Gospel Story Finder

One of the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth states: “Through your dress and appearance, you can show the Lord that you know how precious your body is. You can show that you are a disciple of Jesus Christ.”
After studying these words, one young woman realized that perhaps some of her clothes were not completely modest. Through prayer and study of the scriptures, she was reminded that she was a disciple of Jesus Christ and that, as His representative, she needed to make some changes. She didn’t want to have anything in her wardrobe that was a temptation, so she went through her closet and drawers and got rid of anything that wasn’t modest. She said, “I would be smart if I didn’t even try on anything in stores that I knew I shouldn’t wear. Why be tempted?” That firm resolve showed the Lord that she respected her body, and she drove down a deep stake for modesty.

When I got my hair cut, I donated it to make wigs for children who have lost their hair. I felt really happy because I was doing something important to help other kids who were sick.
Shaelyn C., age 10, Idaho, USA

While 13-year-old Henry B. Eyring is collecting fast offerings, a man tells him to go away.

About 14 years ago, Tanya Price (who the young women know today as the bishop’s wife1) lost a baby at birth. The Prices named her Abby, and mourned as a member of their eternal family was laid to rest. Now, years later, at a Young Women in Excellence fireside in northern Utah, Bishop Jared Price spoke about his daughter.
“She would be your age now,” he said. “She would be with you, working on projects you’re working on, going to your meetings, joining you in prayer.” He said he and his wife still missed Abby, even though they had known her for only a few hours in this life.
Abby’s parents, Tanya and Jared Price.
“When Bishop Price talked about his love for Abby, it made me realize, ‘That’s how my father feels about me,’” says Kayla F., 16. “It helped me love my own family even more, and realize how much Heavenly Father loves me.”
Earlier that same evening, one of the Young Women leaders, Danielle Jensen, had been praying to find an activity for the coming year that would bless the girls.
After hearing the bishop speak, Sister Jensen’s husband, Tyce, suggested: Why not do the Personal Progress program on Abby’s behalf, then surprise Bishop and Sister Price with the results? Sister Jensen talked to the other leaders and the girls, and The Abby Price Project—AP Project, for short—was underway.
Young women and leaders of the Prices’ ward.
In addition to doing her own Personal Project activities, each girl would do a values experience or project on behalf of Abby. As activities were completed, they would describe in a journal what they had done. At the end of the year they would present the Prices with the journal, a video of the year’s activities, ribbons, and a medallion. In the meantime, everything was confidential.
“We wanted to show the Prices that we thought of Abby as one of us,” says McKenna U., 14.
“Sometimes it was hard to keep it secret,” says Jocelyn J., 13. “On Sundays, we would talk about our plans, but just in the Young Women room. If anyone asked, we told them we were doing Personal Progress.”
Kayla F.
McKenna U.
Jocelyn J.
“My values project was to improve a talent,” says Hannah H., 15. “I had already done it for myself, but doing it again for Abby made me think about what kinds of talents she has and what she might be doing with them in heaven.”
“It was interesting reading the Book of Mormon for someone else,” Morgan S., 18, says. “Sometimes I would read a scripture out loud, to share it with Abby and think about what it would mean to her.”
“I think it was neat that when we worked on the AP project, we couldn’t count it for ourselves,” says Sidney B., 16. “We got to feel Abby’s spirit, and when we were done we got to write in the journal how we felt about her and her family.”
“It kept us thinking about someone else,” says Hallie C., 13.
Hannah H.
Sidney B.
Hallie C.
On Abby’s birthday, the young women decorated her grave with sunflowers and balloons and cleaned and decorated other graves nearby.
“Sunflowers became the symbol for the AP Project,” Britten M., 15 explains. “The leaders gave each of us a sunflower charm bracelet to remind us of Abby and of service.” Many of the girls still wear the bracelets every day.
“Sunflowers are bright and pretty, so we felt they were a good way to represent Abby,” explains Morgan S. 18.
“And sunflowers are drawn to the light,” says Emma E., 16. “So they remind us young women and daughters of God to find spiritual light.”
“When President [Russell M.] Nelson invited teens to join the youth battalion, it was like we were already prepared to join,” says another Abby, Abby E., 14.
Olivia A., 14, agrees. “When we minister to others, we feel the Savior’s love and they do, too.”
“When we went to the temple and did baptisms for the dead, we did something for them that they can’t do for themselves,” says Stephanie S., 18. “The AP Project let us do something like that for Abby, something she couldn’t do for herself.”
“I never thought about the other side of the veil before as much as I did when we did our service for Abby,” says Britten M., 15. “I think we were all more motivated to learn about our ancestors.”
“They need us because they don’t have physical bodies to receive ordinances,” says Emma E., 16, “Helping them is part of gathering Israel, another thing President Nelson said to do.”
Abby E.
Olivia A.
Stephanie S.
When a year had passed and the annual Young Women in Excellence night arrived again, the Prices came, eager to support the young women. Then, as each young woman summarized her achievements, she also told what she had done on behalf of Abby.
“We were overwhelmed that they had done so much for our daughter,” Sister Price recalls.
“They were filled with love for us, and we were filled with love for them,” says Bishop Price.
Since then, Bishop and Sister Price have read and re-read the words of love and encouragement in Abby’s Personal Progress journal many times.
Not long ago, the young women visited the Prices. They delivered a vase of sunflowers. They laughed, teased each other, and ate brownies. Then the young women went once again to the cemetery, to visit the grave of their friend.
“Someday, we’ll get to meet Abby Price,” Sister Jensen says. “We’ll give her a hug and let her know that we loved ministering to her and her family. It was a blessing to us all.”

