is almost two years old. Neil said Benjy could take his blanket because he’s a baby. Sometimes Benjy borrows my rabbit. But he always puts him back in my room at bedtime.
At breakfast Neil told me all about camping. He’s been camping with his friend Jeff.
“Is it dark in the tent at night?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Neil, “like the inside of the darkest cave.”
“That sounds very dark,” I replied. I decided to hide Mr. Long Ears in my backpack. His body fit OK, but when I closed the pack, his ears stuck out. I thought Neil would be suspicious.
“What else do you like about camping?” I asked Neil after school.
“The wild animals come out at night,” answered Neil. “You can hear them chomping all around the tent.” Neil bit into his apple and made loud chomping sounds.
I imagined wild animals eating a hole in the tent, and then I went to my room and took Mr. Long Ears from my backpack and rolled him up in my sleeping bag. There was a funny lump on one side. I thought Neil would be suspicious.
At dinner I asked Neil, “What happens if you want a drink of water in the middle of the night?”
“You crawl out of the tent and walk down the long, dark path to the water pump,” Neil explained. “You have to shine your flashlight all around first so you don’t step on a moose’s foot.”
I tried to think of a better place to hide Mr. Long Ears.
On Friday morning the backyard was covered with boxes and bags full of camping gear.
“Put your parka in the duffel bag, Josh,” said Mom, “just in case it gets cold tonight.”
I found my parka, and when I opened the duffel bag, Dad’s huge orange parka was right on top. A rabbit, even one with long ears, could fit inside that orange parka nicely. I ran and got Mr. Long Ears and zipped him inside Dad’s parka. I thought, When Dad gets his parka out, I’ll say, “What a surprise! How did Mr. Long Ears get in there?”
We drove for a long time, and Dad kept saying, “We’re almost there.” I was squashed in the backseat between Benjy’s car seat and Neil. Benjy had his blanket, and I had a flashlight. Neil had his popgun, his canteen, two flashlights, his toy camper truck, his baseball and bat, his cowboy hat, and his Frisbee.
Finally we arrived at Avalanche Creek. We started to help Dad put up the tent, but Benjy kept tripping over the ropes.
“Will you boys take him away?” Dad asked.
First we played sheriff and outlaws. We arrested Benjy and put him in the Avalanche Creek Jail (the tent). Then we played prospectors looking for gold, and the tent became the Avalanche Creek Mine. Next we played Indians, and the tent was a wigwam. We had a wonderful time all day.
After dinner we roasted marshmallows over the campfire coals. I roasted two at once—one for Benjy and one for me. It started getting very dark. Neil wanted to tell stories about the ghosts of old prospectors and outlaws still wandering around Avalanche Creek. I wanted Dad to get his parka.
“Aren’t you cold, Dad?” I asked.
“No,” Dad replied.
It looks like Mr. Long Ears will have to sleep in the car, I thought.
Mom took Benjy into the tent to put him to bed. Suddenly Benjy started to bawl.
“Maybe there’s a snake in Benjy’s sleeping bag!” Neil shouted. We rushed over to the tent to see what was wrong.
“Benjy lost his blanket,” said Mom.
“Don’t worry,” Neil told her, “we’ll find it with our trusty flashlights.” We started into the dark woods. I could hear Avalanche Creek gurgling. It sounded like a giant drinking from a huge water bottle. I kept shining my light all around to make sure no wild animals were lurking anywhere. We looked everywhere but couldn’t find Benjy’s blanket. Benjy was still crying when we got back to the tent.
“Maybe we’ll have to go home now,” said Mom, “instead of in the morning.”
“No, we can’t go home!” cried Neil. He was really disappointed.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Will you unlock the trunk of the car?” I asked Dad. Standing on the bumper, I shined my flashlight inside the trunk, opened the duffel bag, unzipped Dad’s parka, and pulled out Mr. Long Ears. I ran over to Benjy and put Mr. Long Ears in his arms. Benjy hugged Mr. Long Ears and stopped crying.
“You saved the day,” said Dad, giving me a hug.
“You mean, ‘the night,’” said Neil with a happy grin.
When we crawled into our sleeping bags, Neil didn’t say anything about Mr. Long Ears being in Dad’s parka. Instead, he showed me how to use my flashlight and my hand to make fun shadows on the tent walls.

And staying worthy of a temple recommend also prepares these young people to serve the Lord. “The promise I made with my Heavenly Father,” says Austin Wallace of the Eagle River Second Ward, “has influenced my life. I strive to live worthy to enter the temple. I know that if I am temple worthy I am also mission worthy.”
Austin has always followed the good examples set by his friends. He says, “My friends are still the people I look up to. Their testimonies shine through me because I’ve emulated them in all they’ve done.” Austin’s best friend is serving a full-time mission, and Austin is preparing to serve also. “I’ve just loved the Church so much. Now that I’ve seen the choices my friends have made, it’s part of my own personal choice to do the same.”