When I was a child, one of my favorite parts of the day was waiting for my dad to come home from work. I would look out the window and see him coming, and I would count each of his steps toward the house, looking forward to the joy he brought. I never thought I would have to do without that feeling.
One day when I was seven years old, in my father’s place came a man with a somber face who stood at the door and told us that my father had been killed in an accident.
That day I was silent. I looked at my four-year-old brother and my mother, so young and alone, and I did not cry. I didn’t think it could be true, so I went to the window and stared at the street. I began to feel an unbearable force pressing down on my shoulders, a weight that would not let me breathe normally, a pressure that oppressed me.
Not long after my father’s death, I went into my room alone at the fading light of sunset and, as I had been taught, prayed to my Heavenly Father. I pleaded with Him to let me see my beloved father again, just to hug him. In my heart I was certain that Heavenly Father could give me this miracle.
That day I didn’t get to see my dad or hug him, but I was given much more. It was as if I felt the hands of the Savior on my shoulders. His presence was almost tangible as He removed the weight that pressed down on my chest.
Illustration by James Johnson
Now, over 20 years later, that relief has never left me. At times I have felt sadness but never emptiness at the loss of my father. I can look back and see how many times the Spirit has come to console me, help me, and show me the way to follow the Savior’s precious steps. I can feel His presence in my life thanks to that first trial, which helps me see everyday trials with an eternal perspective. I know it is the gospel in our lives that allows us to feel the invisible caress of the Savior’s hand.
I have married for eternity, and now my husband and I have three little girls, who bring a taste of heaven into our home. When I see them, I rejoice in the peace and knowledge that every sorrow, trial, and challenge in their lives can bring with it greater faith, new witnesses, and wonderful miracles. I rejoice in the profound certainty that when they need something beyond what my husband and I can give them, they will be protected, consoled, and saved, just as I was.

I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.

When I was twelve years old, we had a community fathers-and-sons banquet in Idaho Falls. President George Albert Smith, the President of the Church, was the speaker. After the banquet, we lined up to shake his hand. When my turn came, President Smith took my hand and spoke to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I shall never forget what I felt. From that moment, I wanted to be in the presence of the prophets.

Perhaps no one in my reading has portrayed this teaching of the Master quite so memorably or so beautifully as Henry Van Dyke in his never-to-be-forgotten “The Mansion.” In this classic is featured one John Weightman, a man of means, a dispenser of political power, a successful citizen. His philosophy toward giving can be gained from his own statement: “Of course you have to be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results—no indiscriminate giving—no pennies in beggars’ hats! … Try to put your gifts where they can be identified and do good all around.” (See “The Mansion,” Unknown Quantity: A Book of Romance and Some Half-told Tales, New York: Scribner’s, 1918, pp. 337, 339.)
One evening, John Weightman sat in his comfortable chair at his library table and perused the papers before him spread. There were descriptions and pictures of the Weightman wing of the hospital and the Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence, as well as an account of the opening of the Weightman Grammar School. John Weightman felt satisfied.
He picked up the family Bible which lay on the table, turned to a passage and read to himself the words: “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.” (Matt. 6:19–20.)
The book seemed to float away from him. He leaned forward upon the table, his head resting on his folded hands. He slipped into a deep sleep.
In his dream, John Weightman was transported to the Heavenly City. A guide met him and others whom he had known in life and advised that he would conduct them to their heavenly homes.
The group paused before a beautiful mansion and heard the guide say, “This is the home for you, Dr. McLean. Go in; there is no more sickness here, no more death, nor sorrow, nor pain; for your old enemies are all conquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all the strength and love that you bestowed upon the suffering, are here; for we have built them all into this mansion for you.” (“The Mansion,” pp. 361–62.)
A devoted husband of an invalid wife was shown a lovely mansion, as were a mother, early widowed, who reared an outstanding family, and a paralyzed young woman who had lain for thirty years upon her bed—helpless but not hopeless—succeeding by a miracle of courage in her single aim: never to complain, but always to impart a bit of her joy and peace to everyone who came near her.
By this time, John Weightman was impatient to see what mansion awaited him. As he and the Keeper of the Gate walked on, the homes became smaller—then smaller. At last they stood in the middle of a dreary field and beheld a hut, hardly big enough for a shepherd’s shelter. Said the guide, “This is your mansion, John Weightman.”
In desperation, John Weightman argued, “Have you not heard that I have built a schoolhouse; a wing of a hospital; … three … churches?”
“Wait,” the guide cautioned. “… They were not ill done. But they were all marked and used as foundations for the name and mansion of John Weightman in the world. … Verily, you have had your reward for them. Would you be paid twice?”
A sadder but wiser John Weightman spoke more lowly: “What is it that counts here?”
Came the reply, “Only that which is truly given. Only that good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in which the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labors in which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts in which the giver forgets himself.” (“The Mansion,” pp. 364–68.)
John Weightman was awakened by the sound of the clock chiming the hour of seven. He had slept the night through. As it turned out, he yet had a life to live, love to share, and gifts to give.

A kindergarten teacher was once observing her class of children while they drew. As she walked around to see each child’s artwork, she asked one little girl, “What are you drawing?” The girl replied, “I’m drawing God.” Somewhat surprised, the teacher said, “But no one knows what God looks like.” Without hesitation, the girl replied, “They will in a minute.”

I recently noticed my tendency to use electronics during church and youth activities. It had become a habit. Anytime I saw my phone, I immediately had to grab it and check to see if I had any new notifications or text messages. The solution? Hiding my phone from myself. Whether it was in a bag, under a chair, or even with a friend—if I couldn’t see my phone, I wouldn’t be tempted to use it.
Taryn M., age 15, Florida, USA

But then my husband died, and my world changed. In my grief, I began to hope that maybe we would not be separated forever, that somehow we would meet again in our heavenly life.

Although my husband had not believed in God, he was well educated and intelligent. He had read the Bible and knew it very well. He was a good person and gave what he had to others. I had sometimes caught myself thinking that he was better than I.