In my calling as an institute teacher, I recently taught about the parable of the Good Samaritan (see Luke 10:25–37). Life can bring pain that we don’t deserve, and many times we might feel like the man who was beaten and robbed, just hoping that someone will help us. But in this parable, our Savior, Jesus Christ, wants us to be more like the Samaritan or the innkeeper, who took care of those who were hurt. That’s what the Savior did in spite of His own intense rejection and pain. I realized that instead of choosing to be the victim, I can choose to act in the role of healer.

I lost my father during World War II, when I was four years old. I learned how to work because my father was not there and my mother gave us children assignments. I helped cook dinner for my family because Mother had to work. My older sister and brother had part-time jobs to help the family, and when I got older, I did too. I worked on a farm and with a fishing business.
After I finished junior high school, I had to work to support myself. As a young man I found a full-time job at a bean-curd shop in a larger city about nine hours away from my home. I went to high school in the evenings, so I got home late. Early the next morning at work, I made bean curds and sold them on the street or delivered them to various stores.
I became very sick from working so hard and had to stay in the hospital. I thought I might die. I was born into a Buddhist family. I always felt that there was a God in heaven, but I had never been taught about God. I was very desperate to talk to Him. I didn’t even know the word for “Heavenly Father,” so I asked, “God, are You there? Please help me.” After eight days I was able to leave the hospital, and I lived with my uncle while I recovered.

Laresa had new shoes. They were not just ordinary new shoes. They were shiny black with gold buckles, but what was special about them was that they made music whenever she walked. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” they sang out wherever she went.
Laresa smiled and sang “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” as she walked down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into the library.
Miss Page was sitting at the front desk reading. “Quiet, please!” she whispered, peeking over her horn-rimmed glasses.
Laresa had forgotten to be quiet in the library. She stopped singing and tiptoed over to the picture book shelf. But her shoes kept on singing, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
Miss Page put down her book and stared. Two freckle-faced boys at the reading table stared. A lady in a green hat peeked around the bookshelf.
Laresa smiled. “It’s my new shoes,” she whispered.
Laresa quickly found a book and hurried to the front desk. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang.
“My, my,” Miss Page sighed, still looking over her glasses, “you really must get those shoes fixed. They are just too noisy.”
“Yes, Miss Page,” Laresa answered. But inside she felt sad that Miss Page could only hear the noise and not the music.
Laresa opened the door and left. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang. “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Laresa sang all the way home.
“Hello, Mother,” she called out as she entered the kitchen.
“Hello, Laresa,” Mother answered.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang as Laresa walked over to the cookie jar.
“My, but your new shoes certainly are noisy,” Mother said.
“It’s not noise; it’s music. Can’t you hear it?” Laresa walked around in a circle singing along with the music of her shoes.
“Singing shoes!” Mother exclaimed. “Well, well!” And she shook her head.
Laresa smiled. “Aren’t they nice?”
“They certainly are, but I think we’d better get them fixed. They are just a wee bit loud.”
Laresa looked at the shiny black shoes. “Do we have to?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Mother answered. “Musical shoes aren’t very good for church and school.”
“And the library!” Laresa sighed.
“I have to do some errands,” Mother told Laresa. “Come with me now and we’ll stop at the shoe repair shop.”
Soon Laresa and Mother were at the shoe repair shop. Mr. Sole was a fat little man with a happy twinkle in his blue eyes. Mother explained the problem to the shoe repair man.
“Walk over to the mirror, Laresa,” Mr. Sole instructed.
Laresa walked as carefully as she could, but the music still rang out loud, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
“Oh, my,” Mr. Sole said. “In all my years I’ve never heard a pair of musical shoes!”
Laresa smiled. “Can you hear the music too?”
“Of course. La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Mr. Sole sang.
“Oh, yes! That’s it exactly!” Laresa cried.
“But,” Mr. Sole interrupted, “I know what your mother means. Musical shoes just aren’t wanted in some places.”
Sadly Laresa took off the shoes and gave them to Mr. Sole.
“It will only take a minute,” he said.
And that’s all it took. Soon Mr. Sole was back with the shoes in his hand. “Here,” he said. Then leaning down so that only Laresa could hear, he whispered, “I couldn’t ruin such beautiful shoes. I just made their music a little softer.”
Laresa smiled and Mr. Sole winked back. Mother and Laresa left the shop and walked to the car.
“That’s much better,” Mother said.
Laresa smiled and then she listened carefully. The music was very, very, very soft, but she could hear it whenever she wanted to listen.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the singing shoes softly sang all the way to the car. And Laresa happily sang along with them, “La, la-ti-de, la, la.”

As an example, pretend you’d been praying for strength to get through a trial and the unmistakable prompting you received during sacrament is to take off your ear buds while on the bus to school that week instead of listening to music as you normally do.

Would your reaction be something along the lines of, “Huh?” Nobody’d blame you if it were. But if it’s a prompting, follow it anyway.

It could be that on the school bus you’d strike up a conversation with someone who later becomes a close friend and the very answer to your prayers.

Sarah gulped down the last bite of toast and took a last swallow of milk before she grabbed her books and ran out the door. If the kitchen clock was right, she’d be late for school again, and her good citizenship grade would fly right out the window.

Until recently Mom had always awakened her by shouting, “Sarah, if you don’t get up this minute, you’ll be late for school!” But since Mom had had to start working and had to leave for the office so early, Sarah had only herself to rely on. If she were to grade her own efforts at good citizenship so far, she’d give herself an F.

That’s what Mrs. Buskirk said she was going to give her, too, if she was late one more time. The teacher had already sent a citizenship report home, and Dad had lectured Sarah about her deportment. “Your mother has accepted the additional responsibility of a job,” Dad had told her firmly, “and there’s no excuse for you not to accept the responsibility of getting yourself to school on time.”

Sarah shoved her bike out of the garage and pedaled down the driveway, adjusting her book bag on her shoulders as she went. She tore down Highland Avenue and turned onto Main Street.

As she rode along, she wondered why the biggest grade school and the only junior high school in town were built next to one another right on the city’s busiest street. Even though there was a sidewalk and a wide shoulder on the road, riding a bike in the morning traffic wasn’t easy.

Sarah passed the bank and glanced at the big clock inside. Only seven minutes until the tardy bell rings, she thought. The lights will have to be with me the restof the way if I’m going to make it. If they weren’t, she’d better forget about being captain of the volleyball team for the year, because no one with citizenship grades below a C was eligible. And she knew what would happen at home—no movies and no television.

Volleyball was Sarah’s whole life. Her grades were sort of ho-hum, but she could play volleyball quite well. When she practiced her spikes on the court and knew that the other kids were watching, she wanted to throw her arms around the world and hug it. Oh, if she lost that feeling, she’d just die!

Pedalling harder, Sarah welcomed the cool morning air that stung her cheeks as she approached Washington Avenue. Nearing the intersection, she saw that the cars were backed up, waiting for the light to change. Come on lights. Be on my side, she agonized.

The lights changed, yet nothing happened. The cars weren’t moving. Oh, no! Now what? she wondered. What she didn’t need was an accident on this corner so that the cars would be backed up in every direction.

Sarah pulled to a stop as far into the intersection as she dared. Then she saw the problem: A little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, had wheeled her bike into the center of the crossing. When the lights had changed, she had stopped, probably wondering if she should continue or go back. Now several drivers honked, anxious for her to move out of the way. Sarah watched as the little girl looked uncertainly from the cars on Main Street to the cars on Washington Avenue. Then her lunch box slid from her grasp and fell to the pavement. The lid opened and an orange rolled over to the curb.

Sarah fidgeted. While all the drivers were busy watching the little girl, maybe she could try to make it across the street against the red light.

Cautiously she looked around for a policeman but found only the faces of angry motorists. They were frowning and tapping their steering wheels; some shouted out their windows.

If they’re so anxious to get going, Sarah wondered, why doesn’t somebody do something? Why doesn’t someone act responsible and help the kid across the street?

As Sarah watched, the little girl tried to reach her lunch box while still holding her bicycle upright. But her arms just weren’t long enough.

Why doesn’t somebody do something? Sarah thought again. Then she realized that she was somebody!

Sarah lifted her bike up onto the parkway grass and laid it down. After shrugging off her book bag, she hurried over to the little girl. As Sarah neared her, she could see tears rolling down the child’s cheeks.

Good-bye volleyball, Sarah thought as she picked up the books and lunch box and guided the little girl across the street. Who wants to be captain, anyway? There are other things in life. Maybe next year …

After Sarah put the little girl’s bike up on the sidewalk, she bent over to look at her. The younger child’s face was blotchy and covered with leftover tears. Sarah handed her a tissue. “I’ll get my bike, and we’ll ride the rest of the way together, OK?”

Inside, Sarah felt the same warm rush of emotions that she did when she served or spiked for the volleyball team.