Several months passed after my husband’s death, and I still could not find comfort. I was advised to go to church to lessen the heaviness in my heart. At a local church, I met a young minister. After telling him a little about myself, I asked him to pray for my husband. But he told me that because my husband had not believed in God and had not been baptized, he could not pray for him. I would not see my husband again, he said. I did not want to believe that, but I could not completely disbelieve it either. The minister took from me my last hope. Instead of getting better, I felt worse.

Ask your child to tell you one thing that makes him or her happy. Then pray together in thanks for just that one thing. This can help children remember where blessings come from and shows them that prayers don’t have to be long.

While I was serving as stake president, my counselors and I invited a certain brother for an interview where we presented to him his calling to be the president of the stake Young Men organization. This man had not been fully active. He liked to spend his weekends, including Sundays, camping and fishing, and it was reported that he and his wife did not always obey the Word of Wisdom. There was some question as to whether we should consider him for such a position, but because of the prayerful discussions we had held in the presidency and the high council we concluded that he should be called. As we advised this brother of his appointment, he responded that he was not interested and that he did not feel worthy or qualified. We then told him how we had come to choose him over all the members of the stake. We explained that we needed a strong and capable leader of youth in our stake and that both the presidency and the high council had offered earnest prayers, asking the Lord to indicate the person who should fill the position. We said: “The answer was clear. You are the man the Lord has chosen. It is for you to decide, of course, but you do have an obligation to go home and discuss the question with your wife. The only request we make of you is that thereafter you kneel down with her and ask the Lord what he wants you to do.”

Three days later I received an unhappy telephone call from this same man. He reluctantly informed me that he would accept the position with all its implications. He gave powerful service in his calling, and when that assignment was finished, he became a member of the high council, and he has been happy about the gospel ever since.

Spencer W. Kimball was one of the prophets of my youth. These past few years, after being called as an Apostle, I have found peace in his first message at general conference in October 1943. He was overwhelmed by his call; I know what that feels like. Elder Kimball said: “I did a great deal of thinking and praying, and fasting and praying. There were conflicting thoughts that surged through my mind—seeming voices saying: ‘You can’t do the work. You are not worthy. You have not the ability’—and always finally came the triumphant thought: ‘You must do the work assigned—you must make yourself able, worthy and qualified.’ And the battle raged on.”

I take heart from that purehearted testimony of this Apostle who would become the 12th President of this mighty Church. He recognized he had to put behind him his fears to “do the work assigned” and that he had to rely on the Lord for the strength to make himself “able, worthy and qualified.” We can too. The battles will rage on, but we will face them with the Spirit of the Lord. We will “be not troubled” because when we stand with the Lord and stand for His principles and His eternal plan, we are standing on holy ground.

I took Christmas meals to lonely people. I feel good when I help.

I wish you didn’t have to go to the Madsens’ ranch without me,” Mother said, “but I can’t leave Baby Jody.”
“That’s all right, Mother,” Hilda said. “It’s only a mile.”
“And we’ll hurry,” added Peter.
But Mother still looked worried. Hilda knew Mother was thinking about the renegade Indians who had been giving the settlers trouble that summer of 1858.
Mother lifted a stoneware crock off a shelf and took out a soft deerskin purse closed with a buckskin thong.
“Let me carry the purse, Mother,” Peter pleaded.
“No!” Hilda said crossly as she grabbed the purse. “You might lose it. Then what would Father do for boots and a coat?”
Peter was ten years old and was miffed at his twelve-year-old sister’s lack of confidence in him. He followed Hilda in silence as they left their cabin and started up the hill. Mother had told them to stay on the hill’s crest and to be watchful. Loose stones and prickly sagebrush made walking between cedar and juniper trees difficult, but the trees made Hilda feel that she and her brother would not be easily seen.
They were almost at the top of the hill when Hilda turned to tell Peter to hurry. Her brother, his round face pale, pointed below them. Hilda’s stomach tightened when she saw what Peter was pointing at.
Three Indians, their backs toward the children, crouched behind a pile of boulders beside the cattle trail. In plain view below them was the Madsen ranch, and between the waiting Indians and the ranch rode the two oldest Madsen boys, herding cows toward the corral.
Hilda realized that as soon as John and Lars got a little closer, the Indians would try to steal the cows. They might even hurt the boys to get their horses.
“What should we do, Peter?” whispered Hilda. They looked at the leather purse she held. Inside were coins that they had worked all summer to earn. Brother Madsen was to take the money to Salt Lake City the next morning so that missionaries leaving for England, where Father was serving his own mission, could deliver the money to him. It was important to warn Lars and John about the waiting Indians, but it was also important to get the money to Brother Madsen.
Tears started down Peter’s round cheeks. “No renegades are going to stop Father from getting that money,” he cried.
Hilda didn’t scold Peter about his tears. She felt like crying herself. Day after day she and her brother had followed herds of sheep around the valley in order to pick wool from the branches and bushes that the sheep brushed against.
Every evening the children had stuffed the wool they had gathered into a sack. Bit by bit the amount grew. Then a couple of days ago they had helped Mother wrestle the heavy sack into their wagon for the drive to the co-op store.
“You must have worked all summer to gather so much wool, Mrs. Hancock,” Brother Cox said when he weighed it.
“I didn’t gather an ounce of that wool,” Mother replied, smiling at her children. “Hilda and Peter picked every bit of it.”
“Their father will be very proud of them.”
“He certainly will,” said Mother. “My husband wrote that he needs a warm coat and sturdy new boots for the cold English winter. The children gathered the wool to help pay for them.”
Brother Cox smiled. “Money for this much wool will buy him boots and a coat, with some left over.”
He handed several coins to Mother, who put them into the leather purse—the one Hilda now clutched with both hands as she and Peter stared at the crouching Indians.
“Father must have boots and a coat,” Peter insisted, “or he will get cold and wet, the way he did last winter.”
Hilda agreed. She remembered the letter Father had written in late spring. It had made Mother cry. He said he had walked so many miles preaching the gospel that his boots were worn through, and cold, wet feet and the flu had forced him to his bed.
Peter added stoutly, “But first we must warn Lars and John about the Indians!”
“How can we get past the Indians, Peter?”
Her brother stuck his chin out. “If we slip down the other side of the ridge, they won’t see us.”
Hilda hoped Peter was right. She didn’t think about her brother being only ten years old now as she struggled to follow him down the steep slope. She had trouble making her way silently through thorny bushes and stiff sagebrush, carrying the deerskin purse in her hand. Finally she stopped to tie the buckskin thong to her wrist, then hurried after Peter, who was running in the soft sand of a dry streambed.
The Madsen boys were directly ahead of them now. Peter shouted, “Lars! John! Renegades!” He pointed up the hill.
Instantly the Madsen boys turned their horses. Lars swung Peter up behind him; John did the same with Hilda. The boys began to shout, turning the cows away from the hill and hazing them down the slope.
The next few moments were filled with noise and excitement. Hilda held her arms tightly around John’s waist. Hoarse, angry cries from the Indians as they watched their prey escape sounded above the clatter of racing hooves.
Then they were safely at the ranch. After he helped them down from the horses, Brother Madsen hugged Hilda and shook Peter’s hand. “You two certainly have made it my privilege to carry your money to Salt Lake City,” he said.
Hilda looked at her arm and gasped. The leather purse was gone! She turned and, with no explanation, began to run back up the hill. Her knees felt weak, and her heart pounded. Oh, what if the money is lost forever! she agonized. She didn’t even think about the renegades. Her only thought was of her father spending his last winter in England with worn-out boots and no coat.
Peter realized what had happened and caught up with Hilda. They searched the ground and the bushes. Up the dry streambed they ran. No purse.
As they started up the slope where the undergrowth was the thickest, Hilda began to cry. They were nearly to the place where she had tied the purse to her wrist, when Peter stopped and said, “Hilda, we need help.”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Go ask Brother Madsen to—”
“I don’t mean help from him.” Peter looked very grown-up as he said, “Hilda, we’ll ask Heavenly Father.”
Together the children knelt down. Hilda scarcely felt the stiff branches and sharp rocks under her knees as her brother prayed aloud for help to find the leather purse.
They stood up. Silently they continued to climb the slope. Hilda turned her head. Almost hidden beneath a gooseberry bush was the leather purse.
It was Peter who carried the purse back to the Madsen ranch and he who handed the purse to Brother Madsen.
“This money will be on its way to your father first thing tomorrow,” Brother Madsen promised. “John and Lars will take you home, in case those renegades are still up to some mischief. Anything else we can do to help?”
Hilda looked at her brother, then shook her head. “No thank you,” she said. “We’ve already been helped.”