Living on an island is different. The members of the Friday Harbor Branch who live on nearby islands come to church and branch activities by private boat or on the ferry. At Christmastime Annette, along with everyone else on the island, goes to the dock to await the Santa Ship. That’s one of the nice things about living on an island—everybody comes to all the community activities. The Santa Ship is sponsored by a civic organization, the JCs (Junior Chamber of Commerce) of Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. As it docks, the ship blows its horn, everyone greets Santa Claus, and he gives them candy canes. Then the fire engine takes Santa to the high school, where the children sit on his lap, tell him what they want for Christmas, and receive presents.

Third Grade Is Terrible Liza is hurt and angry when she is separated from her best friend, reassigned to the strictest teacher in the whole school, and not invited to Monica’s party. A warm, easy-to-read book.Barbara Baker7–10 years

One of my visiting teachers, who had no idea what turmoil I was experiencing, called and made an appointment to see me. During her visit she shared a story about Emma Somerville McConkie, who had served as a Relief Society president during the early days of the Church in Utah. A woman in Sister McConkie’s ward had several children, including a new baby. Because the woman’s family was poor, Sister McConkie went daily to the home, taking food and helping the mother care for the child.
“One day [Sister McConkie] returned home especially tired and weary. She slept in her chair. She dreamed she was bathing a baby which she discovered was the Christ Child. She thought, Oh, what a great honor to thus serve the very Christ. As she held the baby in her lap, she was all but overcome. … Unspeakable joy filled her whole being. … Her joy was so great it awakened her. As she awoke, these words were spoken to her, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”1

Outside of the airport, a man was waiting with our names and a taxi to take us to the temple where we were going to stay. Before we got there, we stopped by a supermarket to buy some groceries. The following day, my husband received his own endowment, and we did a few more sessions, spending the day at the temple. Then the big day arrived for our family sealing. Everyone there had heard about us and knew what we were there for. On that day we had the temple to ourselves. We got ready, and when we arrived, some missionary couples were there to assist us. When we got to the sealing room, everything was prepared; we were sealed first, and then our two daughters were sealed to us. It was the most wonderful thing, the way that we felt is unexplainable. There was not a dry eye in the room. All the missionaries who were there and the sister who had fed us at the airport was there, and they were all in tears. The Spirit was so strong and was felt by everyone in the room.

Ann:
“I love medicine so much, I’d practice it even if I didn’t get paid,” says Dr. Ann Osborn, a four-year convert who graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Stanford School of Medicine in California. She has a list of many accomplishments, including the fact that she was the Most Outstanding Woman in her 1970 graduation class, completing her studies one year ahead of the rest of the students. She graduated in psychology from Harvard, earned her M.D., and served her internship at the LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. She recently returned to Stanford, where she’s a resident in diagnostic radiology and is fulfilling a National Institute of Health traineeship.
Ann tells of her conversion with gratitude, joy, and the warmest smile:
“Four years ago I was in medical school. I had a Latter-day Saint professor whom I admired very much. He won the teaching award, which was presented by the student body, year after year. At that time I was very disappointed with what I saw in the religious world. I was a Methodist and saw that religion itself had very little effect on people’s lives. One day I asked this professor, who was also my aquatic school instructor, why he was so happy. He told me it was because of his religion, and then he began to tell me the Joseph Smith story. I discredited the golden plates, not knowing what they were, but knew that there had to be something beneath a religion that influenced a Mormon’s life. He promised me that if I’d go to a Latter-day Saint service, I’d find a faith with wonderful depth. I did go and found a beautiful spirit there. I was moved in a way I couldn’t understand, and I lost my control. Feeling tears in my eyes made me angry because I didn’t have a handkerchief, but most of all, I didn’t want to feel that way. I walked out of the meeting, but something told me to go back. I was baptized two weeks later, after having the discussions. In eight months, my sister Lucy was also baptized, and my brother and his wife joined in February 1971. Incidentally, before my brother knew anything about the Church, he asked a Mormon bishop to officiate at his garden wedding because he respected him so much.
“I found myself studying Church history more than medicine. I felt like an infant with so much to learn. For what other reason do we learn as much as we can if not to help the Lord with his work? We need humility about our knowledge to admit that we really need him and can call on him.
“I enjoyed my internship at the LDS hospital very much. I was thrilled to work with physicians who were elders. They work in the intensive care unit with a bottle of consecrated oil. It creates such a different doctor-patient relationship. I chose radiology as my field because it’s an eight-to-five job; there’s very little weekend work, and it leaves plenty of time for family and Church. I look forward to a temple marriage and a family of my own someday.”