On Sunday, Brother Edwards walked by the driveway where Pete was playing basketball. Brother Edwards was wearing a white shirt and tie, and under his arm he had a book. He stopped and watched Pete sink a jump shot from the corner of the garage.
“Hey, Pete,” he called, “are you coming to church today?”
Pete caught the ball before it could bounce under the fence. He dribbled it between his legs while he looked at Brother Edwards. “Nah,” he said. “Church is boring. Besides, I need to practice using my left hand.”
Pete bounced the ball back and forth, first with one hand, then with the other. Suddenly he spun around and drove hard toward the basket. He used his left hand to gently push the ball up toward the hoop. It touched the backboard and dropped through the net.
“Wow!” said Brother Edwards. “How long did you practice before you learned to do that?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I practice every day.”
“Every day! Why do you do that?”
“Because I have to. I want to be gooood.”
The next Sunday Brother Edwards stopped again. He was wearing a different tie this time, but under his arm was the same big book. He stood at the top of the driveway and watched Pete, who was concentrating very hard on the basket. Pete turned the ball over in his hand and dribbled it once. Then he took a deep breath, bent his knees, and shot.
The ball hit the inside of the rim and bounced out. It rolled off the back of the car and down the driveway. Brother Edwards stopped it with his foot. “Uh-oh,” he said as he stooped to pick it up. “Did I break your concentration?”
Pete caught the pass from Brother Edwards and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s OK. I have to get used to it.”
“How many had you hit before that one?” Brother Edwards asked.
“Eight in a row. I need to get to twenty-one without a miss.”
“Why do you have to do that? You’re already a good free-throw shooter.”
“I want to be as good as my big brother,” Pete said. “When he was my age, he hit twenty-one in a row without missing. Now he plays for a college team. He makes eighty-one percent of his free throws. He’s gooood.”
Pete stood at the edge of the driveway, the toe of his sneaker on the painted yellow line. He dribbled the ball slowly and concentrated. He took a breath, bent his knees, and shot.
Brother Edwards waited for the ball to go through the net. “Good shot,” he said. “That’s one.”
Pete smiled and dribbled the ball back to the yellow line. He made another one.
“You know a lot about your brother,” Brother Edwards said. “Is he your hero?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I like to go to his games and watch him on TV. I saved all the articles about him from the newspaper. I even have the basketball from when his team won the state championship. I could show it to you some time. He signed it.”
“Wow! I’d like to see that.”
Pete was quiet for a moment as he stood at the line, turning the ball over and over in his hand. Finally he spoke. “Yeah, I guess you could say he’s my hero, ‘cause I want to be just like him. He’s the best.”
On Tuesday, Brother Edwards was mowing his lawn when Pete came walking home from school. Pete carried a backpack on one shoulder; with the other hand he was bouncing a ball. Brother Edwards slowed the mower and called across the hedge. “I see you’re still practicing. How was school?”
Pete stopped and adjusted the backpack to the other shoulder, but he kept the ball bouncing. “Oh, you know—just the same stuff over and over. School’s pretty boring.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes I get tired of mowing this lawn over and over, but I know what would happen if I stopped working at it.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “I guess it would get pretty bad.”
“By the way, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Pete looked surprised. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Sure you did. On Sunday. About practicing. You said you practice all the time so you can be good, like your brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Pete. “So?”
“Do you really do it every day?”
“That’s right,” said Pete. “If I didn’t practice, I’d forget what I already learned.”
Brother Edwards was amazed. “Some people would think that that was pretty boring—doing the same things over and over. Some people would wonder why you work so hard at it.”
“It isn’t boring. I like practicing, and I like working hard.” He dribbled behind his back without looking. “And someday all the work is going to pay off.” He went off down the street with the basketball still going. “Like I said,” he called back, “I’m going to be like my brother, and he’s the best.”
The next Sunday, Brother Edwards walked right on by. “Hey,” called Pete, “aren’t you going to stop for a minute?”
“Maybe just for a minute,” said Brother Edwards, “but I have to hurry. I’m on my way to practice.”
“I thought you were going to church,” said Pete.
“I am. I’m going there to practice. I have a hero, too, you know.”
“No way,” said Pete. “You have a hero? Who is he? What team does he play for?”
“He doesn’t play for any team.”
“Oh,” said Pete. “Is he one of those old guys? Have I ever heard of him?”
“Well, He did live a long time ago, but I’ll bet you’ve heard of Him. He’s the best kind of gooood. And the cool thing is, He can be everybody’s hero.”
Pete couldn’t believe his ears. He tried to think of all the famous names he knew, but he couldn’t guess. “Who is it?” he said. “Tell me, tell me.”
Brother Edwards laughed. “I’ll give you a hint. This book is all about Him.” He held out the blue book.
Pete stepped closer. “Hey, that’s the Book of Mormon. Oh, I know what you mean—you’re talking about Jesus Christ. But that doesn’t count. Jesus isn’t like a real hero.”
“Sure He is. He’s my hero. He was the best at everything He did. And wouldn’t you agree that He’s gooood?”
“Yeah, He was, but He’s not even alive.”
“Sure He is. He’s alive, and some people have seen Him. Some day I’m going to meet Him too.”
Pete was holding the ball under his arm and looking funny at Brother Edwards. “But why do you go to church?” he said. “Church is boring.”
“I don’t think so. I like learning about my hero, just like you like practicing the same shot over and over. That would seem pretty boring to me. Or reading all those newspaper articles. I bet you don’t think that’s boring.”
“Nope—it’s kind of fun. I guess it’s because I know my brother, and … I want to be like him so much. …”
On the fourth Sunday, Pete was shooting layups. He didn’t seem to be very interested, and he missed most of the shots. When he saw Brother Edwards, he dropped the ball on the grass. “Hey,” he called, “wait up. I have something to show you.” He ran into his house and was gone for a while. When he came back out, he had a book in his hand. “Look at this,” he called as he ran down the drive. “Look what my brother sent me.” Brother Edwards could see it was the Book of Mormon. Pete opened it and turned the pages until he came to a picture of Jesus. “See? It has all these stories about things Jesus did.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Brother Edwards said. “It’s just like mine. You could bring it to church with you. …” Suddenly Brother Edwards noticed that Pete wasn’t wearing his grubbies. “Are you coming to church today, Pete?”
Pete smiled. “Of course,” he said. “I have to come to church. I have to practice, don’t I?”
Brother Edwards laughed. “Well,” he said as they walked down the street together, “only if you want to be gooood.”

A story is told of the son of King Louis the Sixteenth of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months, he was exposed to every evil thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”*

The poet Robert Frost, in the poem “The Road Not Taken,” gives us a vivid, visual image of standing at the crossroads of life, having to make a decision:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both …
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Sister Ana Marie Karganilla, Committee Coordinator, was worried because the shoe covers she ordered overseas well in advance were not delivered, a month into the open house.
Her anxiety increased when the items had not yet arrived a week before the event.
Then a day before the open house, the shoe covers miraculously came, all 200,000 of them!
Ana Marie learned to trust and rely on the Lord more and that He will not let anything hinder the progress of His Works.